When rural southern White Supremacists with money to blow from methamphetamine profits, work with eastern European Neo Nazis to move art looted by Nazis during WWII, Blake Crowley struggles to uproot a former Miss Peachtree from being planted in the middle of the infighting.
As the Moustache foamed, I looked around for affirmation. He removed his blazer and rubbed drops of sweat off his forehead.
Reds enameled nail tapped on his broad shoulder “You have a blood stain on your back,” she said.
His sudsy mouth formed a peculiar smirk. He coughed deeply and splattered blood onto my bar.
Slurpie slurred, “Hey put your hand over your mouth when you cough.”
The Moustache fell off his stool.
I walked around the bar, “Are you alright?” I asked, nudging him with my foot.
Exasperated, Red shouted, “Come on Blake, you can do better than that.”
I faced Red, “Get me the dish gloves, stat.”
Red threw me an unopened pack of gloves. “I’m calling 911,” she said.
Slurpie said stat three times.
With ten latex covered fingers pointed upward, I kneeled over him.
The Moustache needed divine intervention, as he hacked out what looked like a rare piece of sirloin. I glanced up at Slurpie. He nervously blinked back. With less luck than the Little Dutch Boy, I held my finger in the bloodstain.
In my peripheral vision, the sirloin wiggled. I threw up on his pants, jammed his blazer into my face and made for air.
This is a log line (used in movies but not in query letters) and what I think is the first page of a novel.
neo nazis and meth dealers
The art of good writing is not throwing in everything but the kitchen sink. The art is making the very simplest of kitchen appliances..the potato peeler...utterly fascinating.