In Sparks, a city not known for quiet domestic philosophy, police were summoned to E Street just before two o’clock in the afternoon on the report of a woman being held against her will by her boyfriend. It is the sort of sentence that always sounds like it ought to end with someone reconsidering their life choices, though it rarely does.
When officers arrived, they separated the parties with the calm efficiency of men who have learned that emotions and close quarters make poor companions. The woman went for medical care, her injuries suggesting that the argument had already progressed beyond the conversational stage.
A gentleman named Orville Curtis became handcuffed following the inquiry, and officers, naturally suspicious of unfinished business, obtained a search warrant. What they found inside the residence suggests that Mr. Curtis had been running a small but enthusiastic museum of modern contraband.
There were three firearms present, one of them reported stolen, which is the sort of detail that never improves a man’s explanation. Alongside these were suspected narcotics, paraphernalia, and sundry items that indicated not merely possession, but a certain commitment to variety. It was, in its own way, a collection, though not one likely to be exhibited in polite society.
Mr. Curtis now faces a list of charges long enough to resemble a legal inventory rather than an accusation: assault with a deadly weapon, domestic battery causing substantial bodily harm, possession of stolen firearms, possession of firearms by a convicted felon, and the discouragement of a victim from reporting a crime, which suggests a preference for secrecy over consequence. There are also charges relating to drugs, intent to sell near a school, failure to update an address, and the general maintenance of controlled substances in inconvenient quantities.
Taken together, the affair reads less like a single incident and more like a man attempting to violate every warning label he could find.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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