They smell of fear. They are wreathed in rags. They wear tattered hair. They stutter
anxious speech. They are filthy. They are filthy in the rotting clapboard house
littered with excrement, torn food stamp envelopes, empty whiskey and wine bottles
and cigarette butts. They were filthy when they entered this town and filthy when
when they were asked to leave. They look filthy from the towering green hill high
across the bridged stream.

I do not hate them. I love to teach them that no excuse is acceptable for their
squalor and misery. I try to teach them to use their meager income wisely, while
They drink away clothes for six children. They drink away books and shoes and
toys and food. I try to teach them not to be outcasts and they do not care. They dim
their walls. They close no doors. They are bad people.

The children play under the bridge. A cement ledge several feet in diameter gives
them a small playground in the stream. They try to catch minnows and frogs. They
stand naked in the water, relieving themselves. Down the stream, water is poison. I
thought of killing them, but I am good people.

I hid behind a pine tree fifty feet from the house. I held a Browning .22 automatic.
I was determined to teach them a lesson. I crept closer, between bushes and
branches. The ragged father sat on the cracked wooden steps, swilling wine from a
gallon bottle. I raised the rifle. One of the girls ran to him, begging for something.

He snarled and pushed her away. I aimed for his eye, then settled on the bottle’s
neck. Glass exploded – pale green shards flew into the side of his face. He screamed,
jumped up and ran into the house. The mother ran outside, yelling for the children
to come into the house. They raced from the stream as I slipped behind the trees.
The incident meant nothing to them. It was a stray bullet from the wilderness. It
was a chance occurrence in the midst of oblivion.

I watched the oldest boy walking the street. I leaped upon him as he passed a large
oak tree. I threw him to the ground, straddling his chest. I pounded his face. My
fists flew, breaking his glasses, bloodying his nose. I kicked his ribs. I kicked his
arms and head. When he covered his face and began crying, I slammed my boot into
his stomach. Again, there was no lesson learned. Still they did not bathe. Still they
did not right their wrongs. Still they did not change.

I sat near the peak of the green hill, watching the sun escape. They were visible in
the creeping dusk. The father and mother sat on the porch sharing a bottle of
whiskey. The children crawled and played in the dirt. I observed the direction of the
leaves slightly swaying. I determined the winds’ velocity. I hoisted a bow, creating
the proper angle. I gave account of the weight of the cloth and kerosene and lit the
arrow. Smoothly, I raised the bow to the proper arc and released. Perfect! The
arrow landed on the roof. Flames swept high into the trees surrounding the house.
They shrieked and wailed, running about as maddened ants. The entire house was
engulfed in fire. Soon, I could feel the heat.

I shake my head in disbelief. They are there, in a new house constructed with aid
from the state, as if they merited and award. I am sure, by now, the house is putrid
and filthy. The day they release me from this prison cell, I will visit them and truly
explain the ways of good people.