His spirit and conscience hung boldly in the air while the rain outside continued to come down in the greatest flood

A plucky gang of writing chums thwarts the plots of nefarious vanity publisher – and a few others besides. Plots, that is. It’s A Nest of Ninnies meets Carl Hiassen and John Grisham and they all drink each other under the table together. Here’s how it all happened. Here are links to supporting documentation. It’s "certain to resonate with an audience." A selection from chapter 2:

    His old friend, Isadore, shook his massive head at him.  "We know how it must be to have a lot of money but no working car," he said, the harsh Macon County drawl of his voice softened by his years in Atlanta high society.  "It’s my pleasure to bring you back to your fancy apartment, and we’re all so happy that y’all is still alive.  Y’all could have been killed in that dreadful wreck."  Isadore paused to put on the turn signal before making a safe turn across rush-hour traffic into the parking lot of Bruce Lucent’s luxury apartment building.  "Y’all’ll gets a new car on Monday."
    "I don’t know how I’ll be able to drive it with my arm in a cast," Bruce Lucent shoots back.  "It’s lucky I wasn’t killed outright like so many people are when they have horrid automobile wrecks."
    "Fortunately, fast and efficient Emergency Medical Services, based on a program founded by Lyndon Baines Johnson the 36th President of the United States helped y’all survive an otherwise, deadly crash," Isadore chuckled.  He nodded his head toward the towering apartment building, in the very shadow of Peachtree Avenue, where Bruce lived his luxurious life.  So young, yet so wealthy, based on his skills as an expert software developer.
    "I don’t feel very fortunate," Bruce complained as his friend helped him from the low-slung red car, "I hurt all over and I don’t remember a thing after I left that bar over on Martin Avenue.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the police didn’t want to talk to me about what happened.  Not that I could help them because I don’t remember anything" he added as an afterthought.
    Isadore pulled the collapsible wheelchair that he’d bought at Saint Irene’s Hospital from the open trunk of his new Maserati and unfolded it on the curb beside where Bruce painfully stood, his recent ordeal only recently over.  He helped his chum sit in the new wheelchair, and then pushed it rapidly toward the gleaming doors of the high-rise tower. The soft Southern breeze blew the sweet scent of magnolias over them as he said, "This is certainly something new for me."
    "Never say that," he replied.

Via s1ingularity.

But the best writing is still to be found here. Ask yourself. "Can water die?"