First basemen are usually left-handed.
[…] 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.
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.
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.
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