Mr. Wright, a fatalist, accustomed to swift and sudden death, had died with dignity, as a right, as a rite long rehearsed in his mind. Or, to paraphrase the old cliche; "Dying well is the best revenge." When my time came, as it must, there would be Wright's example to die up to, the measurement of a real man. This murder of Wright, as necessary as it was, and I would always remind myself that it was necessary, and not a gratuitous act, had changed me forever. To kill a man, whether it is necessary or not, whether in anger or in cold blood, is the turning point in the life of the American male. It made me finally a member of the lousy, rotten club, a club I hadn't wanted to join, hadn't applied for, but had joined anyway, the way you accept an unsolicited credit card sent to you through the mail and place it in your wallet. The report of the .38 had been loud, but here I wasn't concerned about whether the neighbors had heard the shot or not.
