Posted by: Thomas Drinkard | December 10, 2010

Prologue from Unpublished Novel, Tentatively Called, “Overload”

Rastus Kleinholtz screamed; spittle flying and dripping down his red plaid shirt.
His yells nearly drowned out the higher-pitched, hysterical yelping of his daughter.
His mouth gaped wide with yelling, showing missing teeth and the yellow of  the remaining few. He wore loose, dark-blue denim trousers with  cuffs that dragged the muddy, red cemetery earth at the heels of his hiking boots.
He carried a professionally printed sign, two by three feet reading, in red letters, “GOD WILL PUNISH QUEERS!” His daughter’s placard read, “DEAD BODIES OF SOLDIERS ARE LOVELY SIGHTS!”

Kleinholtz’s hollering echoed across the open ground, louder than one would expect from a bandy-legged man standing about five-seven. His chest wasn’t broad and his belly stood out like half-a-basketball, stretching the bottom buttons on his shirt. He wore a yellowish baseball cap so dirty the original product or company advertised was illegible. His hair was yellow-gray and hung in a greasy ponytail four or five inches below his shirt collar. His short beard dripped with spit.

“Filthy warmongers! Your miserable deaths are payback for the country’s fags in power! More are gonna die! The Lord will take them!”

A crowd of mourners stood around an open gravesite, about seventy-five yards away, trying to ignore Kleinholtz. An American Flag covered the coffin, held suspended by nylon straps. Gaping red earth would receive the vault at ceremony’s end.
Kleinholtz’s daughter, Clara, a short, doughy woman with a ruddy round face and oily brown hair, told the Texas State Trooper—in her adenoidal complaining, voice—through snuffling and rubbing her nose on a well-used hanky, her memory of the next event.
“Daddy was just standin’ and testifyin’ to them sinners over at the grave. He leaned backwards and drew in a breath to preach louder, and the back of his head blowed off. His ponytail landed about five feet over yonder. Somebody shot him in the mouth.”
The Trooper, his nametag read “Bullock,” grimaced. Possibly trying to suppress a grin.
“Did you see anyone with a weapon?” He said.
“Them soldiers by the grave have guns.”
She pointed with her quivering double chins to where the funeral hadn’t yet dispersed.
“Yes, Ma’am they do. Those are honor guard soldiers. Their rifles will only fire blanks. We’re currently checking the weapons and interviewing people who were around the grave. Now, Ma’am, did you see anyone with a weapon pointing toward your father? Could you tell where the shot could have come from?” Bullock said.
“Naw, daddy was just preachin’ to them sinners. We gotta stay a ways away from their graves. New law. He was witnessin’ real loud so they could hear what the Lord meant for them,” she paused, “then the back of his head flew off.”
“Thank you, Ma’am, I’ll get back in touch with you when we have some leads on the perpetrator,” the trooper said.
He touched the brim of his “Smokey Bear” hat, turned away and walked back to the State Patrol cruiser. The grim line on his mouth almost hurt. Loud laughter bubbled behind clenched teeth.

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