“This is no time for safety,” Lance Steele thought to himself as he raced in hot pursuit of the evildoer through the cold night along the narrow road winding through the desolate twisting pass, the smell of burnt rubber rising from the macadam and the occasional spark bursting from the gravel heaved against the titanium guard rail, and he wished that he had remembered to turn the oven off, and that he were not on foot and wearing his new Florsheims.
P.C. Burchard
San Diego, CA
Cited by the Chicago Times as a winner for the worst writing award.
(Thank you Seraphina!)
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