![]() ![]() Perhaps not, but this is what passes for normal here on the outskirts of West Plains, Missouri, where many of his stories are set. "Not the kind of fuckers you invite over for dinner or ask to borrow a cup of sugar," he says, yanking the cord and dropping the blinds. This is the view through the living-room window of writer Daniel Woodrell. A toddler wearing nothing but sodden diapers wanders around, picking up cans of Keystone Light, bringing them to his mouth to drink. The chef is a ropily muscled, shirtless man with long stringy hair and not an ounce of body fat, every button of his spine clearly visible. Smoke coils upward and taints the air with a smell somewhere between cat piss and burnt plastic. ![]() Others huddle around a rusted-out free-standing range with an orange extension cord snaking from it. Some of them collapse in lounge chairs as if they have fallen from a great height. ![]() The tweakers gather in the yard next door. ![]()
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