"Its easy to get impaled on things when you're not looking where you're going."
"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, up and under the ribcage."
"Ahh, I think impalement is my favorite way to kill a person."
— Freeza, Dragon Ball Z Abridged
Reaching out with its remaining arm, Unit 02 tried to drag itself forward still, but the Lance impaling its guts had embedded in the ground. Unit 02 was pinned like a butterfly, and no amount of struggling was going to get it any further.
Tucker Foyle slides slowly forward onto his spar. He has a bullet wound in his back, at the shoulder. This itself would not be such a terrible thing, but the impact has driven him onto the wooden spike resting onto his chin. Tucker has been impaled. He is not dead. He will not die for several minutes, but die he will and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.
A two-person meteor fell from the sky and slammed into the ground with the impact of a moderate California earthquake. It would have taken a sharp eye indeed to see the effect of a wooden stake coming up through the back of the Zoner who contacted the ground first, penetrating his heart, causing his eyes to widen to an incredible degree and his mouth to open for a curse and a shout of pain, neither of which he could manage to render.
Come, savages who trample over my territory! Itís time to discipline you! Iíll turn my compassion and rage into red-hot stakes and skewer you all! And these stakes are not limited, but truly infinite, so despairóand gorge on your own blood! Kazıklı Bey!
In the mid-fifteenth century, as a mercenary Voevod of Vlad Tepes the so-called "impaler," he had crossed the Danube with his forces and taken an emissary of the Sultan Murad. The sultan's representative, his escort of two hundred soldiers, and his harem of twelve beauties were taken in the night in the town of Isperikh. Thibor had shown leniency of a sort towards the Bulgarian townspeople: they were allowed to flee while his troops sacked the town and burned it, looting and raping when the inhabitants were slow off the mark.
But as for the sultan's emissary: Thibor had had him impaled, him and his entire two hundred, on tall, thin stakes. "In their own fashion," he'd gleefully commanded his executioners. "The Turkish way. They like buggering little lads, this lot, so let 'em die happy, the way they've lived!"
—Necroscope II: Wamphyri
You're eavesdropping on the captain of a lean black cutter when her first mate spots you. In the ensuing fracas, one of your crew is smashed through a flimsy wooden wall. He falls two hundred feet to be impaled on a smaller stalagmite in the shadow of the Mourn, and dies instantly. It's a painless death, but his slowly mummifying corpse will hang there for decades to come. Ships will salute it. Successive generations of children will name it, rename it, fling stones, dare each other to climb the pinnacle and kiss its fleshless hand.