Author: Tom Darby

The sun blazed like a relentless adversary in the sky, casting harsh shadows across the high desert. I hitched up my pack, feeling the grit beneath my worn boots. Out here, it was just me and the elements–a test of endurance and will.

The landscape stretched endlessly, punctuated by tough sagebrush and the occasional defiant Joshua Tree. My target was the ridge, rumored to guard ancient petroglyphs carved by hands long turned to dust. It wasn’t a casual stroll; it became a quest to prove something to myself, though I wouldn’t admit it out loud.

Steadily, I climbed, each step a battle against the thinning air and dropping temperature. A sense of being watched gnawed at me, but I pushed on, my resolve as solid as the rocks around me.

Approaching the ridge, a fierce gust of wind whipped around, stinging my face with desert grit. Pausing, senses heightened, catching a fleeting glimpse of a wild Mustang–a dark shape against the horizon, mane streaming like a banner. It disappeared as swiftly as it appeared, a spectral presence, a ghost of the desert.

Reaching the petroglyphs just as the sun began to lower, I traced the ancient symbols with calloused fingers, feeling a primal connection to the past. A sudden, sharp sound pierced the silence–a rattlesnake, coiled and ready. Instinctively, I placed my sturdy walking stick between us. The snake recoiled, vanishing into the shadows.

Breathless, I sat down on a flat rock, my heart pounding. I looked out over the vast expanse of the desert, the sky painted orange and purple. The wind had died down, leaving an eerie, expectant silence. In the quiet,  I understood the essence of the place–the harsh beauty, the danger, and the profound solitude.

With the sun dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows across the high desert, I knew it was time to return to my truck. The petroglyphs had whispered their ancient secret, and an encounter with a rattlesnake had left me both awed and on edge.

A vastness stretched out before me, a silent witness to my trek. As the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the ridge, I quickened my pace, eager to reach safety in the familiarity of my truck.

The wind picked up, whispering through the canyons–soft, haunting melody. I felt a sense of urgency, the desert’s vastness pressing in around me. The landscape, once awe-inspiring, now felt remote and isolated as darkness fell.

Finally, I spotted the familiar outline of my truck. Relief washed over me, mingled with a sense of accomplishment. I had faced the challenges of the desert and navigated its treacherous beauty, and now I was returning–tired but undeniably alive.

As I reached the truck, I paused, looking back at the ridge and the petroglyphs hidden beyond. The desert had tested me, but it had revealed its mystery and beauty. I climbed into the truck, the engine’s roar–a comforting sound in the silence of the night. Driving away, I knew I would carry the desert’s whispers etched into my memory like the ancient symbols on the rocks.

Recently released email communications between Nevada GOP lawyer Brian Hardy and officials at the Nevada Secretary of State’s office have shed light on an alleged clerical data error that created confusion during the final days of mail-in ballot counting for the 2023 Nevada general election.

Discovered late on Sunday, November 10, the error initially made it appear that 28,269 ballots were unaccounted for between turnout reports published on Thursday, November 7, and Friday, November 8. Following extensive weekend reviews, officials from the Secretary of State’s office and the Nevada GOP confirmed that the discrepancy was not due to any ballots going “missing,” as some social media reports suggested, but to a “cut and paste” mistake.

According to Chief Deputy Secretary of State Gabriel Di Chiara, the issue arose when Clark County provided inaccurate data to the Secretary of State’s reports on voter turnout but did not affect the official election results.

“This was a clerical error, and at no point did any election results change based on this error,” Di Chiara clarified. “We were sent a dataset from Clark County that was inaccurate, and that data went into one of our regular reports.”

Di Chiara further explained that while state turnout reports are to provide the public with frequent updates on ballot counts, they are separate from the official results displayed on the secure Election Night Reporting platform at results.nv.gov. The reporting error originated in data sent by Clark County, with a mistake in the “Total Mail Ballots Returned” figure, leading to an erroneous entry for Democratic mail-in ballots.

After reviewing the information, officials corrected the numbers and updated the reports on the evening of Friday, November 8. The accurate total of mail-in ballots returned and accepted for Democrats was 186,522, 1,762 more than initially recorded.

Chairman of the Nevada GOP, Michael McDonald, commented on the incident.

“The NV GOP can appreciate that mistakes are made, but this did not have to happen.”

McDonald suggested that eliminating universal mail-in ballots and ending vote counting by the end of election day could help streamline the process and avoid similar errors.

In addition to this incident, data from Friday, November 8, through Monday, November 11, shows 41,489 ballots added in Nevada, with former President Donald Trump and Vice President Kamala Harris reportedly receiving fewer than 1,000 votes combined. The lack of public commentary from officials, including NV GOP Chairman Michael McDonald, has sparked questions online.

With the one issue resolved, Nevada election officials continue to emphasize their commitment to transparency, adding that the regularly updated turnout reports are part of a system designed to keep the public informed on ballot processing progress. Critics say a full investigation is needed to preclude the chance that the county was attempting to dump illegal ballots into the system.

When I lodge at Tahoe House in Virginia City, it is invariably in Room 14. Familiar and serene, it always retained a peculiar chill, even with the heater steadily running.

One winter’s eve, just before the break of dawn, a particularly icy draft stole through the room, sending shivers racing along my arms. Shivering, I reached down to tug my blankets higher, but my fingers brushed against something cool and solid. It was unmistakably a bracelet, with its metal links cold, solid, and foreign to my touch.

Blinking in disbelief, I dismissed it as a trick of the light, believing it to be a fold of the curtain. Yet, as my gaze rose in the dim light filtering through the window, I saw a lady swathed in layers of pale, whispering veils, standing quiet, unwavering stare. She hovered near the bed, her eyes holding an ageless sorrow. Glimmering faintly on her wrist was a bracelet–identical to the one I just touched.

Despite the startling apparition, I became enveloped by a curious calm. Startled, yes, but not frightened. I released my grip, withdrawing my hand under the blanket. Slowly, I pulled the covers over my head. My heart thudded in the ensuing silence, but so in the chill dissolved into a lingering silence.

Morning arrived, and I almost dismissed the encounter as a figment of my dreams. Yet, as I folded back my blanket, there on the bedside lay a single silver link from what could have been a bracelet–polished, cold, and undeniably real.

A power outage at the Washoe County Registrar of Voters office on Monday afternoon, November 11, allegedly brought vote tabulation to a temporary halt, leaving staff working in the dark for over an hour.

Power reportedly went down around 3:45 p.m., affecting the Washoe County Administration Complex where the Registrar’s office is. Video footage showed workers continuing their tasks in darkness while the tabulation room remained entirely dark.

Registrar of Voters office staff confirmed that ballot processing paused during the outage, though they stayed onsite along with official observers, waiting for power to resume so operations could continue. Ballots secured in a cage were also visibly monitored.

Bethany Drysdale, Washoe County’s Communications Manager, was contacted at 4:58 p.m. to clarify why the facility’s generator was not fully powering essential systems. Drysdale confirmed that the outage affected multiple buildings in the area, including the University/I-80 Corridor, as NV Energy worked to repair equipment issues while also contending with the Callahan Ranch Fire south of Reno.

The Registrar’s office resumed operations shortly after power was restored around 5 p.m., brought on by the facility’s main generator. Washoe County issued a public alert regarding the outage, confirming that ballot processing would continue.

As Nevada’s election counting stretches beyond Election Day, concerns continue about the transparency, security, and speed of mail-in ballot processing. With power outages, data discrepancies, and counting delays in Washoe and Clark counties, voters and officials are pressing the Nevada Secretary of State (SoS), the USPS, and the USPS Office of the Inspector General (OIG) for answers about protocols for handling mail ballots, especially those received after Election Day.

The core question remains: What safeguards ensure that ballots received after midnight on Election Day remain unmixed with legally cast ballots? Nevada law allows for counting ballots postmarked by Election Day if they arrive within four days, while ballots without a postmark get accepted up to three days after Election Day. However, some voters question whether these late-arriving ballots are adequately separated and verified to prevent any accidental or intentional inclusion of illegitimate ones.

Critics are also questioning Clark County ballot processing capabilities. Compared to similar-sized urban areas, the Clark County processing center appears small, equipped with fewer DPS machines, which sort mail by delivery routes, while more general AFCS machines sort by zip code. Observers are concerned that these resources may not efficiently handle the mail-in ballot volume, especially under tight deadlines.

Calculations based on mail volume raise further questions.

If Clark County processed all ballots within four days after Election Day, the AFCS machines, which can handle 32,000 pieces per hour, could process the 1.5 million statewide within that timeframe— faster than observed. Voters argue that even factoring in early voting ballots, it should not take four days to finalize mail-in ballot counts, leading to suspicions of delays beyond simple processing capacity.

The delays have focused on Nevada Senators Jacky Rosen and Catherine Cortez Masto, along with Congressman Steven Horsford, who have explored possible federal funding to expand the Clark County mail processing infrastructure. Many believe a larger facility with additional machines would enable faster and more transparent processing in future elections.

Additionally, some voters allege that ballots from various zip codes are being delayed or discarded, though USPS protocols require mail to be immediately canceled, sorted, and routed. Nevada law does not currently mandate that ballots arrive by Election Day, a rule some argue complicates security. Opponents of extended counting argue that ballots should arrive by 7 p.m. on Election Day to avoid postmark-related concerns.

Advocates insist on clear guidance from the Nevada SoS on ballot verification procedures with requests for an investigation into late-arriving ballots to ensure they were not improperly harvested or processed. They also want real-time camera footage at processing stations to ensure ballots were handled properly after arriving past Election Day.

Despite suspicions, Nevada law permits post-election ballot receipt for verified ballots. As counting continues, voters urge the Nevada SOS to increase transparency, expedite processing times, and address public concerns to bolster confidence in the state election results.

Growing up under Mom and Dad was marked by strictness and scarcity. We lived in a creaky old house, its walls thin, barely keeping out the chill in the long winters. I was the eldest, with my younger brother and two little sisters, and we four grew up in the shadow of our parents’ heavy expectations.

Mom spent long evenings in her chair, her eyes distant as she spoke of a world she once believed in where justice and equality weren’t just words but ways of living. Her voice would soften as she told us, “One day, you’ll carry the torch for all those who dreamed of a better life.” But it was hard to feel her warmth. Though her words hinted at care, they always felt directed at a vision, not us.

Dad was different. He was a looming presence, his gaze sharp, reminding us constantly that our family’s survival was all that mattered.

“Discipline is the only thing that will keep us together,” he would say as we ate sparse dinners in silence.

He expected absolute obedience, his tone leaving no room for questions. And during the harsh winters when we shivered around our small heater, his mantra was all the more grim: “Dreams don’t put food on the table. Hard work and obedience do.”

As we grew older, the house seemed to grow smaller and colder. I took on more responsibilities, caring for my siblings and trying to fill the gaps where warmth should have been.

Mom grew quieter as the years passed. She would sit by the window, watching the world outside with that same distant look, her thoughts somewhere far beyond our little house. I sometimes wondered if she was disappointed in us or missed a world that had never come to be.

Occasionally, she would pull me aside, her voice softer than usual, and say, “Remember, you’re part of something bigger, something worth fighting for.”

But those words were hard to understand when all we fought for was to keep the heat on or to make a meal stretch a little further.

Dad, meanwhile, was a fixed point in our lives, strict as ever. If Mom seemed to be fading, Dad grew only firmer, his expectations as unyielding as steel.

He insisted on chores, discipline, and obedience, reminding us that he knew what was best.

“There’s no room for weakness,” he’d say. “We have to stay strong. Sacrifice is what keeps us alive.”

My siblings grew weary under Dad’s rules, but we all fell in line, knowing we had little choice. Yet, in quiet moments, I could see the longing in their eyes, a spark that even Dad’s rules couldn’t fully extinguish.

My youngest sister whispered once, “Do you think it’ll always be like this? With nothing but rules and work?”

I wished I had an answer, but all I could offer was a squeeze of her hand and a whispered promise: “One day, maybe things will change.”

Years passed this way, with our family bound more by duty than affection. We each began to dream of a way out—of a life where we didn’t have to cling to scraps of love or spend each day under Dad’s watchful eye.

But while my siblings imagined their lives, I felt the weight of staying behind, the responsibility of keeping them safe and holding the family together, even if it meant I’d always live in that cold, worn house.

One winter evening, after a particularly grueling day, I overheard my siblings whispering in the next room, secretly discussing their dreams of leaving one day to find lives free from rules and expectations. I felt a pang in my chest—equal parts pride and sorrow. They were growing, yearning for a life beyond these walls, just as I had hoped. But it also meant that, in the end, they might leave me behind.

Mom passed not long after that. Her absence left a hollow in the house, and even Dad seemed to withdraw, becoming colder. My siblings clung to me even more tightly, and I to them, knowing that we were all we had. And while Dad grew harder to please, I knew that one day, we would each find our way, carrying fragments of Mom’s distant dreams and Dad’s strict resolve but tempered by the bonds we’d forged.

And in my heart, I held onto the faintest hope that one day, we would find a life that held love and freedom, the two things we had dreamed of most in that house long before we’d had the words to name them.

Mom’s passing left more than a hollow in the house—it changed something in each of us. My siblings grew restless, their dreams stronger than their fear of Dad. My brother started staying out later, taking odd jobs in town that Dad didn’t know about, slipping coins into my hand to help keep food on the table.

My sisters, too, began to find small escapes: one took up reading in secret, borrowing tattered books from the neighbors, while the other spent her evenings wandering through the fields, quietly planning a life of her own.

Dad, meanwhile, seemed as immovable as ever. His routines remained rigid, and his voice still cut through the silence, laying down his unbending rules.

But even he couldn’t ignore the subtle shifts. He began to catch on to my brother’s late nights, to my sisters’ whispered plans, and his commands grew sharper, more possessive, as if holding us to keep us from slipping away.

Then, one night, everything changed. My brother came home with a small cut above his eye, his coat torn from a scuffle.

Dad was waiting, his face dark with suspicion, and as soon as my brother crossed the threshold, Dad’s voice cut through the air. “Where have you been?” he demanded, his eyes hard, accusing.

My brother looked back, a flicker of defiance in his eyes, something Dad hadn’t seen before.

“Out,” my brother said, his voice steady. “Earning my own money, for all of us.”

The silence that followed was like the stillness before a storm. My sisters huddled close, watching Dad’s face shift, his usual sternness becoming something fiercer. He stepped toward my brother, and I tensed, instinctively placing myself between them. I’d spent years protecting my siblings in small ways, but this was different.

It was a line we hadn’t crossed before.

“You’ll stay here and follow my rules,” Dad growled, his voice low, dangerous. “I built this house, and I’ll decide what happens under this roof.”

But my brother didn’t back down. “Maybe we don’t need this house,” he said quietly, glancing toward the rest of us. “Maybe we can make a life of our own, somewhere else.”

I felt the weight of his words settling over us, a strange blend of fear and exhilaration. I looked at my sisters, their faces pale but alight with the same feeling. Leaving had always been a fantasy, something we whispered about but never dared act on. But at that moment, it felt possible.

Dad’s face twisted as if he couldn’t quite understand what was happening, as if the ground beneath him was shifting for the first time. I could see the shock in his eyes, a flicker of something I had never seen—a hint of fear. He opened his mouth to speak, but I stepped forward, my voice steadier than expected.

“We’ve lived by your rules,” I said softly but firmly, “and we’ve done what you asked. But we’re not children anymore. We want more than just survival. We want a life.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for the first time, Dad had no quick response, no command to hold us back.

He stood there, a figure once so imposing, now silent and uncertain. My siblings gathered close, their eyes fixed on me, their breaths shallow, as if waiting for the spell to break.

In the days that followed, a quiet but undeniable shift took hold in the house. Dad still went about his routines, his rules still in place, but the power over us was waning.

We spoke more openly, made plans, and saved. And one by one, my siblings took their steps out into the world, each finding their way toward the life we’d dreamed of together in whispered conversations.

When it was time to leave, I looked back at the house one last time. I thought of Mom’s distant dreams, Dad’s stern commands, and the love we’d forged between us siblings in those cold, quiet spaces. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of both my parents’ legacies—one a dream, the other a demand—and let them go.

For the first time, I felt a strange lightness, like I had stepped out of their shadows and into a life that was finally my own. And as I walked away, I carried with me the promise we had made all those years in that house that we would find a way, even when there was none.

I left the house with nothing but a small bag and the quiet determination I’d kept alive through all those years. My siblings had already gone—each to a different part of the world, each carving out their own lives, free from Dad’s rules and Mom’s distant gaze.

Letters arrived from them now and then, signs that they were safe, making their way. My brother had found work in a bustling town far from our small village; one sister was studying in a distant city, devouring knowledge as quickly as she had once devoured the borrowed books, and the other was living on a quiet farm, finding peace in fields without walls.

It took time for me to settle into life outside the house. The world felt vast, and the independence I longed for was thrilling and daunting. For so long, I had defined myself by duty, and without it, I wondered who I was or could be.

I would reflect on the house in my quietest moments, feeling a strange mixture of longing and relief. There was love between us siblings, that much I knew, but I had to acknowledge that my parents had given us something, even if it was by accident.

Mom and her tales of a better world showed us that it was okay to hope for more, to dream of a life beyond here and now. And Dad, for all his rules and rigidity, had left us with the strength to make that dream real, to carve a life out of whatever we found.

Over time, I began to let go of the past bit by bit. I found work, a small home I could call my own. I made friends, learned new skills, and grew in ways I hadn’t expected. Life felt lighter, and I began to see the future as something open and expansive, full of possibility.

Then, one winter day, an envelope arrived in my mailbox. It was from my brother, the handwriting as familiar as my own, but the tone urgent.

“Dad’s fallen ill,” the letter began. “He’s asking for us. I think we should go.”

My heart sank as I read his words. Dad—strong, immovable, a fixture in our lives—was now frail. Part of me hesitated; I had finally built a life on my terms, fearing returning to the shadows of the past.

But another part of me—the part that remembered late nights huddled with my siblings, the promises we’d made to one another—knew I couldn’t turn away. I owed them, and maybe even myself, to go back and face what we had left behind.

When I arrived at the house, it was as if time had barely touched it. The walls were still creaky, the rooms as cold and dim as ever. My brother was already there, as were my sisters, each of us older in our ways but with that same unspoken bond that had kept us together all those years.

Dad lay in his bed, smaller than I remembered, his stern expression softened by age and illness. His eyes flickered as he saw us, a faint glimmer of recognition and something else— I hadn’t seen in him before. Vulnerability, maybe, or even regret.

We stood around his bed in silence, each of us lost in our memories of him, of the life we’d shared. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice weak but clear.

“I did what I thought was best,” he murmured, looking at each of us. “I wanted you to be strong… to survive.”

My brother nodded, his expression unreadable, but one of my sisters reached out, her hand resting gently on his. For a long time, none of us spoke, letting the weight of his words settle. In his way, he had tried to prepare us for the world, though he’d given us so little softness in the process.

One by one, we shared our stories—of the lives we’d built, the places we’d gone, the people we’d become. I told him about the home I’d made and the independence I’d found.

My sisters spoke of the dreams they’d finally been free to pursue. Brother told Dad of the family he had started, of the love he gave freely to his children.

For the first time, I saw something close to peace in Dad’s eyes, as if he could finally understand the legacy he had left. He might not have given us love, but he had made us strong.

And as we shared these parts of our lives, I could see a softness in him that I had never imagined. Perhaps he knew no other way to raise us, doing what he could.

As dawn broke, Dad passed quietly, surrounded by all four of us. We laid him to rest on the land he had worked so tirelessly and in the quiet shadow of the house that had raised us. As we stood together, watching the first light spill across the fields, I felt something break free within me—a release from the past, a letting go of the weight we had all carried.

We returned to our lives after that, each changed, but more certain of ourselves than ever. And though we each walked separate paths, we carried with us the strange, bittersweet lessons from that old house—a witness to the strength we had found not just through love but through hardship and the quiet hope that no matter where life took us, we would always, somehow, find our way back to each other.

Each of us walked away that day without looking back. The house, the life we’d left behind, the man who had tried to shape us—they were gone.

And as I felt the wind against my face, I knew that whatever happened next, it would be a life I would build with my hands. No dreams of justice. No laws of iron. Just the freedom we had clawed out of that dark, empty house.

In a video taken on Monday, November 4, by an 11-year-old student at Lied STEM Academy, an English Language Arts teacher was filmed delivering an anti-Trump monologue to her sixth-grade class. The video, recorded on a district-issued laptop, shows teacher Courtney Lichtenwalner discussing her political opinions in a class meant for language arts, engaging students in a debate on policies and news sources.

Lichtenwalner used the class period to encourage her students to fact-check former President Donald Trump’s economic policies, particularly “trickle-down” tax policies, using Google and the White House website. She reportedly warned students about Fox News, calling it a biased source.

When a student mentioned her mother as a source, Lichtenwalner responded, “I would never lie to you. I would never not give you facts,” which the student’s parents felt implicitly questioned the mother’s credibility.

The video shows Lichtenwalner making several inflammatory claims, including an assertion that Trump suggested violence toward former Rep. Liz Cheney and accusations that he holds extreme views on abortion. She also criticized Trump’s economic policies, favorably comparing them to those of former President Barack Obama and President Joe Biden and omitting references to Biden administration policies impacting inflation and the national debt.

Parent Marty Enz, whose daughter filmed the video, was disturbed by Lichtenwalner’s behavior. Enz said he called the school on Tuesday, November 5. to report the incident and left a message with a counselor but did not receive a return call.

In a statement to The Nevada Globe, Enz expressed concern over the teacher’s focus on politics, saying, “Why is a teacher so concerned with an 11-year-old’s politics and beliefs? They’re 6th graders. They should be learning how to read and write properly, not be berated and taunted by adults.”

Enz praised his daughter for recognizing the inappropriateness of the conversation, adding, “We are fortunate that CCSD gave my daughter a laptop with a camera so we could all see teachers trying to program our children instead of teach them.”

The Clark County School District has not responded to the incident.

Keep bellied up to the bar, his hat tipped low, the dust of a long day trailing him like a shadow. He nodded to Billy, the barkeep, and asked for a hot cup of coffee.

Billy disappeared to the back and returned with a steaming mug, setting it down in front of Keep without a word. Keep gave a quiet thanks and wrapped his hands around the mug, savoring the warmth.

Down the bar, a youngster leaned back, grinning, and let out a chuckle that carried more edge than humor. Keep didn’t pay him any mind. He’d crossed enough trails to know that silence was a man’s best friend, especially when trouble was stirring.

A minute passed, and the kid loosed a remark about men who drank coffee instead of whiskey. Still, Keep said nothing, his focus on the black liquid in his mug.

But the kid wasn’t ready to quit. A few breaths later, he prodded again, something about “old men and liquor,” tossing his words like rocks in a pond to see what ripples he could raise. Keep finally looked his way, then to his coffee, his eyes calm as a prairie sky.

“Ain’t gonna say nothing, old man?” the kid jeered, leaning in.

“Nope,” Keep replied without looking up.

“Not got the guts, huh?” the young one taunted, his voice slipping into a sneer.

“Yup.”

“You gettin’ smart with me, old man?” the kid asked, his tone sharpening.

Keep let a small, knowing smile play across his face and took another sip, his grip easy on the mug.

And that is when the kid reached out to grab Keep by the shoulder, trying to spin him around. But as he did, his breath caught, feeling something solid and cold pressed right under his ribs.

Keep was looking him dead in the eye now, and his voice dropped low.

“See, son,” he started, his voice smooth as the roll of a tumbleweed, “I don’t drink no more ’cause it makes me mean. And these days, I’m too damn old and too damn tired to wrassle a young coyote like you. I’d just as soon be done with it.”

The kid gulped, his bravado slipping like sand through his fingers. Catching the look, Billy went ahead and poured a double shot of whiskey and set a bar towel next to it.

“Now,” Keep said, keeping his tone steady, “you’re gonna take this drink on my coin, and you’re gonna keep that yap of yours shut. You follow?”

The kid nodded, eyes wide as he slowly let go of Keep.

Keep eased his revolver back, slipping it into his belt, but the kid’s nerves got the better of him, and his hand flicked to a knife. Before he knew what hit him, Keep’s Texas .44 came down square on the top of his head, dropping him like a sack of flour.

Keep crouched down, pried the knife from the kid’s limp hand, and placed it on the bar. “Billy, stash this behind the counter, and you might want to keep that scattergun close. This pup here’s got a learning curve.”

He hauled the kid up by his collar, keeping his tone calm, almost fatherly. “You’re gonna drink that whiskey and keep this rag on your head so you don’t bleed all over Billy’s nice counter. That clear?”

Too dazed to argue, the kid nodded as best he could, clutching the bar towel to his scalp. Keep polished off the rest of his coffee, dropped a couple of twenties on the counter, and turned to Billy.

“That’s for the coffee, the kid’s whiskey, and the rag he’s leaking on,” he said, straightening his hat. He glanced once more at the young man, his voice as even as a gun’s barrel. “You’ll get your knife back in thirty minutes. And if you so much as think about coming after me, Billy here’s got my leave to put both barrels in your backside.”

Billy nodded, a glint in his eye. Keep clapped his hat back on and gave a nod to the barkeep. “Sorry, you had to be pulled into this mess, Billy. I’ll make it right.”

And with that, Keep strode out, calm as a Sunday morning. He climbed into his truck, gunned it, and left for his ranch, a dust cloud marking his passage.

Inside, the kid sat still as a stone, obeying every word Keep had laid out.

Discrepancies in Washoe County’s data are raising eyebrows and deserve immediate attention. According to the latest data, 1,441,490 people voted in the presidential race, with 1,442,838 votes counted in the Senate race.

It suggests either 18,652 ballots, with only presidential votes, or that 18,652 ballots disappeared entirely. Which is it? Only a thorough hand count can verify if these ballots are accurate or if something went amiss.

The difference between the “None of the Above Candidates” (NOTAC) votes for the Senate and presidential races also demands explanation. In the Senate race, 41,740 voters chose NOTAC, while in the presidential race, only 19,072 voters made the same choice—a staggering gap of 22,668 on the ballots.

Are these differences legitimate voter preferences, or is there manipulation at play? It, too, would be cleared up with a hand count.

The vote gap between Trump and Brown is another area of concern. While Harris and Rosen’s votes were separated by a mere 3,083—Rosen received 680,968 votes to Harris’s 684,051—there is a gap of 70,436-vote difference between Trump’s 729,822 and Brown’s 659,386 votes.

Why such a dramatic discrepancy? This variation is puzzling and raises questions about possible tabulation issues versus voter choice, which only a thorough investigation can resolve.

Visualizations of reported vote data deepen these suspicions. The patterns in the data seem improbably synchronized without some form of manipulation. Brown led until a significant bump appeared on November 7, which seems difficult to explain if not manipulated.

Could these patterns possibly be authentic? Again, a hand count is essential to determine the validity of these results.

The information, drawn from current county data, should be a clear signal for the GOP-RNC and relevant legal teams to take swift action. Emergency court injunctions and a federal inspection of all ballot types are essential to ensure accuracy.

If the election is fair, a review will confirm it; if compromised, it will expose it. A thorough investigation is needed before this election can be certified.

Now is the time to act—the voters demand it.

In the wake of an anonymous wave of racist texts targeting Nevada residents, Attorney General Aaron Ford has voiced outrage, swiftly calling for investigations and urging victims to report the messages.

While essential to condemn so-called hate speech and harassment, Nevada residents are questioning whether Ford’s priorities are unaligned with the state’s pressing concerns. The time, resources, and public attention poured into this investigation could go toward issues many Nevadans feel are more urgent.

Ford’s handling of the incident raises an uncomfortable question: is his office doing enough to address the broader, more immediate needs of Nevada citizens? Rising crime rates, economic uncertainties, and unresolved voter concerns weigh heavily on residents, and they are looking for proactive leadership on these fronts.

Instead, Ford’s actions appear to echo figures like Al Sharpton, focusing on attention-grabbing cases while neglecting the fundamentals of day-to-day governance. Consider Ford’s recent refusal to support Governor Joe Lombardo’s election reform initiatives—measures designed to increase transparency and efficiency in Nevada’s voting process.

Despite calls for tighter voter rolls and procedures, Ford declined to back the reforms, further fueling public frustration. Rather than expending significant resources on text incidents, Ford’s office could prioritize initiatives with immediate impact, from tackling Nevada’s climbing crime rates to addressing economic security concerns.

Addressing hate speech matters, but keeping Nevadans safe and creating a climate of integrity should be at the heart of the attorney general’s mission. It is time for Ford to refocus on the core responsibilities that most affect Nevadans rather than expending precious resources on the moral outrage of the moment.