To know Pritkin was to want to kill him, but so far I'd resisted temptation.
I wasn't entirely sure, but a polite John Pritkin might be a sign of the apocalypse.
I barely heard him, I was too busy watching Pritkin, who had slumped over with his head on the sofa arm, shoulders shaking helplessly, and what looked suspiciously like tears leaking out from under his closed eyes. "Not that bad," he muttered, and then he was off again.