I'd have the usual diatribe here but Mr. William Deitrich has a much better approach on his blog here. He's won a pulitizer so that ought to tell you something right there.
Here's a start I like (now I just need the story):
Crazy Max Maupin sneezed again as the last of twilight drifted past his living room window. The dog at his feet didn't move. He did run to the corner and piss the rug after the gunshots, though. Never again was he worth a damn pheasant hunting not that Max ever walked another field.
I call this the smart-ass opening. The narrator isn't telling you enough. You read though. You read.
What happened? Did they fry Max's brother for some long-wronged love? Was it inheritance? Was it the Clutter case again? Maybe Max was a bagman who skimmed? Maybe Max was just the Western Kansas pain-in-the-ass of whom someone finally had a belly-full.
Anyway, we know Max is dead and that it wasn't of natural causes.