2009-08-23 18:09:28 UTC
A black Escalade silently drifts in the distance, 200 yards away, the headlights off. The driver, a distraught black wife, watches in fear of what is about to happen. In a snap decision, the car is revved up and plunged forward as she crusades through the mob at 70 mph, crushing the bones of her husband's aggressors, their faces plastered on her windshield with a mix of wrath, and surprise. She merely cut the mob down, yet the diminshed group gathers again, and charges at the SUV; it makes a quick U-turn, as she darts through again, smashing ribcages and shattering legs. There are screams of agony as many of them lay on the ground in pain. The survivors scatter as a shotgun blast, and she follows them, crushing some into potholes, and forcing others to die on their garage door, a bloody mess. The few survivors that were left, die before they can hide in their homes, and the neighborhood becomes silent again before dawn. The bodies of the mob lay strewn through the street, her husband still bound and gagged to the sycamore tree. She reaches the tree, freeing him. They glance at each other, and with a nervous passion, love under the benign Sycamore tree. In a frenzy after, she drives towards a hospital still in shock. The couple speak in an emergency room, when a cop overhears them and arrests both. They now stand before a judge, the story told; a massacre of love, a case of self-defense for a spouse, or a possiblility of an accident. You're the Judge, how would you decide?