Wednesday, March 4, 2015

A Weekend Trip through Ferguson MO

As a foreign, who is unfamiliar with the land of America, I decided to take a trip through the small town of Ferguson, Missouri. After crossing the border to enter the country, the old wolf gentleman on the television in my motel room spoke about the troubles of city. This information caught my attention and urged me to tour the city. I instantly got into my PT Cruiser and headed south to the land of cornbread, corncobs and corn holes, or so I was told, by my tour guide, Bubba.

Soon, we found ourselves flying down Interstate 70. As we drew closer to the historical town, an ominous feeling washed over the both of us. It felt, as though we were entering into a cage, with a wild gorilla. The streets took on a familiar look and feel, as our car bounced and squealed, as it scrubbed the ground, due to pot holes. As the roads deteriorated, the houses followed suite. Suddenly, my heart sank, as we passed several indentured servants begging on the street corner. Was this America? Where was the American dream that Uncle Sunil always spoke of?



As our PT Cruiser rounded the corner and landed on Florissant Road, black clouds filled the sky and covered up the sun. As we travelled further south, large balls of hail began to pour down, thunder roared through the sky and lighting nearly touched the ground. Shivers ran up my spine and I could feel, and sell, Bubba's fear. For a 6 foot black man, who had seen a little of everything, at least according to his biography on the tour guide website, Bubba was scared, very scared.

As our car came to a halt at the intersection of Tiffin Avenue and South Florissant Road, a blood curling screech rang out and everything else went silent. Something was terribly wrong and the air smelled of blood. At this point, we knew we were in over our heads. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man charged out and darted in front of our car. Bubba and me stared in horror, as a chubby gentlemen in black pants and a blue shirt gave chase. A few seconds later, gunshots rang out.

We knew something was terribly wrong. Minutes later, several men, who were dressed as hooded ghost approached, kicked and punched our vehicle, before heading towards the gunshots. Bubba questioned our next move, but I refused to leave, until we discovered the truth. We waited, as joyous screams and yells grew closer. Suddenly, one of the white hooded gentlemen appeared. He was carrying something that appeared to resemble a futbol.

As the man and his friends grew close, sweat dripped from my brow. It became clear that the man was toting a severed head. They looked and pointed at our vehicle, as Bubba panicked and hit the gas. The tires squealed, as we lunged forward quickly. Bubba lost control and we slammed into a lamp post. Within minutes, our car was surrounded, by white clothes men, who concealed their faces under white hoods. I felt faint, as they opened Bubba's door and pulled him out.

The men dragged Bubba to the curb and unleashed a barrage of attacks. During this assault, I made my escape, by jumping in the driver's seat and attempting to flee. At one point, the car left the ground, as it bounced over a cloaked figure. Gunshots flew from everywhere, as I attempted to flee the city. In the rearview mirror, I could see several large, rusty trucks approaching. In front of me, I could make out several low riding Cadillacs. I was trapped.

I sped along not knowing what to do, but I knew the men behind me were bad, so I plodded forward. When I approached, I witnessed several armed, dark skinned men pointing their guns in my direction. Much to my surprise they did not fire their weapons. Instead, they waited until I passed and unloaded on the pursuing vehicles. Thankfully, these men did not recognize my Mexican descent, as I know now that my kind is not accepted.

When I finally made it home, I vowed to never cross the border ever again. I knew from then on that America was not a safe country and it didn't appreciate intruders or outsiders, especially the little city of Ferguson Missouri.

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