Red Limit Freeway (Skyway Book 2)

by John DeChancie

“You know I can't read instruments and drive at the same time.” “Good Lord, and I was just about to offer you some chewing gum.”

“Welcome to Talltree!” “Thanks,” I told the big-boned, flannel-shirted man at the desk. “Good name.” His eyes twinkled. “We stayed up all night to think of it.”

“I now call upon Brother Finch to read the minutes of the last meeting.” Another logger lurched to his feet. “The bloody stupid meeting was called to order by Acting-President Brother Fitzgore. The minutes of the last bloody stupid meeting were read. Weren't any old business, weren't any new business. The bloody stupid meeting was adjourned and we all got drunk as bloody skunks.” Brother Finch sat down heavily.

At some point, I found in my field of vision the wavering image of a stein of beer fully three hands high. They called it the Brobdingnagian Thunder Cup. I drank it.

the impenetrable fastness of Being. Or Nothingness. That's how drunk I was. When you start capitalizing words with fuzzy meanings, you're either some wild-eyed nineteenth-century German philosopher in a pince-nez, or you're very drunk. Possibly both.

“The gods are capricious.” “Thank you, O Oracle.” “I used to know an O'Oracle. Shamus O'Oracle. Owned a bar in Pittsburgh.”

But let's go ahead and shoot this near one, per our plan.” “Our plan? Wait, let me put stronger sneer quotes around that. Our 'plan'?”

"Hey, don't talk about my car that way." Carl was highly offended. I squelched the mike and cocked an eyebrow at Roland. “Touchy bastard, isn't he?” “I've always thought that most Americans have odd neurotic quirks,” Roland said in all seriousness.

I'll never walk the streets of Derry again.” “Why did you emigrate?” “Why does any Irishman leave the Old Sod? To get a bleeding job.”