Author: Tom Darby

The Crowd and the Ruckus They Raised

A gaggle of self-righteous moral mechanics, with more signs than sense, blew into town Saturday to holler at the sky and each other about the supposed tyranny of one Donald J. Trump and Governor Joe Lombardo. The crowd, numbering some 2,000—though half of them looked lost and the other half looked paid to be there—spent a good portion of the afternoon waving cardboard commandments and decrying the downfall of democracy from the comfort of megaphones made in China.

The ruckus got stirred up by a pair of local tempest-in-a-teapot outfits–Indivisible Northern Nevada and something called 50501 NNV, which sounds less like a civic group and more like the combination for a safe that holds other people’s money. They set up camp in front of the Legislature, full of vim and vinegar–hoping to shame Lombardo for speaking plain truth at a Republican shindig earlier this month.

His crime? Saying what everyone’s thinking—that these protests are less about principles and more about paychecks. He also dared to call out the Democratic Party as the party of handouts–which is like saying the Walker River’s wet—provocative only if you ain’t been paying attention.

Present and preening–were Assemblymembers Erika Roth, Max Carter, and Natha Anderson, who took turns casting curses at Trump’s tariffs and Lombardo’s candor. They wept and wailed about Elon Musk, too–who’s the new ghost haunting their dreams. The trio blamed Trump and Musk for everything from bunions to broken dreams, claiming the duo has destroyed workers’ rights, gutted healthcare, and stolen grandma’s pension—all while failing to mention how many jobs Musk’s factories provide or how Trump’s policies brought manufacturing back from the grave like Lazarus with a MAGA hat.

Now let me tell you something plain and simple–it takes a special kind of dishonor to wag a finger at a man like Trump, who, love him or hate him, speaks like a man without a leash. And Lombardo, too, deserves more praise than scorn as last checked, Nevada could use more straight talk and less emotional interpretive dance from the steps of the Capitol.

In truth, the folks hollering on Saturday didn’t look much like the salt of the earth—they looked more like the foam. Loud, frothy, and gone with the next gust of wind.

If democracy is in peril, it’s not from too much Trump—it’s from too many folks mistaking Twitter for the Constitution and treating every difference of opinion like a declaration of war. So, to Mr. Trump and Governor Lombardo, keep talking.

And to the protestors–if you’re gonna accuse a man of tyranny, at least bring more than a clever slogan and a compostable sign.

As Federal Fireworks Getting Lit

Now, I don’t aim to sound dramatic—though I often succeed when I try—but you might say Nevada’s statehouse is about to turn into a regular bee swarm come Monday morning. Over a hundred bills are gettin’ stacked like cordwood on the desks of lawmakers in the Assembly and Senate, with every last one hollering for attention before the big deadline hits Tuesday. It’s a mad dash, a legislative stampede, and I reckon you’d have to return to the silver rush to see such elbow-throwing determination in the West.

As all things governmental tend to be, the process is as tangled as a cat in a knitting basket. A bill born in the assembly must crawl out of committee like a wet possum, get a nod from the floor, and then make its way over to the Senate, where the same gauntlet awaits.

Should it survive that, it’ll find itself on the governor’s desk, hoping for a friendly signature. If it was born in the Senate, the whole journey’s the same—just in reverse, like a man backing out of a saloon at closing time.

Of course, budget bills and those sweet nothings whispered into law by Governor Joe Lombardo himself are exempt from these deadlines. That’s the political version of holding a golden ticket—nobody tells the Governor’s bills to wait their turn.

The 83rd session of this peculiar experiment we call the Nevada Legislature is due to wrap on June 2. And when it does, you best believe the curtain will rise on an even grander spectacle–the federal political season.

If you thought state politics was wild and woolly, wait till the campaign wagons start rolling and the banners start flying. We’ll trade dusty floor debates for national mudslinging, local posturing for presidential peacocking, and legislative wrangling for the full-blown traveling circus of American elections.

So, button up your coat and hang on to your hat—the state’s winding down, but the nation’s just getting started, and it’s fixing to be a raucous ride.

Now, dear reader, let me tell you a tale, not of romance or personal misadventures, but of a young woman and a desert silence that stretched over forty years until the long arm of truth reached clear through the grave.

In the spring of 1981—back when hairstyles were higher than hopes and polyester ruled the day—Miss Vicki Radig, a girl of just twenty tender years, vanished into the Nevada night after an evening out with a fella named Walter Bradley DeMint. Mr. DeMint, whose name conjures more peppermint than penitence, claimed they had quarreled and that she’d lit out into the wilderness like some high-strung character in a dime novel. But this wasn’t fiction, and two days later, Miss Radig’s body was lying in the dust near Boulder Highway, her light extinguished by both blunt and sharp force–as if cruelty itself had taken up multiple instruments.

At the time, the Henderson constabulary gave Mr. DeMint what we might call the side-eye, noting that his tale had more holes than a politician’s promise. Alas, the evidence was too thin to hold water—or a charge—and Mr. DeMint continued living his days, eventually shuffling off this mortal coil in 2007, untroubled by the hangman or the court.

But science, that dogged bloodhound of Providence, was not yet done.

DNA—God’s most precise scribe—finally whispered the truth witnesses and circumstances could not. Ever digging like ants in a sugar barrel, Henderson detectives matched old samples and declared what suspicion had long suspected–DeMint was not just a person of interest but the author of that deadly deed.

So now, though the man is dead and beyond the reach of human justice, the case is closed. Miss Radig’s kinfolk have the small, bitter comfort of knowing and perhaps the quiet dignity of mourning with certainty.

They say time heals all wounds, but time merely handles the shovel.

Patterns Spark Speculation

The death of Pope Francis at age 88 on April 21, 2025, has sent ripples through the Catholic world, not only for the loss of a pontiff but also for the eerie numerical patterns surrounding his passing. As mourners gather at Saint Peter’s Basilica, speculation is mounting about whether these numbers—particularly 7, 70, and 88—point to a prophetic significance tied to the Prophecy of the Popes.

Francis died after a 12-year papacy. The Pontiff’s death at 88 reduces numerologically to 7 (8+8=16, 1+6=7), symbolizing spiritual wisdom and divine completion. Remarkably, the date of his death, April 21, 2025, also reduces to 7 (4+2+1+2+0+2+5=16, 1+6=7). The double seven has captured the pattern seeker’s attention, especially when paired with Rome’s “seven-hilled city,” a key symbol in the Prophecy of the Popes.

The Prophecy–attributed to Saint Malachy and linked to Saint Peter’s Basilica, predicts 112 popes, ending with “Peter the Roman,” whose reign precedes Rome’s destruction. Francis is often counted as the 111th or 112th pope, fueling debate about whether his death marks the final act. The mention of Rome’s seven hills aligns with the 7s in Francis’ age and death date, prompting some to see his passing as a prophetic pivot.

The number 70, though less prominent, also emerges in discussions. While not directly tied to Francis’ age or death date, 70—which reduces to 7—evokes biblical cycles like the 70 years of Babylonian exile or Daniel’s 70 weeks. Nostradamus’ prediction of an “old Pontiff” dying at a significant age–sometimes tied to 70 or 88–adds fuel to the fire, suggesting the Church faces a “judgment” or renewal.

Other numbers deepen the mystery. Francis’ 12-year papacy (2013–2025) echoes the 12 apostles, suggesting divine order. The year 2025 reduces to 9 (2+0+2+5=9), an ending and compassion. The 112 popes prophecy looms large, with the next conclave—set for May 6–11, 2025—potentially electing the final “Peter the Roman.” Rome’s traditional founding day, April 21, ties Francis’ death to the “seven-hilled city’s” fate.

Biblical parallels amplify the patterns. The sevens recall Genesis’ seven days of creation and Joshua’s seven marches around Jericho, framing Francis’ death as a possible “Jericho moment” for the Church—collapse or renewal. Seventy’s biblical weight suggests a completed era. Lastly, the proximity of Francis’ death to Easter–April 20, 2025–and the seven-week Easter-to-Pentecost cycle further embed his passing in a spiritual rhythm.

Not all see prognostication in the numbers. Historians note the Prophecy of the Popes, published in 1595, is likely a forgery accurate only up to 1590. The Catholic Church has no official stance, and some theologians dismiss it as speculative.

The sevens and 70s could be accidental, with numerology’s flexibility allowing patterns to fit any narrative. Yet, the alignment of Francis’ age, death date, and Rome’s seven hills is striking and shows a connection.

Then there is the news headline, “Pope Francis Has Died.” This is a user-constructed phrase, not a Torah text.

In Hebrew gematria, “Pope Francis has died” (transliterated as פּוֹפּ פְרַנְסִיס הַז דָּיֵד) has a value of 656. The Torah’s verses are numbered sequentially across its books.

The 656th verse falls in Exodus 22:6, based on standard verse counts in the Masoretic Text, giving the translation as, “If fire breaks out and catches in thorns so that the stacked grain or the standing grain or the field is consumed, he who kindled the fire shall surely make restitution.”

My interpretation is the fire is the societal breakdown seen around the world, with the stacked or standing grain or the field being society getting destroyed. Finally, the one who kindled the fire must make restitution or pay for the damage caused.

As the Vatican prepares for a conclave–May 7th–a potential 7-linked date, or a new pope aged ~70, could tighten the pattern. Whether these numbers herald the end of the papacy, a Church rebirth, or simply a poignant coincidence, they’ve sparked a global conversation.

For now, the mystery of seven, 70, and 88 linger over Saint Peter’s–inviting believers and skeptics alike to ponder: is this a prophetic sign, or just the universe winking?

The winter of ’60 looms like a jagged white slaughterhouse, a frozen purgatory where the Trask Expedition—eighty-seven souls, now a ragged clutch—teeters on the brink of annihilation. Snow entombs their wagons in a pass-turned crypt, mules rot under drifts, their bones jutting like grim totems, and the wind howls like a banshee on a mushroom binge.

Inside a tent of burlap and dread, a pitiful fire spits ash into the frigid gloom, barely warming the huddled figures within. Gideon Trask, the expedition’s broken figurehead, slumps under a moth-eaten blanket, his leg oozing pus from an ax slip that’s gone sour, his voice a cracked whisper rasping through chapped lips. “We’ll see Springfield yet, Esther, I can taste the green fields through this hell.”

Esther Trask, his wife, rations the last specks of cornmeal with trembling fingers, her tone sharp as a flensing knife cutting through the tension. “One crumb, Silas, one goddamn crumb, or I’ll flay you alive and stew the scraps—don’t test me!”

Silas Kane, a wiry man with eyes like haunted pits, paces the tent’s edge, his boots scuffing the frozen dirt. Once exiled for gutting Jasper Holt in a rage over a busted axle, he’s back now, raving with a desperation that borders on madness. “We’ll make it, Ruth, I swear it on my last breath—Springfield’s just over the next ridge!”

Ruth Kane, his wife, weeps into her scarf, her voice splintering like dry timber under an ax. “The kids, Silas, what about the kids? They’re fading into shadows—look at them!”

Clara Kane, their ten-year-old daughter, sits by the tent flap, her gaze too bright for this nightmare, staring into the blizzard as if it’s reciting riddles only she understands. Nell Kane, thirteen and feral as a cornered wolverine, kicks at the snow outside, snarling at her brother, Tommy Kane, a scrawny seven-year-old shivering under a tarp patched with despair.

“Quit your sniveling, Tommy, or I’ll chuck you to the wolves myself—grow a spine!”

Tommy whimpers, teeth chattering like dice in a cup. “I’m cold, Nell, so cold—where’s Clara going? She’s leaving us!”

Otis Barrow, a hulking brute with a beard like rusted wire, sharpens stakes from wagon slats with a rhythmic scrape, growling to his wife, Lila Barrow, “Eat or be eaten, Lila, that’s the raw math of survival—start picking who’s next.”

Lila, her face a mask of hollows carved by hunger, snaps back, her voice a whipcrack of defiance. “Not my girls, Otis, I’ll rip your guts out and feed ’em to you first!”

Their seven daughters—Mary, Eliza, Cora, Beth, Lucy, Rose, and little Jane—huddle under a tarp, trembling as Sadie Holt, wed to Theo Holt, murmurs in a voice soft as a prayer, “Hold on, darlings, just hold on a little longer—help’s coming.”

Pacing like a caged bear, Theo mutters under his breath, his words bitter as the wind. “We should’ve turned back at the Salt Flats, Sadie, I told you a dozen times—Hastings screwed us!”

Ezra Finch, the scribe with ink-stained fingers and a perpetual squint, scribbles in his journal, his voice a dry croak cutting through the din. “Day 67: snow a shroud, minds fraying like twine in a gale—reason bleeds out.”

The camp is a simmering cauldron of dread, voices clashing in the storm’s roar like a chorus of the damned. Ruth rocks an empty cradle, crooning, “Sleep, baby, sleep…” her tone a hollow dirge that grates Silas’s fraying nerves.

He spins on her, snarling, “Stop that, Ruth, it’s gone—our babe’s been gone since Truckee, and you’re driving me to the edge!”

She glares, eyes blazing through tears, her voice a shriek. “You lost her, Silas, and now Clara’s next—you’re a coward who can’t face what you’ve done!”

Nell stomps over, shouting over the wind, “Both of you shut your traps, I’m sick of the wailing—I’ll drag her back myself if you won’t!”

Otis laughs a guttural bark that slices the air like a blade. “Go on, girl, freeze with her—more scraps for us who stay warm.”

Lila shoves him, shrieking, “Say that again, Otis, and I’ll carve you into stew right here—try me!”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, trembling, “They’re cracking, love, look at their eyes—wild as beasts, everyone.”

Theo snaps, “We cracked at the Hastings Cutoff, Sadie, swallowing that cursed map like fools—now we’re paying!”

Esther Trask hisses at Silas, her words dripping venom. “Keep pacing, you fool, you’ll dig us a trench to China and drag us all down!”

Gideon groans from his cot, his voice weak but biting. “Leave him, Esther, he’s all hot air and no spine—let him tire out like a whipped dog.”

Tommy clings to Nell, whimpering, “Don’t go, Nell, it’s too dark out there—stay with me!”

She shoves him off, snarling, “Stay here then, you little leech—I’m not freezing for your whining!”

Mary Barrow, the eldest of Otis’s brood, pipes up, her voice thin as a reed against the storm. “She’s right, Nell, it’s madness—stay with us where it’s safe!”

Otis growls, “Quiet, Mary, or you’re next on the chopping block—I’ll decide who stays or goes!”

Lila rounds on him, shrieking, “Touch her, Otis, and I’ll bury you in this snow alive—mark my words!”

Eliza Barrow, the second eldest, mutters to Cora, “They’re all losing it—Pa’s ready to eat us, I can see it.”

Cora whispers, “Let him try—I’ll stick him first with this splinter.”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, “The girls are turning too, Theo—hear them plotting?”

Theo snaps, “Good—let ’em fight, keeps the blood pumping!”

Ezra mutters, scribbling, “Day 68: accusations fly, hunger gnaws like a saw—madness creeps closer, a shadow with teeth.”

Then it strikes, a jolt through the camp’s despair. A white jackrabbit, bony as a junkie and twitching with manic purpose, darts past the tents, its voice a shrill squeak cutting through the wind. “I’m late, I’m late, you miserable bastards!”

Clara’s eyes flare like twin lanterns, and she’s off, chasing it through the drifts like a moth to a torch, her form swallowed by the white. Ruth screams, “Clara, you little lunatic, get back here!”

Silas lunges, boots sinking in snow, his voice a raw bellow. “Clara, damn it, stop!”

But she’s gone, tumbling down a snowbank into a crevice that wasn’t there moments before, a black maw in the white hell. Nell grabs Silas’s arm, her voice raw as a blade. “She’s my sister, Pa, we can’t just sit on our hands—move!”

Silas shakes her off, roaring, “She’s lost or dead, Nell, and we’re next if we don’t tighten the belts—think, girl!”

Otis grunts, “One less mouth—good riddance to the dreamer.”

Lila slaps him, her shriek piercing the wind like a harpy’s cry. “She’s a child, you monster, not a ledger entry—have you no soul?”

Sadie clutches Theo’s sleeve, whispering, “She’s gone, Theo, like the cattle—another ghost in the snow.

Theo growls, “She’s Silas’s burden, not ours—focus on keeping our girls breathing, not chasing phantoms!”

The camp erupts in chaos—shouts, curses, pleas—the storm swallowing their voices as hunger claws deeper into their marrow, a beast gnashing at their resolve.

Down below, Clara lands hard in a wonderland of ice and psychosis, a frozen abyss that mirrors the Trask Expedition’s shattered souls in grotesque distortion. The ground is a cracked mosaic of frost, reflecting her pale face in jagged shards—her eyes too wide, her mouth trembling, accusing her reflection with silent screams.

Skeletal trees claw at a sky bleeding gray, their branches whispering names—Jasper, the mules, Tommy, Ruth—each syllable a splinter driving into her skull, a chorus of guilt she can’t silence. She staggers up, breath fogging in the bitter air, her coat crusted with snow, and finds Mad Mordecai Finch—Gideon Trask’s warped double—presiding over a tea party of slush and delirium.

He’s a twitching wreck in a raccoon hat, pouring snowmelt into rusted mugs with hands that shake like a junkie’s, his voice a manic cackle that echoes off the ice. “Sit, Clara, sit, you little wretch! We’re all royalty here, sipping the finest while the pantry starves—join the feast!”

Around a splintered table, Rex Holt and Zeke Barrow brawl over a femur, their meaty fists swinging like sledgehammers in a bar fight. “Mine, you hog-faced leech!”

Rex roars, yanking it with a snarl that bares yellowed teeth. “No, mine, you bloated tick!”

Zeke snaps, tugging back, his eyes wild with greed and desperation.

Mordecai slams his mug down, spittle flying like shrapnel. “Share it, you greedy swine, or I’ll crack your skulls and brew the marrow myself—there’s enough nothing for all!”

Clara’s head spins, her voice quaking as she steps forward, clutching her coat tighter. “Where am I? What is this place?”

Mordecai grins his teeth yellowed dice, leaning close enough for her to smell the rot on his breath, a stench of decay and madness. “The Sierra Supper Club, sweetmeat! Finest dining in this frozen hell—only the best for the damned. Ain’t that right, Amos?”

Amos Finch—Pat Vance’s fractured echo—slumps in a corner, snoring through cracked lips, muttering, “God save us, God save us…” in a loop that grates like a broken record.

Mordecai kicks him, laughing, his voice a high-pitched taunt. “Wake up, Amos, tell her about the boots we boiled—leather soup, a delicacy for the discerning!”

Amos jolts awake, eyes bulging like a cornered animal’s, his voice a ragged shout that bounces off the ice. “Boots? I ate my damn soul, Mord! You’re next, you grinning ghoul—I see you eyeing my shins every night, licking your chops!”

Clara backs away, stammering, “I don’t belong here—I need to get back to my family!”

Mordecai leans closer, his grin splitting wider, a grotesque mask of mirth. “Oh, you belong, girl. This is your mind’s mirror, cracked and bleeding—your guilt’s the guest of honor. Sit, or the shadows take you—choose quick!”

Rex pauses his brawl, sneering at her with a lip curled in disgust. “She’s too skinny to bother with, Mord—let her run back to her precious kin, they’re probably chewing each other by now!”

Zeke laughs, a harsh bark that echoes. “Skinny now, but wait ’til she fattens on despair—she’ll be prime cut then, mark my words!”

Clara’s voice rises, sharp with defiance, as she plants her feet. “I’m not staying—you’re all mad, raving lunatics!”

Amos lurches forward, grabbing her arm with a clammy grip, his voice frantic and pleading. “Mad? We’re you, Clara—your fear, your hunger! Look at my hands—don’t they look like Pa’s, callused and stained?”

She yanks free, shouting, “You’re not my Pa—you’re a ghost, a lie!”

Mordecai cackles, clapping his hands like a deranged compere. “A ghost! She’s got it, boys—this place is a graveyard of your own making, dug with your own hands!”

Rex snarls, “Shut up, Mord, or I’ll bash your skull instead of Zeke’s—give us some peace!” Zeke snaps, “Try it, Rex, and I’ll gnaw your bones clean—I’m starving here!”

The table erupts in shouts, fists flying, mugs clattering to the ice, Clara stumbling back as the madness swirls around her like a vortex, pulling at her sanity.

A shadow slinks from the mist, and Chester Vance emerges, a skeletal coyote with a grin like a guillotine, ribs stabbing through patchy fur like accusations.

“Lost, little tidbit?” he purrs, circling her with a predator’s grace, his voice a low growl vibrates in her chest. “Left path’s a slow death, right path’s a feast. Guess which I took—go on, guess.”

Clara clutches her coat, her voice cutting through the chill as she meets his glinting eyes. “I need my family, you creep—stay away from me or I’ll make you!”

Chet’s laugh is a dry hack, his eyes shining like wet coal in the dim light. “Family’s a banquet, girl. Ask me about the bones I picked clean—sweet marrow, sweeter tears, a meal to savor.”

She swings a stick at him, shouting, “Back off, you mangy freak—I’m not your prey!”

He dodges, grins stretching impossibly wide, a grotesque parody of mirth. “Spunk! You’ll need it when the hunger whispers your name—listen close, it’s already talking.”

Amos lurches up, pointing a trembling finger at Chet, his voice a frantic wail. “He’s the devil, Clara! Ate his kin—I saw it in my dreams, gnashing and grinning over the fire, blood on his snout!”

Chet snaps back, his voice a snarl that cuts the air. “Dreams? You’re the one drooling over my haunches, preacher—don’t lie to the girl, you’ve got the same itch!”

Clara swings again, her voice rising to a scream that echoes off the ice. “Both of you shut up—I’m not food, I’m not your meal, I’m getting out!”

Chet fades into the fog, his laugh lingering like smoke, a taunt that burrows into her skull. “Not yet, little rabbit, not yet—hunger’s patient, it waits for the weak.”

Amos grabs her again, his voice a desperate plea. “He’s right, Clara—it’s coming for us all! I hear it in the wind, chewing, chewing, gnawing at my bones!”

She shoves him off, shouting, “Let go, you lunatic—I’m not listening to your ravings!”

Mordecai calls after her, his voice a taunt that follows her into the dark. “Out? There’s no out, girl—just deeper in, deeper into yourself!”

Rex laughs, “Run, little rabbit—see how far your legs take you before they give!”

Zeke adds, “Not far—she’ll be back, begging for a seat at the table!”

The tea party dissolves into cackles and curses, a cacophony of madness that chases Clara as she flees into the icy maze, her breath ragged, her mind a storm of doubt and terror, the stick clutched like a lifeline.

Up top, the camp fractures like ice under a sledgehammer, splintering into chaos. Ruth rocks her empty cradle, crooning, “Sleep, baby, sleep…” her voice is a hollow echo that claws at Silas’s sanity.

He whirls on her, snarling, “Stop that, Ruth, it’s gone—our babe’s been gone since Truckee, and you’re pushing me over the edge with Ascendancy!”

She turns, eyes blazing through tears, her voice rising to a shriek that cuts the wind. “You lost her, Silas, and now Clara’s next—you’re a coward who can’t face what you’ve done!”

Nell stomps over, shouting over the storm, “Both of you shut your traps, I’m sick of the wailing—I’ll drag her back myself if you won’t!”

Otis laughs a guttural bark that slices the air. “Go on, girl, freeze with her—more scraps for us who stay warm!”

Lila shoves him, shrieking, “Say that again, Otis, and I’ll carve you into stew right here—try me!”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, trembling, “They’re cracking, love, look at their eyes—wild as beasts, everyone.”

Theo snaps, “We cracked at the Hastings Cutoff, Sadie, swallowing that cursed map like fools—now we’re paying in blood!”

Esther Trask hisses at Silas, her words dripping venom. “Keep pacing, you fool, you’ll dig us a trench to hell and drag us all down!”

Gideon groans from his cot, his voice weak but biting. “Leave him, Esther, he’s all hot air and no spine—let him tire out like a whipped dog.”

Tommy clings to Nell, whimpering, “Don’t go, Nell, it’s too dark out there—stay with me!”

She shoves him off, snarling, “Stay here then, you little leech—I’m not freezing for your whining!”

Mary Barrow pipes up, her voice thin as a reed against the storm. “She’s right, Nell, it’s madness—stay with us where it’s safe!”

Otis growls, “Quiet, Mary, or you’re next on the chopping block—I’ll decide who stays or goes!”

Lila rounds on him, shrieking, “Touch her, Otis, and I’ll bury you in this snow alive—mark my words!”

Eliza mutters to Cora, “They’re all losing it—Pa’s ready to eat us, I can see it in his stare.”

Cora whispers, “Let him try—I’ll stick him first with this splinter, watch me.”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, “The girls are turning too, Theo—hear them plotting?”

Theo snaps, “Good—let ’em fight, keeps the blood pumping!”

Ezra mutters, scribbling, “Day 68: accusations fly, hunger gnaws like a blade—madness closes in, a shadow with teeth.”

Down below, Clara’s path snakes through icy tunnels, the walls pulsing like veins, whispering, “You left them, Clara, you ran while they starved—coward, coward!”

The air thickens with guilt, each breath tasting of ash and regret, a bitter tang that coats her tongue. She stumbles into Old Man Thaddeus Vance sprawled on a log, puffing a pipe of charred twigs, smoke coiling around his scarred face like a shroud.

He squints, his voice a gravelly drawl that grinds against her nerves. “Who’re you, runt?”

Clara steadies herself, answering, “Clara Kane, and I’ve got to get back—”

“Kane?” Thad cuts in, blowing a smoke ring that hangs like a noose, his eyes narrowing. “Silas’s spawn? You’re sunk deeper than a miner’s grave. This ain’t a trail—it’s a meat press, grinding you down.”

He carves a map into the bark with a jagged knife, muttering, “Take this, but it’s a liar, just like your Pa—full of promises that rot.”

She snatches it, her voice rising, sharp and defiant. “My Pa’s not a liar—he’s fighting for us up there, bleeding for us!”

Thad laughs, a dry rasp that echoes off the ice, a sound that mocks her. “Fighting? He’s lying to himself—‘We’ll make it,’ he says, while the snow buries you all. Look at that map, girl—what do you see?”

She stares at the scrawl—faces, her family’s, twisted in hunger, Ruth’s mouth open in a silent scream, Silas’s eyes hollow as pits, Nell’s fists clenched, Tommy’s cheeks sunken like a skull’s. “It’s… them,” she whispers, her stomach lurching, bile rising in her throat.

Thad nods, his voice low and cutting, a blade in her ribs. “Your mind’s bleeding out, Clara. This place is your guilt, your fear—it’s eating you alive. Run before it swallows you whole.”

She backs away, shouting, “You’re wrong—they’re alive, they’re waiting for me!”

Thad blows another ring, muttering, “Alive? They’re meat walking, girl, and you know it—look at your hands, see the truth.”

She glances down—her fingers are red, slick with imagined blood, dripping onto the ice, and she screams, “No, no, it’s not real!”

Thad chuckles, “Real enough to haunt you—run, little rabbit, run from yourself!”

The tunnel twists, the whispers growing louder—Tommy’s sobs, Ruth’s pleas, Silas’s curses—until she’s sprinting, hands over her ears, the map clutched tight, her mind a storm of doubt and dread, the blood on her hands a stain she can’t scrub away.

The trail bends into a grotesque amphitheater of ice and bone, the Queen’s court, where Ruby Vance—Red Queen Ruby—towers in a bear hide, her hair a frozen snarl, shrieking, “Off with their heads!”

Her court is a circus of fractured souls: Nell Finch flaps her arms, squawking, “I’ll fly us out, I’ll soar, you’ll see—I’m not dying here like a rat!”

Esther Holt clutches a sack she calls “my darling,” cooing, “Mommy’s got you, hush now,” her eyes darting to Clara like she’s sizing her up for a pot, a predator’s gleam.

Theo Marsh hops around with a cleaver, giggling, “Who’s for the pot? Fresh cuts are gold—let’s feast!”

Ruby points at Clara, her voice a banshee wail that pierces the air. “You! Tardy trash! Kneel or bleed!”

Clara ducks as Theo swings, yelping, “She’s slippery, Queen!”

Theo turns to Ruby, whining, “Let me chop her, she’s tender—look at those arms, plump as a doe!”

Ruby snaps, “Not yet, fool, I want her begging first—break her spirit, make her crawl!”

“Silence!” Ruby roars, turning to her jury—twelve shivering wrecks, including Lila Vance and Chuck Marsh.

“Guilty or supper?” Lila snarls, “She’s a child, Ruby, not a roast—have some damn shame!”

Chuck sobs, his voice a wet gurgle, “We’re all roasts, Lila, all of us—I see it every night, the pot boiling, the steam rising!”

Theo cackles, “Chop her, I say—she’s got meat on her bones, not like us skeletons!”

Nell squawks, “No, no, she’s one of us, let her fly with me—don’t waste her!”

Esther hisses, “Quiet, all of you, or my darling gets cross—and you don’t want that, oh no!”

Clara bolts, Theo’s cleaver nicking her sleeve, Ruby’s laugh echoing, “Run, rabbit, run, I’ll have your head yet!”

Lila shouts after her, “Don’t trust the paths, girl, they lie—they’re your lies, your cowardice!”

Chuck wails, “They all lie, they all lead to the pot—run anyway, run ’til you drop!”

Clara sprints through a labyrinth of ice, the walls closing in, whispering, “You’re guilty, Clara, you abandoned them—left them to starve while you chased shadows.”

The shadows twist into shapes—Ruth cradling a frozen babe, its eyes glassy; Silas sharpening a knife, his hands stained red; Nell glaring with accusing eyes, her voice a hiss, “You left me, Clara, you ran!”

She stumbles into Wesley Holt, a lanky figure fumbling with a busted rifle, his voice soft amid the chaos. “I’ll save you, lass.”

Clara pants, her breath ragged. “From what? What’s chasing me?”

Wesley’s eyes dart, his whisper trembling. “The Devourer. It’s us, turned inside out—our hunger, our shame, our sins.”

The ground shakes, and the Devourer looms—a skeletal titan, its flesh woven from guilt, eyes burning with Amos Finch’s ravenous stare, claws gleaming with Lila Barrow’s desperation, jaws dripping with the blood of Jasper Holt, the mules, the taboos they’ve swallowed.

“You birthed me!” it roars, its voice a chorus of their screams—Ruth’s wails, Silas’s curses, Nell’s defiance, Tommy’s sobs.

Clara freezes, her voice a whisper. “You’re not real—you’re a nightmare!”

The Devourer laughs, a sound like shattering ice. “Real? I’m your Pa’s knife, your Ma’s tears, your sister’s rage. I’m the hunger you won’t name—the part of you that’s already chewing!”

Wesley shoves the rifle at her, stammering, “Take it, lass, end it—please, for all of us!”

She drops it, grabs a wagon spoke—vorpal sharp—and charges, screaming, “For Ma! For Pa! For Tommy! For the mules!”

She rams it into the beast’s throat, blood gushing black and thick, splattering her face, her hands, her soul.

It crumples, a steaming pile of shame, and Wesley nods, fading into the mist. “You’re the knight now, lass—carry it.”

The forest twists, the whispers turning to her sobs, her voice accusing, “You killed it, Clara, but you can’t kill the truth—you’re one of them now.”

Back in camp, the storm is a monster with claws and teeth.

Silas rallies a posse, his voice cracking like dry timber. “Clara’s out there, damn it, I’m going—who’s with me?”

Nell grabs a branch, shouting, “I’m with you, Pa—let’s move before she’s gone!”

Esther Trask snaps, “You’ll freeze, you mad bastard—stay and die warm like the rest of us!”

Gideon groans from his cot, “Let her go, Silas, we’re done for—save your strength for breathing.”

Ruth sobs, “You’re abandoning her again, Silas, like you abandoned me!”

He turns on her, roaring, “I’m saving her, Ruth, not rocking ghosts—get off your knees and help!”

Otis chuckles, “Save her for what? The stew? She’s tender, I’ll bet—prime cut.”

Lila slaps him, shrieking, “One more word, Otis, and I’ll gut you like a fish!”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, “They’re all mad now, Theo—look at their hands shaking, itching to strike.”

Theo snaps, “We were mad at Fort Bridger, Sadie, following that damn shortcut to nowhere!”

Silas storms off, dragging Rex Holt and Ezra Finch into the blizzard, Rex muttering, “This is suicide, Silas, you know it.”

Ezra scribbles, “Day 69: desperation drives, death stalks like a shadow.”

Tommy clings to Ruth, whimpering, “Don’t let Pa go, Ma, he won’t come back!”

Ruth pushes him away, her voice breaking. “He’s got to, Tommy—he’s got to bring her back or we’re nothing!”

Mary whispers to her sisters, “They’re all going to die out there, aren’t they?”

Eliza nods, her voice flat. “Maybe. Maybe we’ll eat them when they do—Pa’s already planning it.”

Otis overhears, growling, “Smart girl, Eliza—keep thinking like that, you’ll live.”

Lila shrieks, “Shut up, Otis, or I’ll choke you with your tongue!”

Cora mutters to Beth, “He’s not wrong—someone’s got to go first.”

Beth whispers, “Not me—I’ll fight ’til I drop.”

Sadie murmurs to Theo, “The girls are turning, Theo—hear them scheming?”

Theo snaps, “Let ’em—survival’s a brutal game.”

The camp is a madhouse, voices colliding, the storm a roaring judge over their descent into chaos.

Clara wakes choking on snow, the rabbit’s tracks vanishing into the wind. She staggers back, half-dead, raving, “Deer… I saw deer… in the Abyss…”

Silas’s crew finds her, dragging her into the camp’s flickering light.

Nell shouts, “She’s alive, Pa—look at her, she’s breathing!”

Rex grunts, “And cracked like an egg—listen to her babble, she’s lost it.”

Silas kneels, shaking her shoulders, his voice urgent. “Clara, what deer? Where? Talk to me, girl!”

She points, trembling, her eyes distant. “There, Pa, in the Abyss—three of them, waiting… watching…”

Ruth rushes over, sobbing, “Clara, my girl, you’re back—thank God!”

Clara pulls away, muttering, “Back? I never left—it’s all here, in my head, chewing at me.”

Tommy clings to her, whimpering, “Don’t go again, Clara, please—I need you!”

She stares at him, her voice hollow. “I didn’t go, Tommy—it came to me—it’s still here.”

Silas rallies the camp, shouting, “She says deers–three bucks! Who’s with me to find ’em?”

Nell grabs her branch, yelling, “I am, Pa—let’s hunt, let’s eat!”

Otis snorts, “A kid’s dream? You’re chasing ghosts, Silas—sit down.”

Lila snaps, “Better than sitting here, you lazy hog—get up!”

Theo mutters to Sadie, “They’re mad, but I’m in—meat’s meat, real or not.”

Silas, Nell, Theo, Rex, and a reluctant Ezra—follow Clara’s trembling finger through the drifts, the camp watching, half-hoping, half-praying. They trudge, crazed and ravenous, the storm clawing at their backs, Silas shouting, “Keep moving, damn it—she saw ’em!”

Nell yells, “I believe her, Pa—keep going!”

Rex mutters, “This is insanity—we’re chasing a hallucination.”

Theo snaps, “Shut up, Rex—hallucination or not, I’m starving!”

Ezra scribbles, “Day 70: blind hope or blind madness—either way, we march.”

They stumble into a hollow, and there they are–three bucks, frozen stiff, glinting like cruel jests in the dim light. Silas stares, then laughs, a wild, broken sound.

“The Abyss—she was right, the little lunatic was right!” Rex mutters, “Luck or lunacy—I don’t care, I’m carving.”

Theo grunts, “Move fast—meat won’t wait.”

Nell shouts, “Haul ’em back, Pa—let’s eat tonight!”

Ezra scribbles, “Day 70: salvation or delusion—meat either way, blood on the snow.”

They drag the carcasses back, the camp erupting in chaos—shouts of relief, sobs of disbelief.

Ruth clutches Clara, whispering, “You saved us, my girl—you brought us life.”

Clara pulls away, her voice a whisper. “Did I? Or did it save me? It’s still here, Ma—watching.”

She stares at the fire as it roars back to life, blood on Silas’s hands, madness in her eyes, the Abyss still whispering in her skull—You’re one of us now, Clara, one of us, forever.

She can still taste the wild mushroom soup and thinks she knows the location of the yellow brick road. But her house is missing, carried away by the wind-driven storm of starvation madness.

The good people of Yerington had their Friday Passover jostled by what the scientific gentlemen over at the Nevada Seismological Laboratory are calling a 2.27 magnitude earthquake—though to folks unacquainted with numbers, that means your coffee cup danced a little jig, and your hound looked at you funny.

At precisely 7:45 in the evening, when most decent folks were settling into supper or arguing with their kin over politics, the earth gave a twitch some nine miles northeast of Yerington, 216 miles west-northwest of Schurz, and 51 miles south-southwest of Fallon.

Now, I don’t reckon anybody in Fallon felt it unless they were leaning against a fence post and concentrating hard, but still, it happened.

The tremor came from a depth of about four miles, which is the precise measurement that makes a man wonder how many scientific minds it takes to measure a thing no man can see. But here’s where the story takes a peculiar turn fit for a tale told under a Nevada sky–that little shiver in the crust went and collapsed the underground domicile of the Lizard People—those secretive subterranean citizens who, rumor has it, have been living beneath our boots since before the silver boom fizzled.

But while the Lizard community now finds a need for affordable housing and possibly a good lawyer, there’s a silver lining–if not a silver lode–the Pup Fish over in Devil’s Hole survived unscathed. These peculiar little swimmers, found in a watery pocket so remote it might as well be a myth, somehow rode out the quake with the grace of seasoned mariners.

So there you have it–the earth shakes, the reptiles weep, the fish rejoice. Nature, it seems, plays no favorites and answers to no one, and if that doesn’t sum up Nevada living, I don’t know what does.

Reportin’ in Temporal Confusion from a Peculiar Frontier of Time

The Nevada Legislature has done-gone and confused the sun itself. In their latest fit of political gumption—more ambition than arithmetic—they’ve passed what they’re callin’ the “Lock the Clock Act,” which, as near as can be told, is an earnest attempt to wrestle Time into submission like it were a drunken coyote at a church picnic.

Assembly Bill 81, in official ink, aims to toss Daylight Savin’ Time into the same dustbin where they keep unused campaign promises and balanced budgets. The bill has wriggled its way through the Assembly and now struts proudly toward the Senate, where it’s reckoned it’ll be patted on the head, misunderstood entirely, and possibly signed into law by someone who didn’t read it.

Should the legislation pass, Nevadans will still fall back in November, shan’t spring forward come March, and clocks’ll be stuck where they are. That ain’t what the majority wants—but what the majority is gettin’.

But here’s the comic part–they’ve set out to regulate Time itself–like it was a local ordinance or a fellow who forgot to pay his saloon tab. They appear to believe that fiddlin’ with clocks can generate revenue, boost productivity, or otherwise improve the moral fiber of the state.

What they ain’t realized is that there’s not a penny to squeeze from legislating the rotation of the Earth.

One can’t sell Time by the barrel, and Time, like a cat, refuses to be herded. You can call it whatever you want—Daylight, Standard, Extra Crispy—but it’s still the same sun risin’ over the same sagebrush, no matter what hour you print on the town hall bulletin.

In truth, if lawmakers were any more out of step, they’d need two calendars and a compass to attend a meeting on Tuesday. But bless their hearts–they keep tryin’—believin’ as only lawmakers can, that the hands of a clock answer to the legislature.

So come this fall, Nevada will dutifully set its clocks back as always, and then in the springtime, look around puzzled when nothing but desert weeds and political nonsense spring up. But by then, it’s expected the legislature will be tryin’ to outlaw wind or put a tax on moonlight.

Sounds Alarm While Alarm’s Turned Off

Nevada’s own Senator Jacky Rosen recently visited a Reno business with a good story and a bad case of nerves. She arrived with cameras and concern, tellin’ of catastrophe and calamity brought on by President Trump’s tariffs — those fearsome duties squeezing the lifeblood out of plucky entrepreneurs.

But as with many a political tale, there’s a mite more shadow than substance once the dust settles.

The business in question, Orucase, is the creation of one Isaac Howe, a fellow who started broke, hungry, and possessed of a sturdy dream–to fly with a bicycle without having to pawn his shoes to pay the baggage fees. He turned that notion into a company that makes high-end travel cases for athletes and set up shop–with a heart full of hope and a warehouse full of goods from Vietnam.

Mr. Howe says he’s concerned—nay, nearly paralyzed—by a 46 percent tariff the Trump Administration proposed months ago on imports from Vietnam. He wrote to Senator Rosen, soundin’ the alarm, and she showed up wavin’ the torch of justice and promisin’ to fight the big fight against those mean tariffs–only one small problem–those tariffs in question got suspended.

Done away with. Set aside like last year’s campaign signs.

You’d think this small but crucial fact would’ve earned a mention from the good Senator–with truth being the currency of trust and all. But no—Rosen chose instead to hoist the panic flag and march around, hopin’ nobody’d peek behind the curtain to see that the tariff got laid to rest already.

“I have cargo on the water,” Mr. Howe said as if the administration might spring a policy change like a jack-in-the-box once his crate touches port. But that’s politics for you — always seein’ for storms on a sunny day.

Rosen claimed she got deluged by “thousands and thousands” of messages, which, if true, means either Nevada’s business community has suddenly discovered the art of copy-and-paste email or the Senator’s inbox is a little more dramatic than reality requires. She paints a picture of economic doomsday but forgets to add that the sky she says is fallin’ has been patched up and braced for now.

So what we have here, dear reader, is the classic art of molehill magnification. Senator Rosen findin’ a man in Reno with jitters, declarin’ emergency surgery’s needed–while the cause got the cure already.

I ain’t sayin’ tariffs ain’t worth watchin’— they are, but I do say it’s hard to take a fire alarm seriously when the buildin’ ain’t burnin’–and the fire marshal’s already gone home to supper.

The difference between a real problem and a political one is that the real problem usually shows up without a press conference.

The kingdoms of Nevada and Idaho have joined hands—not in holy matrimony, but in a fine bureaucratic fandango that lets unvaccinated cows cross their invisible fencelines for the noble pursuit of eatin’ grass. It’s rare to see government agencies allow anything to move about freely, but when it’s cows and commerce–exceptions are made quicker than a jackrabbit at a gun show.

The Nevada Department of Agriculture, bless its acronymic soul, announced the deal was born of hardship—a shortage, no less, of that mystical serum known as the RB51 brucellosis vaccine. Please, don’t ask me to spell brucellosis without sneezin’.

It’s a cow disease, or maybe a bureaucrat disease, where the cure involves needles, long forms, and even longer waiting periods.

Turns out, producers haven’t been able to vaccinate their bovine babies due to this drought of syringes and sense. And since the law says no shot, no travel, the cattle were stuck like congressperson in a budget session. But now, thanks to this shiny new agreement, cows under 18 months of age who missed their magical jab can wander between Idaho and Nevada with a government-issued permission slip—presumably stamped, signed, notarized, and blessed by three saints and a deputy director.

But don’t mistake this act of grace for anarchy. Cattlemen still have to call up, request a permit, and likely provide three generations of lineage for each steer, including a photograph and social security number. The irony, dear reader, is served like a rare chuck steak.

While the cow might skip its vaccine today, the citizen who eats the cow tomorrow won’t be so lucky–as no doubt some enterprising department will find a way to lace your sirloin with compliance. So, one way or another, they’ll jab you with a needle, mandate, or marinade.

So, the cows may roam free today, but you can be sure the bureaucracy’s still branding us all—whether on the shoulder, the wallet, or the dinner plate.

God bless the cattle. And heaven help the people.

Nevada Declares War on Water Bottles

Here’s the latest curious happening in the silver hills of Nevada, where liberty once roamed free as a jackrabbit with a firecracker tied to its tail. It seems the good and well-washed senators of that sagebrush state, not content to lord over folks, have taken it upon themselves to rescue Lake Tahoe from the perilous menace of the plastic water bottle.

Yes, sirree, Senate Bill 324—an instrument as dry in prose as it aims to make the lips of the citizenry—has passed with thunderous approval with 16 yays and four nays, and one lawmaker presumably absent polishing their halo. The law proclaims, in all its righteous glory, that the sale, offer for sale, or even the noble act of sharing a small bottle of water—if it’s plastic and holds four liters or less—is to be met with the full disfavor of the local board of health.

Not the Attorney General, mind you. They amended that. Too busy, I reckon, tracking down moonshiners or book club tax evaders.

Should you, in a fit of parched desperation, offer your neighbor a store-bought bottle of refreshment, expect a finger-wagging warning. You do it again–and the State may lighten your wallet by a hundred dollars.

Keep it up—say, out of spite or simple dehydration—and they’ll slap you with a fine of five hundred dollars. In other words, you’ll go broke trying to stay hydrated.

It’s a curious sort of tyranny, where the chains are compostable hemp, and the jailer wears a biodegradable badge. And what’s the crime, you ask? Convenience? Thirst? A penchant for cold water in a warm climate?

While I bear no affection for plastic, and I love a clean lake as much as any man who’s tried to fish with a rusty hook and a hangover. But when the State grows so high and mighty that it starts policing what vessel a man may use to carry his water, you bet it’ll soon turn its nose to your sandwich wrap, your shoelaces, and the label on your apple.

Once upon a time, this land was where a man could pan gold by day, drink whiskey by night, and make a fool of himself somewhere in between—all without asking the government which container was most ethically suitable. The folly here ain’t in the bottle—it’s in the notion that freedom ought to be like medicine, given with strict instructions and side effects included.

Let them clean the lake, I say. Let them teach and persuade. But don’t let them fine a man for carrying his water in a plastic jug. That ain’t health enforcement—it’s high-minded meddling dressed as an environmental sermon.

And if you think they’ll stop with the bottle, I’ve got a bridge over the Truckee to sell you—made entirely of paper straws.