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Four hundred or so people lived in Knockemstiff in 1957, nearly all of them connected by blood through one godforsaken calamity or another, be it lust or necessity or just plain ignorance.
The way she saw it, too much religion could be as bad as too little, maybe even worse; but moderation was just not in her husband’s nature.
Snooks sold beer and wine out of the front of the house, and, if your face was even vaguely familiar, something with a lot more kick out the back.
“They’s a lot of no-good sonofabitches out there.”
The moon was rising by the time they got there, a sliver of ancient and pitted bone accompanied by a single, shimmering star.
