I rinsed the inside of my face with Jimmy's last beer and vowed never to stick my head in a bread sack again. 
I finished reading Knockemstiff and The Devil All the Time by Donald Ray Pollock, the former a collection of short stories, the latter a debut novel, both works of sad, sordid, small town noir.
Some people were born just so they could be buried. 
Pollock worked at a paper mill until 2005. Knockemstiff shows potential, and The Devil All the Time half fulfills it. Onward and upward.
Both of their faces were flushed red with strong drink and arrogance.