Page 37 - Billy Graham in Heaven

30 Billy Graham's Glorious Jam
cowboy boot kicks your ribs, after labor-hardened hands have pummeled you to the ground.”
“Then that’s the question,” said Cathy. “Do we risk the justified anger of thousands whose loved ones have just returned from grave danger?” She looked around the room and especially at Jake. Several there nodded their heads in agreement.
“We shouldn’t let the town feel that everything’s okay,” continued Cathy. “If we don’t follow through, it’ll show everyone we’ve surrendered.”
Jake turned his Castilian sincerity on Cathy, “Seeing you beat up for a peace advertisement during this last tidal wave of patriotism is a needless tragedy.”
Old Zeb Grozier, who came from New York and had Walt Whitman’s wild, white beard, laughed. “You Southerners are so sensitive. Hit the beachheads and let the shit hit the fan.”
There was tense quiet for a weighty while. If Zeb liked the idea it could mean it was brilliant. More often than not however, Zeb’s endorsement meant fiasco.
“If there are no more objections,” said Jake reluctantly, “the last performance of OSR will be a respectful demonstration during next week’s Celebrate America gala.”
“Wait please,” said Greta Stoppelbine, a tall, very dirty- blond German who was in America on an exchange program in substance abuse counseling. “The dark cloud is passing by and look inside I did not. What will be you Cathy, if kick you they do and do and do?”
Greta had a large English vocabulary, but butchered American grammar.