Karnsville

By Ross K. Bagwell and Ross K. Bagwell Jr.

Tom is a member of the Knox City Chapter of the Church of God Almighty. He turns 21 and is sent to establish a new church and win souls.

Tom is assigned to Karnsville, a community of nut cases. Karnsville is the worst backwater, redneck community on earth. Youll meet Tim and Spanky and their girl friend, Box O Rocks, who lives in their trailer with them.

But, there is a secret below Karnsville . . .

read and maybe youll find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 3, 2008
• ISBN: 9781469100289

Book preview

Copyright © 2008 by Ross K. Bagwell, Jr.

Edited by Karen L. Surace

Illustrated by Bob Longmire

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

THE MISSION OF TOM

TENT

CHICKENS

THE GIRL IN THE CALICO DRESS

CASH WALKER

MR. OTT’S ORIENTAL RESTAURANT AND FIREWORKS STAND

KEEP THE SABBATH HOLY

PIZZA

CHICKEN LOTTERY

KARNSVILLE HIGH FIGHTING BEAVERS

POSSUM’S TAIL

BRING IN THE HAY DAY

THE FLOOD

AFTER THE FLOOD

THE LAST SUPPER

TO BUILD A CHURCH IN THE WILDERNESS

THE WEDDING

SHOE DROPS

RACE TRACK

FISHING

THE PIT

THE HATCH

POST SCRIPT

THE MISSION OF TOM

On my twenty-first birthday I came of age in the eyes of the Church of God Almighty in Knox City, and as such, I was to spend one year of missionary work to spread the word and establish new chapters of the church. It was a huge honor, and on the day of assignment the entire service was dedicated to the big send off. Two others would turn twenty-one that year, so the three of us were paraded to the altar of the Great Reverend. The Great Reverend prayed over us, the choir sang.

I will never forget the Reverend anointing my friend Andrew with real olive oil. The Great Reverend flipped back his robe, raised his hand, and said, Go forth our Brother Andrew! He pointed to the huge oak doors of the church and Andy was off to the distant island of Hawaii. Next, he turned to Wallace and said, Go forth our Brother Wallace! and Wally was off to Kiawah Island, South Carolina. Lastly, it was my turn, I was about to be off on a great adventure. Go forth our Brother Tom! And, that is how I ended up thirty minutes down the road in Karnsville.

Karnsville is a wilderness. No one from Knox City ever goes there. There is a twenty-foot earthen berm the rail track was built on—running perhaps ten miles—that separates us from them. There is one tunnel through that berm, and it is only wide enough for a single car to pass, and that is where I was dropped off. My father said he was proud, my mother cried, I dragged my duffel bag of clothes and Bibles through the tunnel, perhaps thirty-five yards, and emerged in Karnsville.

I was immediately taken aback by the smell . . . open sewers, garbage, and ditches filled with rot. I walked on down a two-lane road of broken asphalt, barb wire fences in disrepair surrounding fields of weeds. I walked and walked past shacks and abandoned cars. God had truly cursed this place; my work was cut out for me. I began to sing a hymn, and it made me feel better.

The first establishment that I encountered was the Huddle House, a small brick building with eight stools lining a warped counter. The sandwich board listed eggs and hamburgers above a grill behind the counter.

What do you want? an obese girl in a Huddle House apron asked.

This is how I first met Box ’O Rocks. Yes, I said, I’m looking for 1400 Magnolia Street.

She ran a rag across the countertop, then twirled the cloth and deftly flicked a fly. There is no 1400 Magnolia Street, she said.

Oh, but there must be.

Hey, Mo Mo.

The cook, white apron stained beyond recognition and baseball cap with a strange cross bedazzled on the crown, emerged from the back with a case of frozen hamburgers in hand.

Ever heard of this, what is it, Magnolia Street?

Mo Mo threw the box on the floor. I noticed roaches scamper toward the box. Shit! he said, Streets, we got no streets, everybody knows where everybody lives. Although I did hear that we had street signs, but people tore them out of the ground and used them for clothes lines. Mo Mo broke open the box of hamburger patties.

Well, how do you get your mail? I asked.

They both laughed and said, So who are you looking for?

I produced the edict from the great council, A Mr. Tim and a Mr. Spanky, I said.

They then burst into laughter.

Well I discovered the address mystery. A mile or two down the road a rusted bread truck was overturned in a ditch, and still visible on the side:

Kerns Bakery

1400 Magnolia

Fresh as Fresh Can Be!

Beyond the bread truck, perhaps seventy-five feet up a slope, an aqua trailer stood on cinderblocks. So this is how the elders came up with the only address in Karnsville.

Dragging my duffel bag I tapped on the screen door that was missing its screen in the top section. From inside I heard, What the hell do you want? Go Away!

I tapped again, I heard him coming, a very large man. He kicked open the door, weighing perhaps three hundred pounds, dressed in only dirty briefs. Who the hell are you? I didn’t do it! I was home, ask anybody.

I’m Tom,Tom the missionary, I replied.

He looked down on me and said, Look you! Just tell me, who told you? I didn’t do it, and I’ll go kick his ass.

Didn’t you receive a letter? I asked.

What letter?

From the Church of God Almighty, explaining my mission and the money for my room and board.

He sat down on loose cinderblocks, which served as steps, and layers of fat cascaded over his knees. You mean to tell me that a letter was sent here with money?

Yes, I said, 1400 Magnolia.

Money here?

Yes.

The fellow’s expression changed, and a light bulb went off in those bleary eyes. Oh, Spanky . . . he turned into the trailer, and suddenly there was a smashing of furniture and curses . . . basically consisting of, You bastard, I’m going to kill you!

I dodged out of the way, as the two fell through the door. They rolled in the dirt that was the front yard, kicking and flailing away like fat Sumo wrestlers. This went on for several minutes until they suddenly stopped. Both of them spent, trying to suck in air.

Between gasps, the one I later learned was Tim, spat, Spank, you rat bastard! You held out on me! Money here? So that is how you got the money to go to the Oriental massage parlor in Knox City. You cheatin’ bastard!

Spanky straightened up, Look Tim, I went down to Suds. I got the letter and opened it. I had to cash the check, which wasn’t easy ’cause you know I got no ID. It was your day with Box ’O Rocks, and I was lonely and real horny. What was I to do? I wanted to go to the cheaper American massage parlor, but you know that they threw me out of there, and I can’t go back.

Tim got to his feet, Well. if you hadn’t taken the entire supply of baby oil to grease down that fat ass of yours.

Spanky rubbed his groin. He had the crabs, not the Red Lobster kind either, I later found out.

He continued, I could get no advice from you. You were getting good lovin’ from Box ’O Rocks.

You got any of it left? Tim asked.

Twenty seven dollars, was the reply.

Give it to me! Tim ordered.

OK, OK! Spanky replied.

So they disappeared back into the trailer. I could hear them continue to argue. This is how I was introduced to Tim and Spanky that day. I tapped on the screen door.

That evening, I found a quiet place to pray. I got down on my knees, Bible to my breast. I was looking for divine guidance but found myself screaming, My God, my God, my God, why have thou forsaken me?

What are you doing? asked Box ’O Rocks who was standing behind me.

I was taken aback.

She continued, You hungry? Tim and Spank say you are livin’ here. I live here, too. You wanna eat?

Yes, I said, I could use some sustenance.

We got none of that.

What I discovered that they did have was mounds of half-eaten burgers and cold fries from the bus bin at the Huddle House. What a spectacle, if gluttony is a sin, these folks were swimming in it.

So there, Preacher Man, when do you expect to start preaching? Tim asked.

Not around the dinner table, Spanky interjected.

Yeah, Box ’O Rocks said as she shoved fries in her face, that’s a rule. No preaching at the supper table.

Tim threw a packet of ketchup at her. Shut the fuck up! You got no say around here, woman! Tim yelled then turned to me pointing a finger, Look, Preacher, no preaching at the dinner table, just on Sundays, that’s the rule. Box, you go sleep on the couch. Preacher done paid for a room.

My room, why me, why not Spanky? she asked, incredulously.

Tim continued, ’Cause Spank peed his bed again last night. Spanky looked sheepish. Peed his bed ’cause he’s too lazy to get up and go outside. We can’t have the Preacher sleep’n in Spanky pee.

Dessert was a half gallon of ice cream each. They sat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, cartons in their laps, slurping the ice cream. They watched a fuzzy TV of some unknown brand. They were entranced by some PBS special about the Bermuda Triangle. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s whisky was passed between them. They finally passed out, melted ice cream dripping between snores and slobber.

I went outside and lay on a bed of