Paris Trout is a vile man.

He is rich. He is arrogant. He kills a young black girl. As far as he’s concerned, he did absolutely nothing wrong.

Pete Dexter’s 1989 novel explores the casual ambivalence of a small town Georgia store owner and his hatred for anyone who is not…him. He finds selfish justification in his most cruel unthinkable acts. He puts a bullet in an innocent child simply because she has the misfortune of being in the same vicinity as a black man who owes Paris Trout money. You’re convinced you couldn’t possibly hate him more. Give it time. Wait until the main character snags a bottle and goes to work on his wife.

You turn every page praying that Paris Trout gets his comeuppance.

It seems Pete Dexter penned this book just for me. Somehow, he knows of my affinity for small town southern tales focused on a hero who leaps tall buildings in search of racial equality. He also got word of my fascination for deplorable characters who are void of compassion and function only to their own end. Dexter masterfully stuffs fistfuls of prejudice, misanthropy, and haughty superiority into the literary body of Paris Trout. The hero, as it turns out, is Trout himself. He manufactures his own undoing.

I can’t be absolutely certain, but based on this book, I think Pete Dexter and I are about to begin a wonderful relationship. He spent at least part of his childhood in Milledgeville, Georgia, which is not far from my parent’s hometown. It seems that he knows Harper Lee’s lightning bug catching screendoor south that I love so much. He also appears to be familiar with Cormac McCarthy’s method of creating methodical soulless monsters. The combination is my arsenic laced cup of sweet tea.

How about we rename this book To Kill A Mockingbird With My Bare Hands Because I Don’t Like That Guy’s Looks?

Call Pete Dexter’s agent. We need to talk.