The man stood over the landscaper, wielder of butcher knives towards dogs and the unarmed, and his mind flooded with blinding rage. Fireworks popped in the sky. Music was playing from an open window somewhere on the street.

He raised the machete and his mind plotted the trajectory of the strike. He imagined the blade connecting diagonally across the landscaper’s collar. He could see the spurting blood already from the twitching corpse. Hands, shaking with adrenaline and rage, clamped down on the weapon’s grip as he took in a deep breath. The fireworks paused and he could hear the music.

“…turn the other cheek and let the bad times roll,” an old gospel song twanged with bluegrass accompaniment.

He paused. His fingers slacked on the machete. He thought of his father and that old worn out bible. He thought of his woman and his dog. He thought of the life he had which was going so well. He thought of the blood and fire and death from the life he lived before.

He could endure the world if he had to.