As he stepped out onto the wood-plank front porch, the darkness was complete. The familiar thick air of this August Mississippi night held little respite, but at least there were no mosquitoes...the vacuum caused by no light, and the long days with no rain, had done little to encourage their gathering.

This was all very familiar, so much so he took no notice. He had often crossed the ground around his house on his hands and knees, after a week spent working in the punishing sun and a late night spent hiding in various distillations of corn liquor. And in the pitch of this particular night, as he even walked upright, he moved without thinking. His environment was as familiar and as unconscious as his breathing, and he knew every swell and low by heart. There would be no distractions. Pete moved with a purpose this night.

Pete had always had a seething disdain for those people, and easily fell into disparaging conversations with others about that particularly worthless breed of man. But he needed them for his very survival. So, he tried to control his anger about their worthless ways, and even less worthy lives, and simply tolerated their stupid ways...it was all they had ever been...and all they would ever be. They were just mostly as stupid as they looked, and it made him proud to remind himself he looked nothing like them. But his expectations and dread about that scourge of mankind had finally been realized, as he fully expected would happen one day. Now, one had insulted him by insulting his woman. To his way of thinking, they were animals and were to be dealt with accordingly. He had taught his children to be respectful, even though these creatures were hardly deserving. He attended Sunday school regularly, if for no reason than forbearance from his woman the six other days. He often reminded himself about what little scripture had penetrated the fog of the fortnight's binges and had actually stayed with him beyond the Sabbath….what the preacher had told him about Matthew in the Bible, and how he taught in the scriptures that no man was to judge.

But scripture was lost on Pete just now. He could bear much, but this was beyond his ability to reconcile himself to. His hate had finally boiled up, and had to be lanced tonight...at any cost.

His blade had been prepared, and he stepped with confidence into the din of coal oil and cigarette smoke where their kind gathered to gamble on Saturday nights. There were five present, and although he was after only one, he was arrogant with anger. So much so he thought he might take them all. Without speaking, he was onto the bulk of the man in one swift movement. His raging thrusts met little resistance from the muscle and skin. He was conscious of nothing but his visceral loathing for this creature, and he wanted him dead.

At that same moment, Pete felt his lower right side being torn open, and knew his arrogance had doomed him. The others had him. Pete felt the smothering flood of abject terror, mingled with the relief and resignation, that he imagined a drowning man would feel when swept away by a swift river current. Feelings, pain, and fear beyond his imagination and comprehension spilled over him as he felt himself grasping anything he might hold. Then, the numbing stillness of death swept over him, and he was relieved, but he thought not of Jesus nor Matthew nor the woman he was here to avenge. The inevitable was upon him. In a moment's time he knew he had accomplished his purpose that night. He had finally killed a white man. Pete was at peace.