I may be foretold by prophets grim, or whispered when the future looks dim. I follow ruin, loss, and gloom, what dreaded fate fills every room?

A Roman parade A sarcastic canine A motorcycle A stunning win.

Two hands meet but do not fight, We grip together, firm and tight. We seal a deal without a pen, Or greet a friend we meet again. A sign of peace from days of old, A silent story clearly told.

It hugs an injured limb to keep it still, Combined with permission to do what you will. I accessorize instead of preventing harm. Flex me too hard, and you'll lose your charm.

A wife shoots her husband with a thirty-five mm automatic. Several times, including the head and some unmentionable places. Then they have a lovely dinner together. How is this possible?