What is the fight that leads to "I smashed the bed-spring against his cheek"? I mean, dag.
There's nobody like Raymond Chandler [wiki]. No matter how hard other writers try, they never match the blonde-and-the-stained-glass-window imagery that he attains in the last line of this excerpt:
He was a big man but not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck. He had curly black hair and heavy eyebrows that almost met over his thick nose. He wore a shaggy borsalino hat, a rough gray sports coat with white golf balls on it for buttons, a brown shirt, a yellow tie, pleated gray flannel slacks and alligator shoes with white explosions on the toes. He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.
Farewell, My Lovely copyright 1940. Pocket-Book edition published June, 1943.