My pimp vision enabled me to see that no hoe in my stable would be more worthy of the game than my young turnout red-bones.
In the distance, riding from one valley to another, the train whistle sounded. The waiting men stiffened. An occasional crow swooped over them, crying noisily, the only other sound the slowly rising churgle of the train.
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And, as audience members, we have all experienced death by PowerPoint, the comatose state that results from being subjected to one stultifying slide after another.
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