It could be claimed that the incident was no fault of Lennie's. Lennie was the child of a butcher a man who ate too much of his own wares and drank beer to pair with them. Perhaps his body grew to fit his temper which was the reason Lennie would find himself in the slums where the customers did not think themself too good to hear an opera of shouting which ran to the beat of a butcher's cimeter. The beat would continue all day leaving one to wonder if he was cutting meat or simply hacking away at his cutting board. *smack *smack *smack. When the candles were blown out the beat would continue this time with Lennie under the chopping block.

It was not Lennie's fault for his father's anger which started long before he was born. His mother had done her best to alleviate it. Her words were the choir to the beat. Sometimes quiet erupted in the butchery. Everything was still, the words reached their mark, and the father's gavel would stop. But there was always work for a poor man and working made the man angry, rather than the injustice of it. It was not his fault that he was angry. He believed that while the gods changed the outsides of others, who sprouted gills and fins, he was changed inside.

It was not the fault of Lennie's mother who was too busy singing to teach the boy right and wrong. She was married young and knew no life beyond the butchery. She felt unwelcome where she went. The tailor down the street did not welcome the smell of death. She thought of the smell of blood but she carried a much different smell of rot. Wafting up from her stomach and out her mouth. The butchery and her husband's anger clung to her and it long ago killed her.

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It was in this shop that Lennie grew up. Much like Piter, he felt cursed. His parents were incapable of warmth. A child is free of the sins of the father, the smell of blood did not follow him, but he heard only wrath. His parents felt slighted by the smallest actions of their neighbors who were only slightly less spiteful than themselves.

Disaster breeds disaster. Lennie felt that in a way the gods had gifted him wrath much like his father. It can not be the fault of a child for acting like one. The fact that he killed a boy was only a simple hiccup in the greater scheme of things, call it fate. The simple boy would surely not have amounted to much in his life and perhaps he too would have taken it out on his children. He had hate in his eyes when he killed George but the hate was not his own. The incident was simply one butterfly killing another all kept aloft by the winds of fate.

That hate can be traced back to God. His hate for Eve for eating from the tree of knowledge. His hate for Lucifer for falling from his heavenly realm to mortal temptation. Who should expect men to be greater than the gods whose image they were made in? All just falling dominoes waiting until they hit empty air, then, squish the head of George spread on the pavement.