As promised...

Drag The Waters echoed inside his head, Dimebag’s distortion-leaden riffs made tiny and weak by his headset speakers as he dozed in the turret behind his 7.62mm SAW machine gun.
“Wake the fuck up Corporal! There's no sleeping on my watch.” his driver’s voice crackled over the thumping bass line.
“Aw, shove it Sarge,” he drawled comically into his mic, applying his southern Albertan accent liberally. “There’s nuthin’ out here anyway.” He faded back into half-sleep, to the accompaniment of shrieking vocals as the LAV rumbled across the Afghan desert, leaving a cloud of heavy metal swirling amongst the dust plume in it’s wake.

The twang of Folsom Prison Blues' opening line caused him to stir from his gentle slumber, lulled as he’d been by the truck’s motion as it rolled lazily into town.
“I said wake up, Mark, we’re here.” Dust whirled and brakes complained loudly as his father rolled to a stop outside the feedlot. He shook himself awake and looked around at the familiar surroundings. Cecil’s tavern, with it’s swinging door hanging crookedly; the Co-Op with its florescent sign flickering feebly in the early morning light. He opened the door and swung his boots to the ground, pins and needles shooting up his cramped legs.
His father shoved the stick into reverse and expertly maneuvered the old pickup under the feed hopper. The boy hopped into the bed and, at his father’s command, jerked the heavy handle of the hopper’s mouth, letting the yellowed meal burst forth.
It took ten minutes to fill the truck’s bed. He stood watching the townsfolk begin their morning. People milled, said hello, drank coffee, smiled. A few waved in his direction, though whether to him or his father he was unsure. He waved back anyway. When the truck was full, he rapped the roof of the cap with his gloved knuckles and hopped to the ground. His father pulled the truck ahead, parked, and said “Let’s get some breakfast,” before striding purposefully towards the diner. The boy ran to catch up, his child’s legs too short to match his father’s gait.
As they reached the door, a stooped figure shuffled shyly around the corner. His dark skin matched his dark and dirty clothes. His weathered hands reached imploringly. The boy stopped and tugged at his father’s sleeve. His father turned around and, without a word, tapped the faded sign beside the diner door.
“No Indians.”
He pulled the boy inside, the door slamming shut behind them.