Revenge Is Sweet Quotes

“Revenge is Always Sweet, it's the Aftertaste that's Bitter.”
― Joshua Caleb

“If someone hurts you make the bitch pay.”
― Katy Perry, Part of Me: Piano/Vocal/Guitar, Sheet

“Revenge is a dish best eaten cold and there is no sweeter dish than outliving an enemy”
― Don Darkes, 6692 Pisces the Sailfish

“. . . the only way to tell off an asshole was face-to-face and to look fantastic doing it. So, here she was, with perfect makeup, hair done in a riot of waves that had taken a ridiculously long time to create, and a brand new screw you and the horse you rode in on dress laid out on her bed.”
― Roberta Pearce, The Value of Vulnerability

“(About a woman's funeral) Do you remember the part in The Wizard of Oz when the witch is dead and the Munchkins start singing? Think that kind of happiness. I swear every woman there was ready to break into song. Maybe a few of the men, too. (p. 80)”
― Julie Mulhern, The Deep End

“Discretion is a polite word for hypocrisy.
Tea Party Teddy”
― Dianne Harman Author

“They tell you to get a guy friend to walk you home, not realizing that guy friends can rape you. Take a cab! But the cab driver can rape you. Take an uber, but they're even more rapey. Take the metro -- rapists ride free.
What if everyone was like me, I wondered, and hunted down their respective Will's? Would the economy collapse?”
― Vera Kurian, Never Saw Me Coming

“Don't get burned by revenge as a dish best served cold.”
― Tamerlan Kuzgov

“Today, I will certainly have blood on my hands," I thought. I enjoyed this idea; it sparked a sense of enthusiasm and pleasure within me.”
― Dari A. Malaunt, Horns of Revenge

“I will grow monsters.”
― Rebecca Rowland, White Trash and Recycled Nightmares

“There are signs, however, that a good time was had all last night. Jo might have found herself caught in the middle of a love triangle, but she clearly didn't mind staying around when she thought that one of the angles had been dispensed with. The remains of dinner still grace the table---dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, a champagne flute bearing a lipstick mark. There's even one of the Chocolate Heaven goodies left in the box---which is absolute sacrilege in my book, so I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the brief lift it gives me. I huff unhappily to myself. If they left chocolate uneaten, that must be because they couldn't wait to get down to it. Two of the red cushions from the sofa are on the floor, which shows a certain carelessness that Marcus doesn't normally exhibit. They're scattered on the white, fluffy sheepskin rug, which should immediately make me suspicious---and it does. I walk through to the bedroom and, of course, it isn't looking quite as pristine as it did yesterday. Both sides of the bed are disheveled and I think that tells me just one thing. But, if I needed confirmation, there's a bottle of champagne and two more flutes by the side of the bed. It seems that Marcus didn't sleep alone.
Heavy of heart and footstep, I trail back through to the kitchen. More devastation faces me. Marcus had made no attempt to clear up. The dishes haven't been put into the dishwasher and the congealed remnants of last night's Moroccan chicken with olives and saffron-scented mash still stand in their respective saucepans on the cooker. Tipping the contents of one pan into the other, I then pick up a serving spoon and carry them both through the bedroom. I slide open the wardrobe doors and the sight of Marcus's neatly organized rows of shirts and shoes greet me. Balancing the pan rather precariously on my hip, I dip the serving spoon into the chicken and mashed potatoes and scoop up as much as I can. Opening the pocket of Marcus's favorite Hugo Boss suit, I deposit the cold mash into it. To give the man credit where credit is due, his mash is very light and fluffy.
I move along the row, garnishing each of his suits with some of his gourmet dish, and when I've done all of them, find that I still have some food remaining. Seems as if the lovers didn't have much of an appetite, after all. I move onto Marcus's shoes---rows and rows of lovely designer footwear---casual at one end, smart at the other. He has a shoe collection that far surpasses mine. Ted Baker, Paul Smith, Prada, Miu Miu, Tod's... I slot a full spoon delicately into each one, pressing it down into the toe area for maximum impact.
I take the saucepan back into the kitchen and return it to the hob. With the way I'm feeling, Marcus is very lucky that I don't just burn his flat down. Instead, I open the freezer. My boyfriend---ex-boyfriend---has a love of seafood. (And other women, of course.) I take out a bag of frozen tiger prawns and rip it open. In the living room, I remove the cushions from the sofa and gently but firmly push a couple of handfuls of the prawns down the back. Through to the bedroom and I lift the mattress on Marcus's lovely leather bed and slip the remaining prawns beneath it, pressing them as flat as I can. In a couple of days, they should smell quite interesting.
As my pièce de résistance, I go back to the kitchen and take the half-finished bottle of red wine---the one that I didn't even get a sniff at---and pour it all over Marcus's white, fluffy rug. I place my key in the middle of the spreading stain. Then I take out my lipstick, a nice red one called Bitter Scarlet---which is quite appropriate, if you ask me---and I write on his white leather sofa, in my best possible script: MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD.”
― Carole Matthews, The Chocolate Lovers' Club

“We'd better get out of here fast," Nadia says, "before anyone notices."
"Or before our conman friend wakes up," Autumn says.
"I doubt Mr. John Smith will be overjoyed when he wakes up and I, for one, would rather not be around to witness it. I also lifted his mobile phone and his wallet," I tell them with a certain amount of pride. "Hopefully, it means that he won't be able to contact you again, Chantal."
"Is his driver's license in his wallet?"
I flick through the pockets until I found it. "Yes. His real name is Felix Levare."
"Could be another alias." Chantal takes it from me. "But I'll keep that as a little extra insurance anyway," she says.
There's a wad of cash in the wallet which I help myself to. "This can all go to a deserving charity," I say, then throw the wallet and the mobile phone into the lake after his car. They also splash satisfyingly and then sink without trace. I press the money into Autumn's hands. "Take it and buy some chocolate for your druggie kids."
She takes the cash and pockets it. "Thanks.”
― Carole Matthews, The Chocolate Lovers' Club