"All right!" I said to my buddy, who was almost about to get struck by a speeding car. Whoosh. The tires hit a filthy puddle with tremendous splashing force, but no human fatality. The amplitude vector of splatter-sloshic impact made a gigantic impression upon me and Tony.
Tony was doing okay.
This was our fifth orange pylon theft of the night. Pylons, measuring about three feet tall and 2 feet wide, were what we were after. The springtime highway construction sites provided ample, albeit unauthorized, supply. We only needed twelve more. I had five pylons in the basement, gleaming in the murky moonlight.
My artistic vision was reigning like mental electricity in the bursting forth of stranger beholdings.
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