We were on patrol, moving along the narrow path near Cerro El Pital. The jungle was thick, and the air was close.
There was a stream, not much more than a trickle. It was ankle-deep, fifteen feet across.
We crossed and came up behind a hut. The Skipper signaled to stop.
He crouched and called one of the grunts over. “Go check it out.”
The grunt went in. A minute passed. The man came out and walked straight to the Skipper.
He broke a rule. You keep fifteen, twenty feet in the open. He got too close.
As he spoke, he looked back. He saw something above the doorframe. A wire. An antenna.
He pointed before thinking. That was the second rule. Never point. It shows direction. It shows authority.
Then the gunfire came.
A round took him in the back. The Skipper went down–chest wound.
A grenade launcher cracked from the other side of the hut. The other column had made contact.
The grunt was on the ground, calling out. “Corpsman.”
I ran.
“The Skipper,” he said.
He knew.
I dragged the Skipper’s body into the ditch as the AKs started again, chewing the hut to pieces. The grunt, on his knees, took a round in the thigh.
I grabbed him and pulled him into the ditch. Blood was pumping. I tied a tourniquet tight. He was shaking. I kept talking to him, singing cadence songs. I don’t know if it helped.
Then someone was yelling—choppers.
“It’s time,” I said.
It hovered, not landing. Fifty feet away. Hauling and inside, I climbed in after. We lifted off, overweight and full of wounded.
Two days later, I checked Sick Call.
He was gone.
I went back to work. Another patrol. Another trip outside the wire.
In the bustling town of Reno, where the Truckee River murmurs secrets to the sagebrush, a father and son have found themselves in a pickle that’d make even old Injun’ Jim raise an eyebrow. The law laid its heavy hand on Carlos Recinos-Valdez, a man of forty-three summers, and his spry young cub, Kevin Recinos-Ruano, scarce twenty years old.
The Department of Justice, with its stern visage and ink-stained fingers, has clapped the irons on ‘em, charging the pair with harborin’ illegal aliens like a couple of river pirates stashin’ contraband along the Mississippi.
‘Twas back in July of ’21, when this nefarious scheme took root, stretchin’ its tendrils clear to March 11 this year. The elder Recinos-Valdez, a feller with a mind twistier than a barrel of snakes, hatched a plot with his boy to shelter these wanderin’ souls, not out of Christian charity, mind you, but for the jingle of coinage in their pockets. The constables, with their keen noses and searchin’ paws, rummaged through the duo’s abode and turned up a haul fit for a dime novel—guns glintin’ in the lamplight, papers forged slicker than a gambler’s smile, and sundry items now sittin’ pretty in evidence lockers.
The DOJ spins a yarn that’d set your hair on end–Old Carlos, they reckon, was the mastermind, a regular Captain Kidd of the smuggling trade. He wove a web of human peddlers stretchin’ from the jungles of Guatemala, through the dusty trails of Mexico, plumb into these United States. In his Reno roosts—apartment warrens he lorded over—he stashed the migrants like so many bottles of rum, keepin’ ‘em hid till the coast was clear.
Now, this wasn’t a free ride. The indictment paints a picture grim as a thunderstorm–Recinos-Valdez and his shadowy crew fleeced these poor devils for thousands of dollars a head, promisin’ passage to the land of milk and honey.
Once they hit Reno, the father turned the screws, demandin’ cash to square the smugglers’ ledger. He’d mosey up to their shacks or workin’ haunts, a collector with a scowl, and if the money didn’t flow, threats of busted bones and bruised hides hung in the air like woodsmoke. Young Kevin, they say, was his pa’s strong right arm, gatherin’ the payments and playin’ the bully-boy when the debtors balked.
The law’s got a laundry list of charges longer than a preacher’s sermon.
Carlos faces a heap of trouble–one count of conspirin’ to harbor aliens, three counts of harborin’ ‘em outright, and two counts of aidin’ and abettin’ some fancy extortion racket. Kevin’s tagged with a single count of conspiracy, but it’s enough to make a young man sweat.
If the judge’s gavel falls unkindly, the elder could be coolin’ his heels in the calaboose for twenty years while the lad might stare down a decade behind bars. So there you have it—a tale of greed and guile spun out under the Nevada sun.
Whether these two swing or sing, only time and twelve good people will tell. Till then, the Truckee keeps rollin’, whisperin’ its secrets to them that’ll listen.
Out in the dusty stretches of Winnemucca, where the sagebrush whispers secrets and the wind carries a tune of hard labor, Governor Joe Lombardo and Congressman Mark Amodei came a-traipsin’ on Tuesday afternoon, their brand-new work boots gleam’n like a pair of polished city notions. They’d come to gawk at a mighty workforce housing project meant to cradle the weary souls toilin’ at the Thacker Pass Lithium Mine—a venture kicked off after Lithium Americas and General Motors shook hands and swapped promises late last year.
Now, picture ol’ Lombardo, struttin’ ‘round in them stiff, shiny boots, toes pinched tighter’n a miser’s purse strings, proclaimin’ to all who’d listen that this here project “will boost the economy in Nevada and across the U.S.”—as if words could soothe the blisters brewin’ in his fancy footwear. And there’s Congressman Amodei, noddin’ along, tryin’ to look wise, though you’d swear he’d rather be soakin’ his feet in a barrel of creek water than paradin’ ‘round a construction site in boots that ain’t yet learned the shape of his soles.
A grand sight it was, these two gents hobblin’ through the dirt, puffed up with pride for a heap of houses yet to be filled, all while the employees—folks with boots broke in proper—likely chuckled under their hats. Reckon them shiny-shoed politicians might’ve boosted the economy more if they’d traded them boots for a pair that didn’t squeak with every step!
Nevada Senator Catherine Cortez Masto is kickin’ up dust like a mule in a dry wash over some mighty curious goin’s-on in Washington. It ain’t no tale of silver mines, but it’s got its share of high stakes and sharp tongues, and I reckon it’s worth a listen.
Now, Senator Cortez Masto, she’s got her feathers ruffled somethin’ fierce, claimin’ that the Department of Homeland Security—DHS, they call it—and a newfangled outfit dubbed the Department of Government Efficiency, or DOGE–sounds like a hound let loose in a henhouse–have been nosin’ ‘round the Internal Revenue Service for a peek at folks’ private tax papers. She and a posse of fifteen other Senate Democrats, led by a feller named Ron Wyden from Oregon, penned a letter hotter than a Nevada noon, hollerin’ that these Trump administration rascals are up to no good.
Accordin’ to the senator, who’s quotin’ a Washington Post tale, DHS wants the IRS to fork over home addresses, phone numbers, and email particulars of nigh on 700,000 souls, all in a bid to round up what she calls undocumented immigrants. She points out that millions of taxpayers, some without them fancy Social Security numbers, use a thing called an ITIN to settle up with Uncle Sam, and they do it trustin’ the IRS won’t go blabbin’ their business to every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a badge.
But that ain’t the half of it.
The same Senator Cortez Masto, she’s been wrestlin’ with the Federal Home Loan Bank of San Francisco—FHLBank-SF, if you’re keepin’ score—like a prospector pannin’ for gold, and she’s struck a vein. She’s roped in a cool $10 million to prop up Nevada’s affordable housin’ efforts, the first of its kind for the Nevada Housin’ Division’s bond program. It comes after she nabbed $9.4 million last year from the same outfit, near doublin’ what they gave afore, and she’s still pushin’ for more, like a gambler doublin’ down at the faro table.
Then she stood afore a joint session o’ the Nevada state legislature, talkin’ turkey ‘bout the Trump administration’s doin’s and how they’re rattlin’ the good folks o’ Nevada. She owned up to votin’ for a bill to keep the government from shutterin’ its doors, but she reckoned it would leave Nevadans high and dry, workin’ for no pay like fools in a storm.
But here’s where the plot thickens. The good senator frets that in their zeal to trim the fat of government waste, the Trump crew might take a chainsaw to Medicaid, a lifeline for Nevada’s sick and needy. Meanwhile, the White House swears they won’t touch them benefits, but Cortez Masto ain’t buyin’ it.
And if that weren’t enough, she’s worried that federal cuts’ll leave the state legislature scramblin’ to raise taxes or slash healthcare, a pickle sourer than a barrel o’ pickles. So there you have it, a tale of one senator fightin’ tooth and nail for her Nevada kin, callin’ out the high-handed and haulin’ in dollars where she can.
In the sagebrush-dotted wilds of Nevada, where the sun blisters the sand while the wind whispers secrets to the Joshua trees, two congressional critters—Susie Lee, a Democrat lass from the southern reaches, and Mark Amodei, a Republican gent from the north—have teamed up with a posse of lawmakers to lasso a newfangled bill. They’re callin’ it the Nuclear Ecosystem Drone Defense Act, a mouthful fit aimed square at keepin’ them buzzin’, whirrin’ contraptions—drones, they say—away from the nation’s nuclear lairs.
Now, Miss Susie, with her heart rooted in Southern Nevada’s dusty trails, reckons the U.S. Department of Energy’s got about as much power to shoo off these sky varmints as a one-legged man in a footrace. She’s talkin’ ‘bout places like the Nevada National Security Site, where Uncle Sam keeps his atomic arsenal polished and primed.
Up jumps Mark Amodei, a fella who’s seen the elephant and heard the owl in Northern Nevada’s rugged sprawl. He painted a picture bleak as a moonless night–the Department is hog-tied and helpless, watchin’ these mechanical hawks snatch secrets outta the air.
If the NEDD Act takes root, the Energy folks’ll get to rustle up a drone herd—testin’ tricks to outfox the enemy’s flock. It’s a regular hoedown of high-tech and high stakes, and it’ll be a sight to see–Nevada’s own, Democrat and Republican alike, ridin’ herd on a threat buzzin’ louder than a rattler in a rainstorm.
Time’ll tell if this legislative lariat snags the prize or stirs up more desert dust.
On a brisk Thursday, March 19, state lawmakers sat down to pick through this fiscal briar patch, and Democratic Assemblyman Howard Watts caught a thorn that didn’t sit right with him.
Now, the prison stores in Nevada ain’t no trifling matter. They’re projecting nigh on $15 million in sales this year, a sum that keeps the “Offenders’ Store Fund” plump as a Thanksgiving turkey.
The trick is, they slap a markup of 50 percent to 60 percent on the goods—everything from soap to socks—and the inmates, bless their shackled souls, ain’t got much else to spend their pennies on. Then there’s the vending machines, clinking and clanking their way to $200,000 last year.
With 10,800 souls penned in Nevada’s iron cages, that’s a tidy little commerce.
Now, a bit of cash trickles over to the inmate welfare account, a pot that dishes out necessaries to the poorest of the lot—free soap, socks, and, queerest of all, free burials when they shuffle off this mortal coil. The budget talk rolled on, and Watts perked up at the mention of NDOC asking for a weight bench, two stationary bicycles, and a shiny new scoreboard for the Lovelock prison.
“Recreational equipment, a scoreboard for the basketball court,” Watts mused aloud, scratching his chin. “Those are the sort of things that perk up an inmate’s welfare, I reckon.”
But then his brow furrowed like a plow hitting rock. “Frankly, I’m thunderstruck that the markup on commissary goods is paying for burials and cremations when these poor devils pass in our care.”
A fancy chart flashed up during the hearing, showing the markups plain as day, courtesy of the Nevada State Legislature. State budgets, you see, are tangled as a briar patch in a windstorm, shifting with every new governor and every pinched penny.
This year, they’re cutting loose four positions once paid from the store fund, and the phone commissions—once a golden egg—have dried up under federal orders. It’s a scramble to break even, and the result is a ledger queerer than a three-dollar bill.
The notion that the state might be fattening its coffers on the backs of these caged birds sticks in the craw of some lawmakers. Republican Minority Leader Senator Robin Titus, a sawbones by trade, demanded to know more about treating hepatitis C among the prison flock and whether the womenfolk behind bars were getting proper doctoring.
Meanwhile, Democratic Senators Rochelle Nguyen and Angie Taylor, alongside Assemblyman Natha Anderson, poked into the wages inmates earn from prison toil. The state skims 24.5 percent for room and board, five percent for victims’ funds, and caps the take at 50 percent, according to Bill Quenga, the fellow running NDOC’s industrial works.
And yes, even those wages help pay for a man’s pine box.
“There’s every reason to sit idle,” Nguyen remarked, sharp as a tack. “No wages, and your bed and bread come free.”
Welders can pull down as much as $14, while others scrape by on minimum wage—all voluntary in the state’s prison industry. Yet the state still dips its ladle into their thin soup.
It’s a curious business, this prison purse, and one that leaves a man wondering if the scales of justice ain’t just a mite out of plumb.
Now, gather ‘round for a yarn about the ruckus down in Mesquite, where the former chief of police, one MaQuade Chelsey, found himself in a pickle hotter than a steamboat’s boiler. The City of Mesquite, in all its municipal wisdom, let loose a report that’d make a catfish blush, and it’s a tale worth tellin’.
Accordin’ to the city manager—a fella who’d sooner wrestle a gator than mince words—Chief Chelsey was given his walkin’ papers on January 21, quicker than you can say “Huckleberry Finn.” Since then, Captain Tracy Fails, a stout soul, has been holdin’ the reins as interim while the town sets out to lasso a new chief.
But the devil’s in the details, and a news report stitched together from forty interviews runnin’ from November 4 last year clear to January 16. Forty souls, mind you, all singin’ like canaries ‘bout the chief’s doin’s.
The first exhibit—Lord, what a spectacle!—claims Chelsey took the city’s professionalism policy and stomped it into the mud. The chief was a regular gabber, jawin’ away on matters far from work, slingin’ remarks so offensive they’d curl a preacher’s collar, and tossin’ around profanity like it was confetti at a Fourth of July shindig.
Malicious gossip? Why, he was the town crier of it!
Threatenin’ language? He had it in spades.
And if that weren’t enough, he’s said to have subjected folks to conduct so unwelcome it’d make a skunk turn tail and run.
But hold your horses, for the plot thickens! The report—bless its inky heart—alleges Chelsey went so far as to chase criminal charges against some poor soul who dared file a complaint ‘gainst him.
A regular vendetta, it was, fit for a dime novel.
Then, in another twist, they say he fiddled with test scores like a crooked gambler shufflin’ a deck, all to boost his favored few for promotion. And when the complainin’ types piped up, he’d ferret out their names, swearin’ on a stack of Bibles he’d not retaliate—only to turn ‘round, come December 4, aim to demote ‘em both faster than a cat on a hot tin roof.
The police department became a house-divided—either you rode with Chelsey or agin’ him, no middle ground. They reckon morale took such a steep tumble over the last eighteen months that it made a skunk smell good.
They called it an “alarming decline,” leaving the good people of Mesquite wonderin’ if their lawmen were guardin’ the peace or stirrin’ the pot. So there you have it, a tale of power gone awry, of a chief who fancied himself king ‘til the kingdom cried foul.
Mesquite’s searchin’ for a new shepherd, and they’ll be hopin’ for one with a mite more grace and a heap less gall.
In the annals of human folly, where the wise scratch their heads and the foolish light matches, there comes a tale from the neon-lit sands of Las Vegas—a yarn so peculiar it might’ve been dreamed up by a man who’d stared too long at the sun, or perhaps at the headlines. ‘Twas in the ghostly hour of 2:44 a.m. on a March morn in 2025, when the good folks of Clark County, snug in their beds or stumbling home from the gaming tables, were roused by a blaze that’d make Old Nick tip his hat.
At the Tesla Collision Center, nigh on Jones Boulevard and Badura Avenue, a figure clad in black—looking for all the world like a stage villain who’d misplaced his script—set about to teach Mr. Elon Musk’s electric contraptions a lesson in combustion. With Molotov cocktails, that crude invention of idle hands and emptier heads, this midnight philosopher put two Teslas to the torch, their sleek frames crackling like a Fourth of July gone rogue.
Three more of the horseless wonders caught the heat, scorched but unbowed, while the Clark County Fire Department—bless their weary souls—rolled in by 2:54 a.m. to douse the mess before the whole lot turned to cinders. Five vehicles in all bore the brunt, and inside one, the law later found an unlit cocktail, as if our arsonist had meant to leave a calling card but forgot his fuse.
Not content with flames alone, this chaos champion drew a pistol and popped three rounds into the silent Teslas, perhaps imagining they’d rear up and fight back like mules in a brawl. Then, with the flourish of a man who’d flunked spelling but aced indignation, he scrawled “RESIST” across the building’s front—a word so bold in intent, yet so wobbly in execution, you’d swear he’d penned it with a trembling hand and a bottle of rotgut for company.
Now, the Las Vegas Metro Police and the FBI–roused from their coffee and dreams of quieter days, took one look at this handiwork and declared it no accident.
Assistant Sheriff Dori Koren, a man who’d seen enough foolishness to fill a library, called it a “targeted attack,” while Special Agent Spencer Evans of the Bureau vowed to hunt the scoundrel down. “We’ll come after you, we’ll find you, and we’ll prosecute you to the fullest,” quoth he, in tones that promised a jail cell cozier than a coffin but not by much.
The Joint Terrorism Task Force joined the fray, sniffing for signs this wasn’t a lone lunatic but a chorus of crackpots, part of a queer crusade against Tesla showrooms that’s been popping up like weeds across the land.
Elon Musk, that tinkerer of the future who’d rather dance with stars than dodge Molotovs, took to his X pulpit and cried foul. “Insane and deeply wrong,” he called it, swearing Tesla had done naught to earn such wrath—though, as any student of history knows, innocence never stopped a fool from swinging an axe.
President Trump, never one to let a ruckus pass without a word, thundered from on high: “You do it to Tesla, you do it to any company, we’ll catch you and you’ll go through hell.”
A promise plain as day and twice as hot.
Even Attorney General Pam Bondi chimed in, dubbing it “domestic terrorism,” a phrase to make any firebug pause and ponder his life’s choices.
The locals, meanwhile, rubbed the sleep from their eyes and muttered for vigilance, though one Tesla owner, a stout fellow named King Liang, put it plain: “Enjoy jail, pal. Enjoy it.”
It’s a sentiment so pure it ought to get stitched on a sampler.
But let’s not rush past the meat of this madness, for here’s where the modern mind shows its colors—or its cracks. They call it Trump Derangement Syndrome and Musk Derangement Syndrome, afflictions that turn decent folk into howling zealots, convinced a ballot or a battery is the devil’s work.
Time was that a man who hated his neighbor just tipped his hat the other way and went about his day. Now, he grabs a torch and a gun, fancies himself a revolutionary, and sets out to smite the chariot of progress—never mind that it’s just a car, not a call to arms.
What Musk has wrought with his electric dreams, or Trump with his brassy tongue, to deserve such ire, no sane soul could say. Yet here we are, watching grown men treat a showroom like it’s Bunker Hill, and all for a cause scribbled in haste on a wall.
So the hunt’s on, the patrols thickened, and the good citizens of Las Vegas are left to wonder if their next ride might double as kindling. The villain skulks free, puffed up with pride or trembling in a hideout, while the law sharpens its spurs.
And me? I’ll sit here and marvel at an age where a man will burn a machine to spite its maker, then call it principle.
Three years and five trials after the gruesome discovery of I.N. Sharp’s dismembered body near the Rabbithole Sulphur mines, J.W. Rover was ceremoniously hanged in the Washoe County Courthouse yard on the chilly afternoon of February 19, 1878. It would become Reno’s first—and only—public execution that garnered no small amount of attention in the growing town.
Reno was still in its infancy at the time, not yet a decade old, but it managed to carry out the deed with surprising authority. Citizens took some pride in the fact that it was Washoe County’s first execution, though they seemed to agree, with a touch of complacency, that the whole affair was as creditable as it was regrettable.
The tragic tale began in the spring of 1875 when Rover and J.J. McWorthy discovered a Sulphur mine near Rabbithole Springs. The pair staked the claim, but McWorthy only took it out in his name, which upset Rover. Rankled, Rover agreed to stay on and was soon joined by Sharp.
When McWorthy briefly left the mine to buy supplies in Mill City, he returned to find Sharp missing, with Rover offering the rather unconvincing explanation that Sharp had gone off hunting for the outfit’s pack horse. Not satisfied, and after days of searching, McWorth learned from Mrs. Osborn, wife of a friend, that she had overheard Rover threatening Sharp’s life. A telegram from Mill City revealed Sharp hadn’t returned home to California, and McWorthy, suspicious and concerned, had Rover arrested.
Upon returning with Sheriff Nash, McWorthy and the sheriff discovered Sharp’s body, dismembered and buried in several different spots, each burial marked with the distinctive tracks of Rover’s new boots. Rover, of course, accused McWorthy of the murder, claiming he had witnessed the deed, but this didn’t convince the jury, which found him guilty. However, the Nevada Supreme Court, ever the stickler for process, granted a new trial.
The case dragged on, with a second trial yielding a guilty verdict in June 1877, though Rover seemed disturbingly unconcerned. He even managed a hearty breakfast before his second sentencing. For a moment, it seemed as though the case might drag on indefinitely—until the court finally decided, and on February 19, 1878, ordered Sheriff A.K. Lamb to carry out the execution.
Leading up to the hanging, Rover, once a brash figure, became eerily quiet. He had several visitors during his last days—curiosity seekers, well-wishers, and those eager to offer him salvation. One lady even asked if he had made peace with the Lord, to which Rover tersely replied that he had done so “many years ago.” Meanwhile, his defense attorneys tried in vain to save him, suggesting a “sheriff’s jury” be called to determine his sanity. This proposed jury, a curious and largely unheard-of procedure, could not reach a decision, and the hanging was to happen without further delay.
At the gallows, 200 hand-picked witnesses filled the courtyard, their heads craning for a glimpse of the condemned man, while the rest of Reno gathered outside the fence to peer through cracks. As the moment drew near, Rover addressed the crowd, speaking for fifty-two minutes, defending his innocence, accusing McWorthy of other murders, and making the customary confessions of faith expected from a condemned man. Finally, the trap was sprung, and Rover’s life ended.
Reno’s first public execution was over. The body was buried quietly in the Catholic cemetery, and the event seemed to pass into history as a grim footnote.
However, the story didn’t end there. In years to come, rumors swirled that Rover had been innocent. Some claimed McWorthy confessed to the crime on his deathbed in Arizona. An investigation revealed that McWorthy had lived out his days in California, and the so-called confession was likely a fanciful tale born of doubt and sympathy.
The case lingered in the public consciousness, fueling séances, ghost stories, and questions about Rover’s guilt. Miners near Rabbithole Springs even reported seeing his ghost working on the claim.
Despite the multiple trials, guilty verdicts, and official findings, the mystery of J.W. Rover’s fate continued to haunt both the town of Reno and the minds of those who dared to doubt the justice served.
In a grand display of legal gumption, South Carolina Attorney General Alan Wilson, with a hearty contingent of fourteen fellow attorneys general from states far and wide—Georgia, West Virginia, Mississippi, Iowa, North Dakota, Florida, Oklahoma, Montana, Louisiana, Indiana, Missouri, Utah, South Dakota, and Kansas—put their names to a letter that might as well have been titled, “We’re Watching You, and We Ain’t Pleased.”
The missive, addressed to Leo Terrell, chief of the Department of Justice’s Task Force to Combat Anti-Semitism, was a full-throated cheer for the renewed efforts to ensure that America’s immigration laws get enforced with the same vigor as a frontier marshal handling unruly desperadoes. The AGs, taking a moment to remind everyone that the past few years have not exactly been a golden age of law and order, heaped praise upon the Task Force for taking a firm hand where the previous administration had, in their view, let things meander like a lazy river.
The letter lamented the freewheeling atmosphere on college campuses, where foreign students with the privilege of an American education have, according to the AGs, taken it upon themselves to behave as if their student visas were a license to promote terror and treason. The signers declared that the days of hand-wringing were over, and it was time to start considering whether such behavior warranted a swift exit from our fair republic.
As an illustrative example, they pointed to the recent arrest of Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian national with a knack for violent radical campus demonstrations, as proof that such concerns were not the stuff of overactive imaginations.
“Your early efforts to hold both bad actors and universities accountable for tolerating and fostering anti-Semitic activity on campus are laudable, recognized, and appreciated,” the letter proclaimed, in a tone that suggested this was but the first volley in a campaign.
In a forthcoming interview, Wilson sought to clarify that while Americans enjoy the sacred right to say foolish things, there are limits to that freedom, particularly when speech veers into the realm of incitement and mayhem.
“Can you imagine,” he asked, with a rhetorical flourish fit for a courtroom, “if someone were out there passing out KKK or white supremacist propaganda to advocate for the open lynching of blacks? That’s horrible and evil, but that’s basically what this is.”
Now, lest anyone assume all state attorneys general were marching in lockstep on this issue, one notable name was absent from the list—Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford. His absence was left unremarked in the letter, but for those reading between the lines, it carried the weight of an ellipsis followed by a knowing glance.
And so, the letter has been sent, the battle lines drawn, and the message made plain–in this new era, there will be less tolerance for the intolerable, and those inclined toward stirring up trouble may find their welcome in these United States short-lived.
The Old Blog in the Desert 