Stiletto

“Do we know for sure he’s dead?” asked the marine biologist. They both looked at Odette.
“I’m fairly certain,” she said. “He’s cold, has no discernible pulse, and smells of rotting meat.”
“I dated someone like that once,” remarked Codman. “A graduate student, a medieval historian.”

Anyone who wants a clone of himself is the last person you would want more of.

It’s easier to forgive an enemy than a traitor.