Word: crypted
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...suspected insurgents and former members of Saddam's regime in Adhamiya. In July, Colgan led the platoon on midnight searches of a Muslim cemetery next to the Abu Hanifa mosque, where insurgents were believed to be storing weapons. Colgan instructed the soldiers to bang the lid of each crypt; if it sounded hollow, the troops hoisted the 250-lb. granite slab and looked inside. On its second graveyard hunt, on July 4, the platoon netted a rocket-propelled-grenade launcher and 31 RPGs. A later search turned up a stash of the explosive C4. Afterward, the platoon nicknamed itself...
They’re just a little tired, that’s all. How would you sleep at night knowing that you’ve got to face Boston’s lineup? It’s like begging the crypt keeper to come give you nightmares—though he’d be wearing a Red Sox uniform instead of that hooded black robe...
...Action Comics No. 1. Superman was the creation of Cleveland teenagers Jerry Siegel (writer) and Joe Shuster (illustrator). They envisioned him in 1932 and for six fruitless years tried to get him into print. In early 1938, comics publisher Max Gaines (whose son Bill would publish Tales from the Crypt and Mad in the '50s) recommended the lads to DC Comics. Finally someone said yes. From that first issue, the character was fully formed: he could "hurdle a 20-story building ... run faster than an express train ..." and still, as Clark Kent, never impress newsgal Lois Lane. The final panel...
...themselves veer wildly from style to style and, all in all, are a fun and eclectic listen. Tunes like “Black Body Radiator of Death” and “Disorderly Conduct” evoke images of a more technically proficient Glassjaw or Rocket From the Crypt, while “Junkie Blooze” is a tongue-in-cheek blues that features a searing guitar solo by Carter—not unlike The Jeff Beck Group’s famed guitar jam, “Rice Pudding.” The band really shines, however...
...that distant hard blue you see only in the fall, and sunlight filled the laps of all the seated weeping angels. In that clear cool silence, everything I saw seemed charged with profound meaning; the wasps that, drowsy in the chill, buzzed through the fretted door of a crypt nauseated me. We are, I thought, the wasps and I, the only quick creatures in all these acres of graves, and they are moribund. The dying wasps were too obvious a reflection on mortality, as obscene as the contorted bodies in a painting by Hieronymous Bosch. I didn?...