Infested

The time has come for fair reckoning of the frenzied crisis pounding against our southern boundary. Behold our hallowed gates, ostensibly shielding us from Mexico's embrace, have been overrun not by invaders but by a motley crew of miscreants – criminals, killers, and the damned.

In the fractured realm where Bisbee's fate intersects with Naco's, a regional cartel holds sway over the Bisbee-Naco border stretch, dispensing both cruelty and justice capriciously. In those passages carved by hapless migrants, seekers of that innate human privilege to tread the planet's expanse, a grotesque symphony unravels – one of theft, slaughter, and ravage, authored by the very architects of villainy.

The guardians of our border at CBP, bound to their darkest urges, operate in an echoing abyss of unchecked depravity. An unrestrained torrent of first-hand accounts deluges the senses, sketching a grim tableau. A rogue agency whose actions leave children molested, womanhood desecrated, and multitudes lost entirely, presumably to their graves in the theatre of spontaneous execution. Convictions are rare as these monsters must be apprehended while still stained by blood – or something more sinister – an indelible testament to their transgressions.

Yet, these brutes feign obliviousness to the scores of vanished souls – women and children, swallowed by the void after a serendipitous encounter with their enforcers.

The delusion unfurls, as our fellow townsfolk wax poetic about feeling secure in the presence of rumbling trucks and helicopters, their piercing beams gouging the gentle obscurity, ferreting out weary souls - men, women, and children – ripe for violation, death, or perhaps a black-market auction.

This militarized conglomerate of psychopathic malefactors must be tamed, brought to heel, and held culpable for their very existence. They are not custodians shielding our kin from desperate hands, nor sentinels warding off crime from our idyllic town. They certainly aren't the bulwark against your employment slipping through your fingers. If your craft can be snatched away by an English-deprived, skill-barren stranger, then it's conceivable that your craft was as illusory as a desert oasis.

The asylum-seekers, escaping the CBP's relentless ire to find solace in our embrace, aren't emissaries of mayhem, rape, and plunder. For those cravings find ample sanctuary in Naco's recesses. No, these are merely dispossessed wanderers traversing existence's convoluted byways, yearning for any haven beyond their wake.

So, as you drift into sleep's ephemeral arms tonight, cradled within the cocoon of your homestead in South Bisbee, recognize this: the shadows that creep across your land and hills aren't incarnations of malevolence seeking to snare you. No, they're the handpicked minions of the state, fixated on ensnaring vulnerable laborers and kin, huddled clandestinely, anxiously awaiting their shot at freedom.

Should the border haunt your dreams, my friend, blame not the phantoms but the incessant wail of helicopters overhead.