I AM TRAYVON,by Nat Turner, Chapter 1­9

"I AM TRAYVON" by Nat Turner, Chapter 1 ­­­ Social Justice

The Honorable Louis Farrakhan wiped the sweat from his brow. It was time to give the signal. This was thetime and it was his role to explain to his people what must be done. He surveyed the audience from behindthick lenses. Strong , angry youth packed the bleachers. They all wore identical hoodies and their faces allbore the same grim expression.

"My Brother and Sisters, let us look closely at the order within the seeming chaos. A holy chaos whichAllah has prepared for us. This is not a time to mourn, not a time to fear; this is a time to trust. We musttrust each other first and foremost. We must trust our black brothers and black sisters, for we know that thedays of the white devil are at an end. Yes, the End of Days is here."

The youth were all African­Americans. They nodded their approval at the words of their leader. The tension inthe air was palpable. He continued:

"The End of Days is the time when Allah pronounces His judgement upon the white devil, the mischiefmaker, the sons of the evil one. It is the end of their day, not ours Brothers and Sisters! For six thousandyears, the white devils have ensnared our people, enslaved our people, raped our people! Now, I am givingthe sign. You heard it here first! It's time to end black on black violence and direct it to righteousness. Youranger has been misdirected. For too long the whites turned black on black, given us crack, mass abortion,slavery, dependence, illiteracy, syphilis, and degeneracy. Now it is time to throw off the chains and to takeback what we built!"

The crowd cheered, for America was theirs. This was their promised land. The Transatlantic Slave trade wasa Trojan horse, for Allah had planned all along that the Black Man would triumph over the present worlddarkness. The suffering of the black man was put into a broader historical context that night, and theseyoung men saw themselves not as thugs or criminals but as liberators, soldiers, and heroes.

"Even now as I speak, our people are being liberated. All the prisons are opening their gates and the streetsof America will soon run red with the blood of the White Capitalists, blood which they first drained from ourancestors!" The crowd cheered. The world was their oyster.

The Soldiers of Allah were supplied with machetes and marijuana.

"I AM TRAYVON" by Nat Turner, Chapter 2 ­­­ Black Mobs at Walmart

Whether the flash mobs brought the violence or whether the violence brought the flash mobs, the resultswere the same: random carnage orchestrated by mass­text message via government issuedObama­phones. As to the originator of these calls to violence, no one knew for certain but it was generallyunderstood to be King Samir Shabaz, leader of the New Black Panther Party acting at the behest of theDepartment of Social Justice (the restructured Department of Justice, courtesy of King Obama's permanentcabinet).

Alex was not a mall goer and even on the rare occasion when he had the money to purchase new clothes,he tended to buy from Walmart. Prices he could afford, basic designs, nothing gaudy, and most of all, hecould avoid the strutting peacocks and trendy mall­punks. He located three matching pairs of non­pleatedblack slacks.

Making his way to the self­checkout counter, he noted a swarm of youth entering from both the entranceand exit doors, blocking any shoppers from leaving. Oddly enough, they appeared to be inspecting bags.Alex scanned his purchases and paused when he heard a scream followed by shouting. The youth wereconfiscating bags of purchased goods from the shoppers and a blonde haired, blue eyed pregnant womanwas on the ground screaming as several of youth were dragging her away by her legs. Another youth, alinebacker sized teenager in a hoodie picked up her husband by the neck and threw him down roughly,yelling, "This is for Trayvon! We're gonna kill your cracker ass baby!" A blood curdling cry could be heardabove the din as the youth mob flooded into the store.

Alex's instinct was to help the people being hurt but his reason took over. The mob was single­minded entityand had all the legal authority to conduct its business. To oppose the youth mobs was to risk incarcerationif not worse. Shopping carts were overturned, children and their parents terrorized, televisions were cartedout the the door, and all the while, the youth took every opportunity to beat up the shoppers to theunanimous battle cry "THIS IS FOR TRAYVON!" Alex ran to the sporting goods aisle, two youth hot on hisheels.

He grabbed a Louisville slugger and turned around to see two African­Americans in hoodies closing in onhim. They both bore striking resemblances to King Obama, and had his highness sired male progeny, theywould undoubtedly have look like these two youth. This wasn't the first such mob attack to occur­­­but themedia blackout made the sheer extent of the problem an open secret. To mention it was to be accused ofracism, which meant re­education if not forced labor. Alex was fed up with the tyranny of politicalcorrectness. He swung that bat twice, hitting two home­runs. He trampled over the unconscious, bleedingbodies of the youth and sprinted to the door.

The mob was busy looting and all around their victims lay bleeding. Alex was determined to check upon thepregnant woman who was initially dragged away. Her husband was rolling on the ground clutching at hisbroken legs. She was lying still in the corner, her clutching herself and staring blankly at the wall. Two youthstood over her jeering, one saying to the other, "Heh...White girl bleed a lot." She wasn't merely staring. She

was dead. Alex crept up behind the two sadists and went to work with the Louisville slugger. There was noturning back now.

The counter­revolution had begun.

"I AM TRAYVON" by Nat Turner, Chapter 3 "Bash and Slash Mobs"

Reverend Al Sharpton addressed the camera, his final address before tomorrow's One Hundred City Protest.This video missive would be on every Obama­phone simultaneously and would be the catalyst for theinter­racial violence which would justify the response by FEMA which he and the other black leaders sought.

"Brothers and Sisters, it is apparent that until as many white teenagers die as do blacks, society will be anunjust society. Blood for blood, life for life, for every Trayvon we know about there are many more which havegone unnoticed over the past four­hundred years."

The reverend's stark white hair, slicked back with three ounces of Murray's Superior Hair Dressing Pomade,imbued him with the dignity and gravitas of a man who has seen it all. Watching this video, one might thinkthat the reverend was himself a former slave. He had the look of one who was both wounded but also tooprideful to cry. His was the face of righteous indignation.

"Now is the time to throw off your chains! For too long we have allowed the devils to oppress our people.From this day forward, we must not allow a single Caucasian to wield the power of white privilege. No morewill wicked Jew devils like Zimmerman stalk our babies through the streets, lynching the best and thebrightest of our young. No, those days are over. Now, it is time take back what is ours, what is owed to us!"

The video ended with a still shot of Revernd Al Sharpton, Jessie Jackson, Eric Holder, President Obama,The Honorable Louis Farakhan, and King Shabazz, all marching together, their right fists raised up indefiance of white power and institutional racism. As it concluded, a voice­over gave the final call to action:

"When you march down the sidewalks tomorrow, remember, we are marching with you. No one will stopyou, the police will not dare stand up to any one of us. Walk as the Kings you are! We are not slaves, weare the original race, all the others are de­evolutionary spin­offs. We are the new school, they is the oldschool..."

***********************************

It was obvious to Alex that wherever the black mobs were gathered, the police were absent. Thus, he wasable to leave Walmart, bloody baseball bat in hand, and drive away without any fear of being caught for hisactions inside. Of course being white, he was a targeted for arrest anyway. The Obama administration hadissued a de facto pogrom against whites under which the blacks could act with impunity.

He sped his red Ford Ranger across the parking lot and sure enough, there were buses full of black menarriving even as he left. Looking back, he saw that the entrances and exits to the Walmart were blocked.

The blacks that were filing in were wearing hoodies and carrying machetes. The White Genocide had begunand there was no one to call to for help, even if he had owned a phone. Being white, he didn't qualify for anObama­phone, and in this economy it wasn't feasible to buy one.

Minutes later, he was passing by the busy downtown district. He pulled into a drug­store parking lot,searching among the cars for the one belonging to Diane, his girlfriend of six months. He spotted it. Therewasn't anything out of the ordinary happening on this side of town. Not at the moment anyway.

He chose to leave the baseball bat in the back of the truck and ran inside. He grabbed two hoodies off theclothing rack, a bottled water, several high­protein candy bars, and then went to the pharmaceutical counter."Diane?"

An African­American woman in blue scrubs approached the counter, beaming with joy. "Alex! What asurprise, I was just thinking about you!" She leaned forward for a kiss. Their lips touched and the events ofthe last half hour disappeared from his mind for the moment.

"Diane, it's time to go. The Department of Social Justice is bussing in an army of killers!" She looked intohis eyes and then at the blood splatters on his shirt and pants. He put the hoodie on and handed her theother. "There's no time. People are being butchered! Let's go." She shook her head slowly, eyes squinted.This was too unbelievable, even given the excesses of the youth mobs over the last five years. Could theyhave turned murderous?

The electronic doorbell rang several times in rapid succession as a dozen people or more entered in a tightformation. Diane and Alex looked up at the mirrors up on the walls, placed strategically to give themanagers the ability to monitor their customers. The group which now blocked the door wore hoodies andcarried weapons. Machetes, iron pipes, knives, and more.

She threw on the hoodie, no longer questioning his claim. He jumped the counter and together they crepttoward the drive­up window. He led, she followed, out the window and directly towards his truck. Sureenough, a bus was parked in front of the drugstore, its armed occupants filing out after an orderly fashion.

Screams emanated from within, screams which chilled Alex and Diane to the bone. There was no optionavailable to them, no one to call for help. They pulled their hoods on and kept their heads down. Once in hisvehicle they locked the doors, both sighing in relief as they exited the lot. Neither dared to look back.

Driving to their shared apartment, they passed two other buses headed towards their own bloodydestinations. Neither had the inclination to raise their faces to look at the occupants. Alex kept his mind onthe road, mentally taking inventory of his gun safe which his father had left to him.

Alex's disdain for guns and the gun­culture was replaced with a belated sense of gratitude for the valueswhich his father tried to impress upon him. In his youthful arrogance, he had often criticized the very notionof gun ownership in advanced societies, after all, the police provided all the protection the citizenry needed,right?

His father's voice rang in his mind clearly and poignantly from beyond the grave: "Alex, don't be naive. Guncontrol is about social control. If they take our guns, we lose our ability to defend our property, beginningwith our bodies. If you can't defend yourself you are a slave or you're dead."

"I AM TRAYVON", chapter 4, "Going Dorner for Trayvon"

De'Marquise Elkins was awakened to the sound of the Obama­phone's emergency signal. The smartphonescreen had a phrase preceded by a number sign. This phrase reached millions in De'Marquise'sdemographic: poor, black, young, and unemployed. It granted them a license to vent and to take what wasrightfully theirs:

#GOINGDORNER

It was from Eric J Holder's Twitter account. All messages from the Department of Social Justice were to betaken as direct orders. No further prompting was necessary. De'Marquise responded:

"@DOSJ, I'm bout to give back to the community #GOINGDORNER"

Many other similar tweets flooded the twittersphere, few as cryptic, fewer still even remotely grammaticallycorrect. There was a sense of competition of the good­natured kind. Everyone wanted to outdo everyoneelse; tweets promising rapes,arson, stabbings, looting, and worse. The Department of Social Justice addeda follow up tweet: "One more thing kids. Pics, or it didn't happen! #GOINGDORNER ."

The expression "Going Dorner" had come to define a new kind of spree killing. Unlike the random spreekilling, this new strategy is more strictly terroristic­­­as opposed to merely deranged­­­in that there is anexplicit political or social message attached to it, and the individuals committing the acts are in a dialoguewith their targets, usually through letters written to newspapers or entire manifestos uploaded onto theInternet.

"Going Dorner" in the context of social justice however, was an expressly racially motivated killing spree,named for the fallen Los Angeles police officer who exacted revenge at the department which fired him,specifically those who had discriminated against him for being a black man. The youth were Going Dornerfor Trayvon.

De'Marquise, nineteen, rushed out the front door where he was joined by Lamar, who was fourteen.Together, they ran to the park and headed directly toward the first white person they saw: a young motherpushing a stroller. De'Marquise blocked her path. A little baby, perhaps a year old, smiled at the blackbrothers. He addressed its mother.

"Give me your goddamned money, cracker bitch!" He pointed a gun at her face. "Give me your money or I

will kill your cracker baby!" She cringed and De'Marquise pulled the trigger. The explosion temporarilystunned the woman and her baby began wailing. The round grazed her cheek. Lamar was reaching for herpurse.

"I don't have any money. Here take my Android!" She handed her smartphone to Lamar. Lamar shoved itroughly back at her.

"The Obama­phone's better than that shit, bitch!" Lamar punched the baby in the stomach. She protested,screaming as she reached for her baby. De'Marquis fired again, this time shooting her thigh. She slumpedon the ground and watched helplessly, horrified, mortified, and disheartened as the teen fired a round intothe stroller, silencing her cracker baby. Lamar used his Obama­phone to upload a picture of the bloodyscene to his twitter account.

The youth pulled their hoodies on and headed towards the downtown business districts. Lamar was proud tohave pulled of a heist with his elder brother. "De'Marquise, why dint we jest rape dat bitch too?" They bothlooked back at the park. The wounded woman was attempting to give the dead baby CPR which would befutile, for it scarcely had a face left.

There were no police in the area. They were concentrated downtown where the massive looting wasoccurring. Rape was fair game. De'Marquise looked at his younger, virgin brother. "That's my boy."Together,they confidently swaggered back to the park, eager to claim their just reward.

I AM TRAYVON by Nat Turner, chapter 5 Hoaxes and Heroics

George Zimmerman sulked in the back of the gas­guzzling sports utility vehicle, clutching thefire­extinguisher to his chest the way a petulant child would cling to a teddy bear for moral support.Although the bullet­proof windows were tinted so dark as to render its passengers invisible, he still feltexposed. Each of the three men on board were high value targets. George had a ten thousand dollar bountyon his head and his brother Robert Zimmerman, while not as reviled, was nonetheless as high profile atarget due to his thirteen consecutive appearances on the Piers Morgan show. But most of all, it was thedriver who had the most to fear if his personal location was to be twittered to the ubiquitous liberal mobs:Sean Hannity.

Sean was at the wheel. After all, this was his sports utility vehicle or the "Hannibot Brigade Mobile AssaultVehicle" as "she" was called. Truth be told, it was more of a "Mobile Sexual Assault Vehicle" given thedriver's prodigious appetite for street walkers coupled with his inability to differentiate them from normal,decent women. His sexism blinded him to anything below the knees or above the collar­bone of the womenhe nearly ran down on his late­night shopping sprees.

"This is all Dana's fault George. I told that broad to have the fuse on the incendiaries lit before they arrived atthe staged crash scene. Never leave the pyrotechnics to the broads. Maybe one of her stupid kids shouldhave handled that for her." Sean was fuming. "I'll have to remind myself to slap one of the housekeepers

today. All broads are but different manifestations of the same evil she­bitch. It doesn't matter which one youpunish. Any sense you can knock into a broad anywhere in the world is a boon to men everywhere. Passme the joint Robert, you selfish twit."

Robert was nonplussed by Sean's sadistic good­natured ribbing. "Hey George! It was still a dramaticrescue. Don't fret. Brad Thor scripted the whole thing and he wrote it for plausibility as well as for dramaticeffect. Fox will report that you saved a family of four and their narrative is all that matters!"

"Oh leave him alone," Sean chided,"George has nothing to fear of lynchings no matter what public opinionhas to say about him just so long as he keeps ballooning up like he has been." He made eye contact withthe cherubic night­watchmen in the rear­view mirror. "Assuming they could find a rope with the tensilestrength necessary to support your bulk not to mention, how are they going to hang you if your neck isthicker than your head?" He laughed boisterously. The two brothers remained stoic.

"Sean the operation was botched. Nobody will believe it." George finally broke his sulk.

"George, let me explain this one more time. Those who hate you will always assume you are lying. Thosewho support you will always believe your lies. It's that simple.Truth or believability has nothing to do with it.Trust me, I'm the second biggest conservative talk radio host in the world. Now pass back the Skittlesalready. My lean lacks flava." He held up a tumbler filled with a soupy mix of cough syrup, watermelon juice,and bits of candy.

George set aside the undeployed fire extinguisher and extended his arm for Robert to grab the bag ofSkittles. Just as the candy changed hands, Sean hit the gas pedal, slamming George back into his seatand propelling the gas guzzling Assault Vehicle down the freeway at well over the posted speed limit.

Sean's erratic behavior unnerved the brothers but not half as much as the radio talk show host's twistedhumor, which he inflicted upon them mercilessly. He took a swig of the purplish drink followed by a deepdrag of the joint. Smoke billowing out of his nostrils, he shared another racially tinged joke: "Why do blackflash mobs always get away with robbery and mayhem?"

George: "Uhh....media bias? Political correctness?"

Robert: "Perhaps they are being allowed to get away with it in order to prepare them to be Obama's BrownShirts?"

Sean shook his head. "Those are both interesting answers and I'll probably use those on my show, but nothat's not it. Black flash mobs never get caught because the perpetrators all look the same." Sean laughed.Robert's eyes widened and George paled, giving new meaning to the term "White­Hispanic".

For the first time since the killing of Trayvon, George was beginning to question if the side of justice wasindeed just, or if there perhaps was something valid and righteous about the spontaneous eruptions of blackon white violence tearing apart the fabric of the nation. For the first time since since pulling that trigger, hewondered if things might not have turned out better had his skull been cracked open upon the sidewalk thatill­fated rainy February night.....

I AM TRAYVON, chapter 6, Wolf Pack

The mob gained speed when it spotted its next target. The three youths trailing behind the leader were intheir mid teens. He was in his early twenties and they followed his orders unquestioningly. "Dis cracker gongit sum uh wuh we got!" and they were off like a pack of wolves.

Their target, an elderly Caucasian, was approaching a bus stop at a leisurely pace, evidentially unaware thatMilwaukee too was responding to the injustice of the George Zimmerman acquittal. Racial retaliation wascalled for and there was no shortage of righteously indignant blacks ready to take up the struggle.

Chris Simpson heard the mob before he saw it. He felt it before he saw it. He nearly lost consciousness inthe blur of black skinned youth in grey hoodies. Punches, kicks, and racial epithets ensued until the crackerwas curled into a fetal position in a futile attempt to keep his brain within his skull­­a skull now endangeredby the fact that it's covering was unacceptably pale for the present social milieu .

The moment George Zimmerman was acquitted, Levi, Lemar, George, and Tyrone began their daily patrolssearch of those who were unfortunately possessed of the same accursed paleness of skin, emblematic ofthe collective shame of white guilt.

The youths, all descendants of slaves, were bound by the collective suffering of their people, and togetherthey vowed to take back their pride by avenging their ancestors on the progeny of the historic oppressors oftheir kind. This was no ordinary beating. This was revolutionary social justice.

Chris was blinded by repeated blows to his face with a tire iron and his guts were subjected to kicks so hardthat he coughed up blood. "This is for Trayvon, you creepy ass cracker!" was the last thing he ever heard.

Levi, the leader, took the old man's wallet and inspected the driver's license. "Dis here is his address. Let'sgo rough up his ol' lady. Who wants old cracka pussy?" The three teenagers raised their bloodied fists in ashow of solidarity. This would be their third rape­party this week.

"Maybe we can jack his ride, go wildin downtown? Hit de clubs?" Tyrone asked hopefully.

"Bitch ass nigga, you too young to git in da club. Bitch ass nug," Lamar berated, passing Tyrone a lit joint.

"Both ya'll shut up. We'll git plenty wild tonight, dis shit is on." Levi assured them, grabbing his crotch.

I AM TRAYVON, chapter 7, "Foh da fun of it"

Christopher went out for a jog. The night was cool and the twenty­two year old college student decided itmight be a fun excursion to check out the neighbourhood where his girlfriend grew up. They were vacationingat her parent's house in Duncan, a small town of perhaps twenty thousand people. He was attending anOklahoma college on a baseball scholarship and was in the best shape of his life.

He set an easy pace, barely breaking a sweat. He approached a fork in the road and went left without givingit much thought. The eyesore of dilapidated houses and trailers did nothing to dampen the exquisite beautyof the moonlit night; on the contrary, the serenity seemed to cure his surroundings of its ugliness. That is,until he jogged passed the house where Michael Jones lived.

Michael Jones was sitting on his porch reciting rap lyrics and nodding his head fervently. His twocompanions, Chancey and James, stared blankly into the night, their brains still on fire from the meth thethree of them had just finished snorting. All three of them were teenagers. Angry, black, unsupervisedteenagers.

They watched Christopher jog by. He was tall, fit, handsome, and confident. Michael looked at James andlifted his shirt, exposing the handle of his 32 caliber pistol. "Day is our target, yo." He spoke in a low voiceand walked out to the car, his two cronies right behind him. "White devil."

Christopher glanced at the three, but didn't register alarm. Three kids. Younger than the ones on his team. Itdid not occur to him that they represented a threat. What black youth at their age didn't wear gang attire oraffect a hostile disposition? After all, they were black, which meant that they were victims of an unjustsociety. An empathetic person by nature, Christopher chose to live and let live. He didn't fear his fellowhumans, and though he wasn't a descendent of slave­owners, he still felt that as a white person, he wasborn privileged and therefore he didn't allow himself to assess blacks in a negative light.

His breathing took on the familiar rhythm as he found his optimal pace. He could run all night like this. A lowrider car with tinted windows pulled up beside him, headlights off, but radio blaring. The words being rappedwere easily discernible. "...They claim I'm violent, cause I refuse to be silent, these hypocrites are havingfits...."

They were intentionally keeping up with him. He looked but could not see in their faces in the darkness. Thepassenger windows were down. The rap lyrics were from 2­Pac. Christopher's friends in Australia, where hewas born and raised, were all fans of the late rapper. In fact, he knew the next lyrics to this rap song byheart, "I rebel against any oppressor, it's self­defence so I show no mercy, when the shit gets thick..."

Christopher picked up his pace with a growing sense of alarm. The car sped up along with him. Hisbreathing grew more laboured and his heart rate picked up­­­­not from exertion but from fear. He saw a handreach out from the car, a hand carrying a pistol.. No! It can't be, he thought. "What! Why?" He yelled, andstopped on the side­walk, making an abrupt one­eighty, already attempting to evade the inevitable.

A black youth with a blue bandanna around his mouth answered. "Foh da fun of it, cracker!" an instantbefore the shots rang out. Christopher's body hit the side­walk. It felt like he was being pounded withsledgehammers. As a baseball player, he had been beaned by an errant pitch three or four times in his life,but never had he felt such concentrated concussive energy as that which exploded his ribcage as hehelplessly absorbed bullet after bullet.

The last thing he saw was the moonlit side­walk drenched in blood, his own, and the mysterious car fromwhich he heard laughter and one of the passengers shouting "This is for Trayvon!" as the final bullet split hisforehead open, ending his otherwise idyllic life.

I AM TRAYVON, Chapter 8, "Knocking on Peckerwood" by Nat Turner

The elderly man exited the Veterans Lodge. It was like any other day: a blessing and a beautific expressionof God's perfection. Though he was a soldier in World War II and had the scars to prove it, his world­viewwas never tainted by the darkness he confronted. His was of a different generation. Strong men andsupportive women united in defence of common values. The youth of today were, by comparison, rootless,weak, and directionless.

For close to nine decades upon this earth­­­or flying above it­­­this man exemplified the Greatest Generation;by contrast, he was a living testament to the cultural barbarism and degeneracy of the Generations X, Y, Z,and Generation IPod. Selfless service had been transmuted into solipsism and self­absorption. Perhaps itwas this vast cultural divide which prevented Tyrone and Lamar from feeling a common humanity with him.

Tyrone and Lamar were the two black youth who, having failed to turn up anything significant after a night ofburglary, were particularly drawn to such an easy target. There they were: large, strong, and armed withmetal flashlights and a desire for social justice, their own piece of the American Pie. And there he was,white, old, rich, and probably the descendant of slave­owners.

"Him is a peckerwood cracka." Tyrone muttered. "Rich bitch, make me itch," he grabbed his crotch. Lamarwas silent but his eyes spoke volumes. Within those coal black eyes was a veritable black hole of hunger,of endless greed, the very soul of avarice, and a barbaric, reptilian concept of resources and how to acquirethem. Lamar nodded his accent.

Tyrone straightened out his do­rag and led the way,blocking the elder from entering his vehicle. "Heycreepy­ass old cracker! Gonna get me some social justice for Trayvon!" He held out a black hand. The elderlooked up and shrugged, reaching into his wallet. He produced two crisp twenty dollar bills, and handedthem over. The media blackout on the subject of black on white violence prevented the reality of his situationfrom occurring to him.

"Listen boys," he began. "When I was your age, I didn't ask for a handout. I got a job....." Those were thelast words he ever uttered.

"BOYS? YOU HEAR DAT?!" Lamar fumed. "That is racist!" Lamar swung the metal flash­light onto the oldman's skull. It made a hollow sound, like he had knocked on a watermelon.

Tyrone wasted no time. He put his knee on the elder's ribs and proceeded to pulverize every bone in theinert body. Lamar followed suit. They worked up a sweat before they got up and walked back home.

"Too bad he ain't have no pussy." Lamar lamented. The two boys laughed. Tyrone produced their victim'swallet.

"He do have a fly crib, yo. Dat a good place to bring sum ass and hos and crack." Tyrone was looking at theaddress on man's driver's license. They immediately headed in that direction, two wild dogs on the scent ofa good meal…

I AM TRAYVON, chapter 9, "Hot Dogs and Apple Pie", by Nat Turner

Bob made a decent living as a hot­dog vender at the Home Depot around the corner from his modest home.To be fair, he sold much more than hot­dogs; many of his customers arrived early for the weekend projectsand so he filled the demand for coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Many others arrived later in the day, andfor them, he provided a wide array of dinner items and desserts. The most popular item in the evening wasthe apple­pie, and he helped himself to a slice as he read the evening paper.

"Wow." His eyes scanned over the headlines in USA TODAY:

'95% of White People are Nasty' according to the latest Pew poll.''White on Black Discrimination at All Time High''Is There Room in the Constitution for Social Justice?'

As a hard working American, Bob never felt that he had oppressed anyone. He had to presume that theracism was out there, somewhere, but just by watching people interact as they set about building up theirhomes, it wasn't evident.He was friends with gays, blacks, whites, young and old. They all found commonground in the act of building their lives and enjoying hot­dogs and apple pie. Perhaps it was his blindingoptimism which left him open for what came next.

WHAM! He jumped up, spilling his coffee and knocking his pie onto the floor of the hot­dog stand­­­a standwhich was now rocking on it's axles. He looked over the counter and there was a small mob ofAfrican­American youth slamming the front counter with hammers. Another one was sifting through the tipjar. "Hey, cut that out!" A hammer swing grazed his nose and he jumped away from the counter, staggeringback into the opposite wall.

Before Bob could get his bearings, two of the youths has climbed into the cramped compartment, one ofthem squashing Bob to the ground like an insect, and the other one emptying the cash register. Bobstrained to speak but his words were cut short by the raining blows of a stolen hammer which still had theprice tag hanging off the handle.

He could not have known it, but the blood which gushed from his open cranium and soaked into the pages ofthe USA TODAY obscured a reference to a crime in Memphis which occurred two days prior. The articledescribed how a couple of teenagers dragged an old man into an abandoned parking lot, doused him withgasoline, and burned him to death. The article made no mention of the fact that the victim was a white,blue­collar worker or that the perpetrators were racist, black gang­bangers.

Nor could Bob possible have known that just as his savage killer screamed "Dis is for Trayvon!", so too werethose the last words heard by that innocent victim in Memphis as his flesh was set ablaze. None of theperpetrators or victims in any of these seemingly unrelated incidents could possibly know they were beingmanipulated by hidden forces, or that these violent outbreaks were the result of a carefully engineered socialand cultural climate.