You’re walking home from the store. It’s raining out, so you flip up the hood on your sweatshirt in an attempt to stay dry. You’re on the phone with your girlfriend sharing a laugh, when you catch an SUV creeping down the street behind you. The driver is staring at you intently, and talking to someone on the phone. A chill runs down your spine.
You start walking fast as you describe the scene to your girlfriend; she tells you to run, but you resist. You have every right to be where you are, and are doing nothing wrong. Besides, you seem to have lost the guy after ducking to the sidewalk behind a row of condos.
Suddenly, the guy from the SUV is in your face, demanding to know who you are, and what you are doing. His skin is flushed. He’s got to go 230 lbs and outweighs you by a ton. He pushes you. You push back.
He slips on the wet grass and you come down on top of him. You find yourself in what MMA fighter’s call a “top mount” position, and you swing as hard as you can, bouncing his head off the sidewalk.
You scramble, and roll away, crabwalk and come to your feet. you back away as fast as you can, trying to put some distance between you and your attacker.
He comes up cussing, his face bleeding, and you see him start to go for the small gun in his waistband. It snags on something, and that gives you all the time you need.
You smoothly draw your own licensed pistol as your pulse pounds in your ears. You try to make out the front sight, but it’s fuzzy, and all you can do is look down the slide and carefully squeeze the trigger…
Your pistol barks, and the man stiffens, stumbles and takes a step backward. He stops trying to pull his gun, and instead looks at the small, reddening hole in the middle of his chest. He touches it with his finger, and then sits down heavily, surprise on his face.
“But you’re the bad guy…” he whimpers to an unforgiving sky, before slumping over in the wet grass.
Police sirens are already inbound and you place your own gun at your feet and take a step away with your hands up. You look in his eyes. He’s gone.
And you have no idea of why any of this transpired.
That is what might have occurred over a month ago if George Zimmerman had rolled up on a trained concealed carry permit holder, instead of a scared 17-year-old with nothing but a bag of Skittles with which to defend himself.
We may never know the real details of what transpired when George Zimmerman set off on foot after Trayvon Martin, but what we do know suggests that he would have had a much better claim of self defense if both men had been armed on equal terms.
Perhaps Florida should consider lowering the age at which citizens are allowed to be permitted for concealed weapons. It makes as much sense as the gun-grabbers attempting to blame 400+ years of common law for the tragedy.