What’s Mine is Yours

Gaze upon the twisted tale of Bisbee – once a copper-fueled carnival birthed from the minds of DeWitt Bisbee and Dodge-Phelps. This former prospector's Eden transformed into a spectral copper town with a chronicle as wild as any deranged fever dream.

Bisbee's fate was sealed when Freeport McMoRan, the behemoth that swallowed Dodge-Phelps, clutched nearly 70% of its sprawling land like a dragon hoarding its gems. Avarice ran deep as the veins that coursed beneath, stashing over 8 billion pounds of copper, ounces of silver, and glimmers of gold in a sly dance with Mother Earth.

Yet, this treasure-laden ground was no idle accomplice. It rained poison upon its very custodians, gifting the inhabitants with a potent brew of copper oxides, lead, and arsenic. A toxic cocktail served straight from the taps, courtesy of the hills that hid their riches beneath layers of deceit.

Smelters became the town's twisted artistry, crafting sepia-hued clouds of chaos that kissed the skies. Standing in their shade, souls pondered the intersection of industrial waste and nature's bounty, a macabre ballet that fertilized crops with arsenic, dioxin, and Vitamin B12.

Let us not forget the canvas of residential zones adorned with toxic mine tailings, a fitting offering to the denizens of Bisbee by Freeport McMoRan, the landlord of the damned.

But do not think this dystopian carnival escaped poetic justice – 5,000 souls behind bars and fences, gazing with innocent awe at the mines that feast on their lives. A multi-billion-dollar colossus reigning over a town with poverty levels soaring above the stars, a juxtaposition that redefines absurdity.

Look up, dear reader, and witness the geometry of confinement unfurl before your eyes. The people are ensnared, caged within their fences and bars, as Freeport McMoRan frolics in prosperity.

As Freeport McMoRan rakes in billions, Bisbee's meager city budget pales in comparison. A David-and-Goliath story painted in revenue and city funds, with the gallant underdog choking in the clutches of greed.

Ah, but do spare a thought for West Papua, a land ravaged by the same titan. There, private mercenaries enforced the will of Freeport McMoRan, paving rivers with corpses and ore waste, a symphony of disregard that turned paradise into wasteland.

But fear not, Bisbee, for Freeport McMoRan dances to a different tune on American soil. The law shackles their darker impulses, though they frolic on the edge of legality, sprinkling topsoil to appease EPA standardizations like a magician concealing their tricks.

While the waters might carry whispers of cancer, at least they prepare the way, letting your hair cascade in protest before the fateful plunge.

Behold these malevolent overlords, architects of Bisbee's doom, creators of a town left with naught but fading mining shacks and a promise of poisoned water.

Demand rings clear – clean sustenance, uncontaminated water, and a splash in a public pool untainted by greed.