Convinced overhead bins will bust open, rollaboards will rain down like enemy fire and oxygen masks will drop, I clutch the armrests and begin to sweat like Roy Jones Jr. in the 12th round of a prizefight.

Set off the exact Length forward and aftward from the Observation of the rising of the Keel, by Shipwrights called the Touch, or Place where the Keel's upper Part ends to be streight.

“I have never yet known a case of a Dyak amoking.” So wrote Sir Charles Brooke (i. 55) thirty years ago. Ten years later Mr. G. Gueritz, Resident at Semanggang, wrote as follows: “I am exceedingly sorry to have to report a very serious case of amoking at Lingga. A Kalaka man named S’Apong on returning to his house the other evening, from fishing, drew his parang and cut down his wife, father-in-law and a child; the woman is desperately wounded.[…]” (S. G., No. 69.)

“Diu lei chau hai ge mo, fuck your smelly mother's cunt,” Spencer said under his breath and belted the bloody skull with his foot, sending splatters of tissue and bone flying around the room.