Even as we rolled our cart out to the parking lot, we could hear Bratley squalling away in the distance, gradually fading as the doors slid shut behind us.

[…] the three men emerged into the open air in a queer looking depression about thirty feet deep. The sun shone into it fiercely, and the disentombed travellers were nearly blinded by its effulgence.

Next, as we breasted a short, steep rise, an area the size of a small football pitch was revealed on the left of the road containing about fifty ponies and traps with attendant ponymen. The ponymen communicated to each other in a savage, barking tongue that defies translation or transcription. The most significant sensory input was olfactory, an unbelievable stench pervaded the environs, it bore only a remote hint of what might be safely classified as horseshit. The rest was a hellbrew, sinkpit, gasping, gagging, ancient dung history of rot and wet and corruption and decay.

First basemen are usually left-handed.