Hobos Are People, Too
When you think of the worst people you can imagine, you probably think of folks like Hitler, Stalin, Dahmer, and that guy who put me in a headlock in front of everyone in 7th grade. Well, time to add one more name to that illustrious list: Chante Jawan Mallard.
Who you ask?
Well, let me tell you a little something about my girl, Chante. You might remember her as the woman who hit a homeless man with her car a couple of years ago, got him stuck in her windshield, drove all the way home, parked in the garage, and basically left the hobo there to die wedged in the windshield. As a nursing assistant, she was nice enough to check on him every once in awhile, letting him know she was sorry, listened to him moan in agony, and then would go back inside, take drugs and have sex with her boyfriend while Gregory Biggs slowly died in the garage. Once the street person was good and dead, Chante had him dumped in a nearby park.
She claims it was all an accident.
How do you accidentally smoke pot, take Ecstasy, and drink like a frat boy? How do you accidentally drive home after getting a panhandler stuck in your windshield? How do you accidentally not get the hobo out of your windshield and into a hospital? How do you accidentally get your swerve on with your loser boyfriend while some poor guy is bleeding to death with his butt hanging out of your car in the garage? How do you accidentally toss Mr. Briggs into a park and leave him to rot?
She might have gotten away with all this if she hadn't gotten drunk four months later and joked about hitting a white guy with her car. Joked about being high and drunk at the time. Joked about giving her boyfriend some while whitey bled to death face down in her front floorboard. Luckily one of the friends who heard this horrific story turned her in, though I'm not sure if I'd want it to be known that I was friends with good ol' Chante.
I hope the judge goes "eye for an eye" on Chante Jawan Mallard. I hope they line her up in the middle of a road, ram her with a car at the proper angle so as to firmly lodge her in the windshield, and then drive her around like that for awhile. Eventually, park her in a garage, leave her there while she gets to listen to someone have sex inside the house, check on her periodically to make sure she's dying, and then toss her in a park once she's given up the ghost. Only then do I think justice would be nearly served.
Oh, and my condolences to the Briggs family.
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