paragraphs are cool.Later Sylder realized that the man had passed up one chance with the jack handle, had waited until he took the jack from under the car and handed it himself to the man to put in the trunk. And realized too that the man had only miscalculated by part of a second the length of time it would take him to bend and slam the hubcap back on the rim with the heel of his hand. So although he never saw it, had no warning he had already made a half turn and started to rise when the jack crashed into his shoulder and slammed him into the side of the car. Something crashed alongside his head into the quarterpanel--he remembered that too, but couldn't know until later that it was the base of the jack. He didn't duck the second time either, but only slid down the door of the coupe when the man swung, sideways--he was watching him now--tearing a ragged hole in the metal. Then he was sitting on the ground, his head leaned back against the door, looking up, not yet outraged but only in wonder, at the figure above him, his arm trailing in the dirt.... But when the man jerked the shaft of the jack from the punctured door he reached up, slowly, he thought, and laid his hand onto the jack and still slowly closed his fingers over it. The man looked down at him, and in the gradual suffusion of light gathered and held between the gloss of the car's enamel and the paling road dust he saw terror carved and molded on that face like a physical deformity. They were like that for some few seconds, he sitting, the man standing, holding either end of the jack as if suspended in the act of passing it one to the other. Then Sylder stood, still in that somnambulant slow motion as if time itself were running down, and watched the man turn, seeming to labor not under water but in some more viscous fluid, torturous slow, and the jack itself falling down on an angle over the dying forces of gravity, leaving Sylder's own hand and bouncing slowly in the road while his leaden arm rose in a stiff arc and his fingers cocked like a cat's claws unsheathing and buried themselves in the cheesy neck-flesh of the man who fled from him without apparent headway as in a nightmare.
from Cormac McCarthy's "The Orchard Keeper."