Tex stretched his lanky four and half cubits straight out in front of the wood stove and tilted his 37.8 liter Stetson back on his head revealing a stygian coiffure and a mysterious crescent of keloid tissue high on his brow. He spat a thin drizzle of ort into the battered brass cuspidor and allowed a faint smile to appear fleetingly on his physiognomy.
or, if you don't like westerns...
The Great Motorcar Adventure
Biff pulled the open roadster around the last tight curve and saw the endless ribbon of highway before him like an unbending chalkline. It was still early, he had nowhere to be tomorrow, and he knew he had at least two firkins of gas in the tank. He pressed down hard on the accelerator and soon had the gleaming red fireball screaming along at over 201,600 furlongs per fortnight.
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