Mean

Mitchell was born mean, grew up mean and now at age 47 was so layered in the experience of it, meanness flowed out of him like rancid oil. In his years as the bank’s loan officer he never considered it a good day of business unless he foreclosed on a desperate man’s home. He ate lunch every day at the drugstore and most folks in town were secretly gratified when he choked on a cherry while sucking on a chocolate malt, toppling off his stool dead.