American Gods 2×7
Shadow Moon: You know, you keep hanging out under bridges; people are gonna starting thinking you're a troll.
Mad Sweeney: I'm gonna tell you something... This is gallows ground you're walking. And there's a rope around your neck and a raven-bird on each shoulder waiting for your eyes. The gallows tree has deep roots. It stretches from heaven all the way down to hell. And this world... is the only branch from which the rope is swingin'.
Mr. Wednesday: Yggdrasil is ready for war; ergo, I am ready, too. The only question, gentlemen, is, do we know who all our friends are?
Mr. Ibis: Ah... Jacquel will come when you call. Set and Horus, too.
The Jinn: I know some ifrits in Chicago.
Mr. Ibis: And Mama-ji, Czernobog... Nancy, Bilquis.
The Jinn: Bilquis? No, that one is... We cannot rely on the Queen of Sheba.
Mr. Wednesday: She's with us.
The Jinn: All-father, that one is for herself.
Mr. Wednesday: We all are. The trick to wrangling cats is to dangle bait they can all want.
Mr. Ibis: And Bast. We've got Bast.
Mr. Wednesday: Another thing about living in a funeral home is you never have to cook. Mourners are always bringing by their best food.
Laura Moon: You know that I can literally rip people's limbs off, right?
Mama-Ji: You see me here as Kali-ma, the nurturer? But you, dead girl, perhaps you would understand me better as Smashana Kali, the destroyer.
Mama-Ji: Sounds like voodoo. That goddamn voudon. Always so dramatic.
Mama-Ji: The problem is not with the potion; it is why you take it.
Queen Bilquis: The gift of the flesh... is the most sacred gift one can make... I read to you from the Psalm of Psalms. "Your love... is better than wine, your scent better than any perfume. Your lips drip with nectar, my bride; honey and milk are under your tongue. You are a garden. Your shoots are orchards of pomegranates, henna, saffron, calamus and cinnamon, frankincense and myrrh. You are a fountain. You are all the streams flowing from Lebanon. Let the wind blow upon your garden. Let the divine, through Me... enter your garden and taste your fruit..."
Mr. Wednesday: Oh, I know that smell. That smells like a hot bottle of whiskey and sex in an alleyway. With a top note of failure! Yeah, yeah. Eau de fuck-up. It's gotta be, yes, it is! The one and only, Mad Sweeney!
Mr. Wednesday: You know, I wouldn't go around, if I was you, advertising you lost your treasure to a rotten little dead girl who weighs less than a hundred pounds. Hm?
Mad Sweeney: What are you doing here? What's Wednesday got on you?
Eorann: The world is changing.
Mad Sweeney: It doesn't have to!
Eorann: It does. That's what the world does. It changes. ... So, when the world changes, I beg you to change with it.
Eorann: Listen, husband. Listen to one who doesn't want anything from you but a very long life... together.
Mad Sweeney: Wednesday... Me... Fuck all the gods. We're not the heroes, Shadow.
Mr. Ibis: A storyteller does not concern themselves with the truth. Stories are truer than the truth. These are not literal constructs so much as imaginative recreations.
Mr. Wednesday: Let us enjoy this moment while we can. My presence back on earth here has been felt by old and new. Gungnir is whole again; Yggdrasil has grown up, which means... the proverbial shit is about to hit the fan and this is our proverbial Last Supper. Hm? Are we ready? I am.
Mad Sweeney: Your spear is the sun's treasure, now, you one-eyed cunt.
Mad Sweeney: I used to be a king...
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