After ending my telephone conversation with the emergency dispatch operator, I began heading back to my home, where I planned on completing the sweaters I was knitting for orphans in Sudan. It was then that I remembered that my good friend Trayvon was visiting his father, and surely that was the man I saw walking home. Imagine my embarassment! I decided that it wouldn’t be fair to let the police rough up the poor lad, so I turned around to return to the place I last saw him.
“Excuse me!” I called. “Oh Trayvon! Lovely night isn’t it? Amazing how the moon reflects off the clouds. Say, what have you got there? Skittles? My, I do love me some Skittles. But as you can see, I already possess a character of, how shall we say, rather rotund proportions, so I must not partake. But thank you for your kindly offer. I just wanted to warn you that I made the, gosh, how should I put this, ever so understable mistake of alerting the local constables of a suspicious person in the area. Little did I know at the time, dear friend, that it was merely Mr. Martin, traversing the streets of our fine neighborhood on his return trip from a snack merchant.”
It was then that things got ugly. Trayvon said that he didn’t think our neighborhood was particularly fine at all. In fact, he said he believed it sucked! Such offensive language from the mouths of babes. I wouldn’t stand idly by while he disparaged our fine community, so I said, “Trayvon, what would your father say if he heard you talking like that? Perhaps we should go tell him now, what do you think?” And Trayvon replied, rather angrily, “Fuck you, spic cracker beaner honkey. I bet you don’t even have the fucking gonads to shoot me point blank in the chest.”
Well, I was taken aback, to be sure, but I did my best to regain my composure. “Now Trayvon,” I stumbled, but the remainder of my thoughts were soon aswirl in floating stars and tweety birds. As I regained my composure, it become apparent that I had been socked, right in the nose! Well, I had no idea it was to come to fisticuffs, but if he was stewing for a fight, I wasn’t about to go down easy.
Except that I went down easy. You see, I have a bad knee here, from the time I rescued that family from a burning apartment building. Already bewildered from a shattered nasal bone, I was unable to maintain an upright stature as Trayvon shoved me to the earth. “Trayvon, how could you! We were supposed to go yachting in the Hamptons this summer!” I cried, as my head cracked the pavement. Blow after blow, he rained his rage down on me. I pleaded with him to take mercy, but he was clearly engaged in the recreational use of marijuana. Reefer, as a I believe the negroes like to call it.
I had nearly lost all hope by the time young Trayvon grabbed the sidearm out of my holster. “Don’t do it!” I screamed, as he held the barrel firmly against his own chest. His last words to me, coldly uttered, were, “You’re going to hang for my death, Jewboy.” And then he closed his eyes and discharged a single round into himself."
I was beside myself with grief. When the detectives arrived, I couldn’t bear the thought of the Martin family learning that their son had committed suicide. For you see, I’m a devout Catholic, and my religion believes that the souls of those who end their own lives are not destined for eternal rest. So I did the only noble thing I could do in that situation – I took the blame for his death. Oh, forgive me! I could have done so much more to save the life of this troubled youth. Perhaps if I had shared his Skittles after all, none of this would have ever happened.
