You know what it takes to win. Just look at my fist. When I make a fist, it's strong and you can't tear it apart. As long as there's unity, there's strength. We must become so close with the bonds of loyalty and sacrifice, so deep with the conviction of the sole purpose, that no one, no group, no thing, can ever tear us apart.
What do you want, MacGuffin, a duel?' 'No.' Julian held out both hands, one palm flat, the other held over it in a fist. 'Rock, paper, scissors. Two out of three.' Ty rolled his eyes and held out his fist, apparently willing to play. Julian hit his palm three times, and Ty kept time with his fist in the air. But when Julian threw a paper, Ty reached into his jacket with his other hand and pulled his gun, aiming it at Julian. 'Ty!' Zane said in exasperation from the front seat. 'Glock, paper, scissors. I win.' 'You are an ass, ' Julian muttered.
Her little fists pummeled at him, and he accepted the abuse. Until he realized she'd made an improper fist and was actually hurting herself. He wound an arm around her waist, spun her and slammed her into the hard line of his body to still her. "Let me go!" "In a minute." As she struggled, he pulled her thumb out from beneath her fingers and rearranged her fist. "Hit like this." Done, he released her.
Her little fists pummeled at him, and he accepted the abuse. Until he realized she'd made an improper fist and was actually hurting herself. He wound an arm around her waist, spun her and slammed her into the hard line of his body to still her. 'Let me go!' 'In a minute.' As she struggled, he pulled her thumb out from beneath her fingers and rearranged her fist. 'Hit like this.' Done, he released her.
Eventually the man comes to see that he has a mind, and that his mind is like a fist, wrapped tightly around a single thought. He cannot open the fist to look at the thought, for fear that it will fly away, but he knows that it is very important and that he must hang on to it, no matter what the cost.
The hidden hand of the market will never work without a hidden fist. McDonald's cannot flourish without McDonnell Douglas, the designer of the F-15. And the hidden fist that keeps the world safe for Silicon Valley's technologies to flourish is called the US Army, Air Force, Navy and Marine Corps.
As a professional athlete, I can tell you I feel every single emotion and not one of them ever helped me in a fist-fight before. And not one of them has ever hurt me in a fist-fight, either. The only thing that has helped me is my skills and the only thing that hurt me is my opponent's skills.
Yes, well'-he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose delicately-'the burner phone we had accidentally fell out of the car, and someone accidentally backed over it. Because someone was in a rush after she accidentally alerted some skip tracers we were nearby when she accidentally used her abilities to move a light pole out of the road after she had accidentally backed into it.' 'Someone better shut their mouth before I accidentally slam my fist into their teeth.' She punched his shoulder, and it was almost... playful. 'Shut his mouth, fist into his teeth.' 'Really? A grammar lesson?
HERE COMES THE RUCKUS, THE MOTHERFUCKIN' RUCKUS THOUSANDS OF CUT-THROATS AND PURSE-SNATCHIN' FUCKS STRAIGHT FROM THE BRAIN, I'LL BE GIVIN' YOU THE PAIN, ANGER COMIN' FROM THE 36TH CHAMBER, BANG! TICAL, HITTIN' WITH THE BUDDHA-FIST STYLE SHOTGUN SLAMMIN' IN YOUR CHESTPIECE, PLOW! BRAIN, IS BLOWN ALL OVER THE TERRAIN LIKE A MAN WITHOUT NO ARMS YOU CAN'T HANG TIME FOR A CHANGE OF THE GUARD YOU'VE BEEN ARRESTED FOR LYRIC FRAUD NOW YOU HARD FOR REAL, CHECK IT, I PULL STRINGS LIKE B.B. KING ON GUITAR I'M THE TRUE FIST OF THE NORTH STAR!
Method Man feat. Carlton Fisk
The razor hung between his shoulder-blades from a loop of cotton string round his neck inside his shirt. The same motion of the hand which brought the razor forward over his shoulder flipped the blade open and freed it from the cord, the blade opening on until the back edge of it lay across the knuckles of his fist, his thumb pressing the handle into his closing fingers, so that in the second before the half-drawn pistol exploded he actually struck at the white man's throat not with the blade but with a sweeping blow of his fist, following through in the same motion so that not even the first jet of blood touched his hand or arm.
Making a Fist For the first time, on the road north of Tampico, I felt the life sliding out of me, a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear. I was seven, I lay in the car watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass. My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin. "How do you know if you are going to die?" I begged my mother. We had been traveling for days. With strange confidence she answered, "When you can no longer make a fist." Years later I smile to think of that journey, the borders we must cross separately, stamped with our unanswerable woes. I who did not die, who am still living, still lying in the backseat behind all my questions, clenching and opening one small hand.
Naomi Shihab Nye