James and his cameraman silently sat still as their captors slowly rolled through one of the worst neighborhoods in the country, Sandtown-Winchester, Baltimore City, also known as Harlem Park. The streets, bumpy and uneven, guided travelers and visitors through an ominous labyrinth of abandoned and burned houses, boarded up rowhomes, trash hills, rat gatherings, and nearly wasted apartment complexes. Although the streets appeared to be quiet, shady characters, lurking in the alley shadows and by the less traveled corners could be seen.

James, never exposed to this side of the city, could see its hellaciousness. He would never see Baltimore the same way again. Camden Yards, Fells Point, and the Inner Harbor were just mere tourist attractions, covering up the mean streets of Sandtown and Barea.

His cohort, Vaughn Lancaster, a much older, more quiet gentleman, did not seem fazed. In his entire career span in the news industry, he had seen the worst of the worst. In the past thirty some years he had: filmed alongside the guerillas of the Columbian Cartels, followed reporters through Cuidad Juarez, spent two years rotting in Antiplano—one of Mexico’s most notorious prisons—filmed in Iraq during the Persian War and Operation Iraqi Freedom, captured footage from the Egyptian protests, photographed piles of bodies that amassed in Darfur during the genocide, was one of the forefront cameramen when the crisis in Syria broke out giving him a ticket to the inside of Tadmor for six months after being released. He also aided documentaries that were filmed in Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, and Indonesia. He was filming in New York when the towers fell so implosively. He had also filmed in the frigid Northern Woods of Alaska, throughout the deserts of the Sahara, and worked in McMurdo, Antarctica—the world’s coldest human settlement. Needless to say, this was nothing to him.

James though, remained scared shitless.

The driver was a young Black man, who had on a checkered blue flannel shirt, with a blue bandana around his head. He had tattoos of skulls, cards, crosses, and bullets on his forearms.

“Shit be quiet tonight. Ya think motherfuckers be going ham with no poleese,” he said to his cohort in the passenger seat, who still had his firearm cradled against him.

“Cuz shit ain’t started yet. Bitches know who not to fuck with, cause they know they gonna get fucked wit back. Ya feel me?”

“I think a stupid motherfucker gonna wind up burnin all this down. No water, all heat. Real talk.”

James folded his hands on the lap, avoiding eye contact, aimlessly staring out the window.

The driver looked in the rear view mirror, noticing James’ uneasiness as the cameraman sat calm and casual.

“Might wanna let ya friend know that this ain’t the place to be a bitch,” he said to the cameraman.

The cameraman nodded his head in acknowledgement.

“Uh man, where are we going?” James asked.

The driver and his cohort sneered.

Sanjay Vishnu, a slanky, tall Indian man dressed in a black suit was on the scene with several cameramen as a situation was arising. The liquor store on Braddish Avenue was being looted as young men began to hurl bricks at the windows, clammouring for Keystone, Colt 45s, E&J Brandy, Paul Masson, and cases en masse cases of Nattie Boh. Seemingly, the wine and full-flavored Budweiser seemed untouched. Cartons of Newport Cigarettes, Cigarellos, and Fruit Punch were being hauled out along with potato chips, funyons, and pork rinds.

As the looters continued inside the liquor store, Sanjay stood smoothly from a safe distance.

“Good Evening, as we see the Great Baltimore Purge beginning to unveil itself, looters have already begun breaking into this liquor store behind me.”

The camera zoomed in, showing a group of thirty plus males, and some females hauling out some of the finest free products in town as the rest of the streets appeared to lay barren and bare.

Sanjay looked upon the looters, as they began to haul out an ATM machine, and a safe.

In the distance, a short, heavyset Indian man in a t-shirt and sweats began to yell and curse.

“That’s my store you thugs!” he yelled as he unearthed a pistol from his pants.

Sanjay twitched as pops of gunshots echoed in the background, followed by screams, as the crowd began to disperse.

More pops sounded off as thuds of bodies and bloodcurdling screams could be heard.

Blood began to spatter on the camera lens as a young man fell near Sanjay, being mortally wounded by a bullet.

Sanjay looked at the camera, bewildered, cracking a half-hearted smile.

“Well its just in folks, here on Braddish Avenue, I see…one…two…” he turns…”three…four…five…hold on folks.”

With haste, he ran down to the inside of the liquor store, disappeared for about fifteen seconds, was seen running back out….”nine bodies!”

“You forgot the punk I got around the side!” the Indian man yelled.

“Ten,” Sanjay said, as he rolled his eyes to the man that had dared to correct him.