BUT DOES THIS MEAN GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE EITHER OMG

The fact that he's doing 100 years for a nonfatal assault suggests that his trial was replete with similar tomfoolery, and the judge was pissed off.

This reminds me of a traumatizing shoe related incident from high school.

I lived in the suburbs of Portsmouth Virginia which, while relatively safe and middle class, was only a few blocks away from a genuinely dangerous area. I was friends with these blonde-headed trust fund twins who happened to sell weed. We were all piled into my other friend's pick-up truck when one of the twins said he needed to make a "drop off". We went to the permeable edge of the "safe zone", and the kid went into a house that had a toothless man in a wheelchair parked in the yard, staring into space. A few minutes went by, and I noticed a little crackhead dude across the street on his phone pointing vehemently at the house. A few more minutes passed and the biggest guy I have ever seen in real life loped up to the crackhead (think Debo from Friday, but fatter). The twin came out of the house and froze about four steps from the sidewalk. We heard them having a short and quiet discussion, followed by a Mike Tyson punch that laid this kid flat on his back in the walkway. We were too afraid to interfere when the kicks to the face started. After three or four kicks to the head, Fat Debo stopped and carefully looked at his pristine white high top sneakers. A storm cloud of anger came over his previously neutral face, and he then said the coldest shit I have ever heard anyone say to another human being: "NIGGA, YOU BLED ON ME!". What followed looked like one of those Tom and Jerry fights where it's just a dust cloud with the occasional foot, fist, and tooth flying out. When he finished, Fat Debo turned and calmly walked back down the sidewalk. The crackhead grabbed the kid's wallet and watch, along with the money he had just picked up, and ran in the opposite direction of Debo. When they were out of sight, we went and picked up the pile of our friend and threw him in the truck bed. We peeled out, leaving the man in the wheelchair still staring into space. We drove to the emergency room roundabout, and dropped off the injured kid and his brother. We then went to my house so my friend could hose the blood out of his truck bed. I remember that the bloody water splashing out of the truck left pink, eventually brown stains on my favorite Primus shirt. For a fleeting moment, I knew how Debo felt.