Hubert Hargrove dug deep into the gray wood of the back porch with the pocket knife, hoping to carve his initials in the weathered pine before his mother came out with the lemonade. As he started the second “h” of the three, he heard her flats sliding over the linoleum of the kitchen followed by the witchy whine of the screen door.

                “Hubie? What are you doing over there?”

                Lana Hargrove had been just 17 years-old when Hubert’s father, a merchant marine home on leave, left his DNA in her nether regions. Lana’s parents, pillars of their idyllic community, sent young Lana to live with relatives and crafted a lie suitable to assuage any questions the neighbors raised about their daughter’s whereabouts. Nine years later, she was June Cleaver without the pearls – the very pinnacle of motherhood in 1961.

                Lana’s husband, the story went, had perished at sea during a military training exercise gone awry, leaving her alone to raise young Hubert. There were suspicions, of course, but most neighbors felt inclined to believe the tale, which is why Hubert considered them all to be morons.

                “Hubie!” God, he hated it when she called him that. “Answer me when I’m speaking to you.”

                Hubert turned toward her just after tucking his grandfather’s Barlow back into his pocket. “I was imagining those soldiers in Cuba. The ones President Kennedy sent over to kill Castro.”

                Lana’s frown was not the work of the sour beverage she carried. Hubert was at it again. “Our president sent those men to depose Castro, Hubie. That means they will take him out of power. Our government doesn’t kill people.”

                “They hung that soldier – Bennett was his name. They hung him dead on account of raping that woman.” He knew exactly how to get under her skin. It had become a game to him. “It said so in the newspaper.”

                “I told you that you aren’t to read the newspaper anymore.” She handed him a sweaty glass of lemonade. “Furthermore, I don’t like you talking about things like rape and hanging. It isn’t proper for a grown man to discuss such things, let alone a little boy.”

                “I’m not so little,” he mumbled into his glass.

                “I said I won’t have it,” Lana said, her prim demeanor growing more ragged by the second. “Don’t talk back to me, Hubert. I don’t like that.”

                Hubert gulped down his lemonade and looked back to his initials. “I’ll bet it’s on the television. When they kill Castro, I mean. Bet they put a bullet in his head.”

                “Why do you do this to me?” Her voice was less than a whisper, but he heard it.

                “It’s no different than hunting,” Hubert said. “One shot through the heart or the head-“

                “Hubert!”

                “- and it’s all over. No more problems. Guns are loud, though, and you have to be a good shot. Knives are better.”

                “Hubert Humphrey Hargrove! Enough!” Lana glared at her son before scanning the neighboring yards to ensure they were alone. “If your father were here-“

                “He’d have to remind you of his name.” She slapped him hard. Exactly the response he was hoping for.

                “You- I’m sorry, Hubert,” she said, her eyes glassy with saline, “you just – you push me too far. Now, just… stop with the killing talk. Miss Preminger says that your drawings and stories are – not normal for a boy your age.”

                “Miss Preminger puts her boyfriend’s tinkler in her mouth when she goes in the teacher supply closet.” He watched with delight as his mother nearly swallowed her tongue. “Jimmy Larkin saw her in there when he stayed late for detention. Is that what you used to do for my dad?”

                Another slap.

                “Don’t you ever-“

                “I’ll bet if you would have done it better, he might have stayed.”

                Slap.

                The slaps stung, of course, but they were necessary. This time, however, Hubert dropped his glass and let it shatter on the porch.

                “Damn it, Hubert, that was your grandmother’s set.” Lana Hargrove bent to pick up the remnants of her inheritance when her 9 year-old son stabbed her in the neck with her father’s knife. A flick of the wrist launched a spray of red onto his sleeve and river of blood onto the porch. The blood ran between the fragments of glass, entrancing young Hubert for the briefest of moments.

                He left the knife where it was, jutting from her freckled neck. He would run to the neighbors and tell them the tale; how his mother had beaten him frequently, how she was always yelling at him and throwing things at him. He had been scared, he would say, afraid she might kill him. He had done only what he had to in order to survive the horrifying encounter. He would explain it all with a moving performance of tears and guilt, and they would buy it. People were sheep. Brainless sheep that deserved nothing but slaughter. Hubert Humphrey Hargrove meant to bring it to them. His mother was just the first of many. He still had work to do. A whole lifetime of bright and bloody work.