::a sentence::

Parson Jakely, having tempted fate with far too attractive an offer, swerved to dodge an oncoming truck only to find himself in a temporary state of confused weightlessness that ended with the realization that gravity was still in working order and was in fact pressing him to the ceiling of his upturned Pontiac as it was plummeting toward the bottom of Bristle’s Ravine, where a minor stream—more like a sometimes-trickle of cold and dirty rainy-season mountain runoff—awaited this already battered and bruised vehicle’s certain demise, while Parson, angry with himself for drinking a ninth beer despite the pleadings of his on-again-off-again girl Louise Driscoll—who secretly took a great deal of pride in Parson’s alcohol tolerance (because there are very few measures of a man in Carwell County that don’t involve alcohol or firearms)—stared at the approaching brownish-green smudges of earth (without the glasses that were seconds earlier thrown from his face) and gave the finger to no one and nothing in particular—though the gesture was received by an understandably confused owl—just as the car crumpled on the ravine floor.