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In the year 1860, Mark Twain and Dan DeQuille—two greenhorns in the journalism trade—set out to stake their claim in Mendocino County, Calif., with high hopes and, more importantly, a wagonload of all the fine details that make up a fledgling newspaper: type, tied-up articles, and an assortment of printing supplies. Fresh from the smoldering wreckage of their failed San Francisco venture, the duo set their sights on fortune, though it was unclear which direction it might come from.

They took to the mountains, sure that somewhere in that wilderness of rock and dust, they would find their way to riches and renown. Ever the dreamer, Twain had an idea to make their paper a mighty force. “Why, we’ll be the voice of politics, the beacon of history, the shining light of enlightenment for the whole Pacific Coast!” he declared, his voice echoing through the vast empty spaces.

Dan, for his part, wasn’t so sure, but he had grown used to Twain’s impossible enthusiasm. Their trip was uneventful until they hit Simpson’s Station, where they crossed paths with a peculiar group of emigrants headed for Lower California.

They were hauling a small mountain howitzer. Twain’s eyes lit up, and before Dan could ask what in the world they’d need such a thing for, Twain was offering fifty dollars and two kegs of powder for it.

Dan, ever the voice of reason, frowned and muttered something about “reckless extravagance,” but Twain waved him off. “When we start our paper,” Twain explained, “we must fire a salute! No respectable office in California should be without a howitzer! When we get a pesky reader demanding a retraction, we can just blow him into the next county. The howitzer stays.”

Dan didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue—he had learned long ago to humor Twain’s more bizarre whims. So, with their cannon now part of the ensemble, they continued on their way, the mountains looming ahead like a slow and steady march of destiny.

That night, about fifteen miles from Simpson’s, they made camp in a ravine. It wasn’t long before their horses became restless, jerking them awake at what seemed like the stroke of midnight. Through the moonlight, they saw something that made their blood run cold: fifty Indians advancing up the ravine.

Ever quick to find a solution, Twain snapped to attention. “The howitzer!” he cried, springing from his bedroll like a man possessed.

In a frenzy, they began to load the cannon with powder, but just as Twain was preparing to fire, Dan leaped forward. “Wait!” he shouted, shoving something else into the barrel.

Twain, already striking the match, called back, “What in thunder are you doing?”

Dan grinned and replied, “A little something extra for good measure.”

The fuse lit, and the howitzer erupted with the force of a thunderclap, sending the attackers scattering in all directions with yells of confusion and pain.

Twain stood, blinking smoke from his eyes. “What in hell did you put in there?”

Dan, barely able to suppress a chuckle, replied, “A column of solid nonpareil and a couple of sticks of your spring poetry.”

Twain roared with laughter. “Well, the poetry did the trick. Next time, use one of your geological articles—it’s bound to do more damage.”

As the attackers regrouped, Twain and Dan didn’t waste any time. They hastily reloaded the howitzer, this time with an even more absurd mix of ammunition: an acrostic by John B. Ridge in long-primer, Jeems Pipes’ song My Mountain Home, and an editorial so scathing it could melt steel—Twain’s own on “Law and Order.”

With each blast, the attackers scattered further, unable to withstand the chaos of flying fonts and type. By the end of it, fifty-six men lay in a heap, casualties of the printed word, felled by dashes, drollery, and poorly chosen letters.

Ten days later, after a journey of weary bones and aching feet, Twain and Dan reached Virginia City, where they found employment at the Enterprise. Their grand Mendocino newspaper dream ended, but the legend of the “Great Howitzer Battle of Mendocino County” grew.

Years passed, and Twain, always the storyteller, wrote to Dan:

“Dear Dan,

I trust this letter finds you in fine health and high spirits. Do you remember the time we wiped out that tribe of illiterate savages in Mendocino? If you visit the spot, gather some ghostly relics and erect a monument in their honor. I’ll send you $1.50 for expenses.

Yours ever,

Mark Twain

P.S. See if you can find a thighbone from the chief—send it by express, if you can.”

Dan promised to make the pilgrimage come spring, though by all accounts, the howitzer remained in his possession, a memento to one of the most ludicrous and memorable chapters in the history of journalism—forever commemorated by nothing more than a slightly bent barrel and a few tattered pieces of printed paper.

If you were hoping for a state better known for mining, cowboys, or perhaps a reasonable fear of the desert sun, think again. Nevada has risen to the top of the TikTok food chain.

The Silver State has firmly claimed its spot as the most TikTok-obsessed state in America. This revelation comes from a highly scientific study by Socially Powerful (a name so powerful it’s almost an influencer’s alter ego), which analyzed a ginormous 30 TikTok-related keywords.

Among them: “TikTok,” “TikTok app,” “download TikTok” and, yes, “TikTok store”–because who doesn’t need to buy a bit of TikTok?

In all its majestic glory, Nevada proudly leads the pack with 3,902 TikTok-related searches per 100,000 residents, totaling 121,140 searches. Yes, you read that correctly. Forget about the Nevada silver rush; we’re in a new era where everyone’s rushing to download the app that turns people into influencers—with the same effort it takes to swipe left on a dating app.

Let’s put this into perspective. Arizona, the 10th most TikTok-crazy state, clocks in with a modest 3,120 searches per 100,000 residents—totaling 223,800. But, of course, Nevada’s numbers are more impressive because there are fewer people in the state to dilute the results.

California may have the highest number of TikTok searches with 1,373,760, but when you account for population size–Nevada still reigns supreme. So, go ahead, California, take your million-plus searches; Nevada’s numbers are like a high-performance engine in a sports car, while California’s are more like a minivan full of people frantically scrolling through their feeds.

And then there’s Montana, that wild and sparsely populated land where people have better things to do—like, I don’t know, maybe watch cows chew grass in peace. With just 1,495 TikTok-related searches per 100,000 people, Montana lingers at the bottom of the obsession list, clearly unbothered by the constant dance challenges and lip-syncs flooding every other state.

So, hats off to Nevada with its fascination with perfectly choreographed dance routines as it has earned its title as the state most likely to TikTok itself into oblivion.

It was a quiet night when a group of amateur investigators—armed with flashlights and too much confidence—decided to explore the graveyard. Strange sightings were reported near the rusted gates for years, and whispers of people vanishing without a trace had turned the place into the town’s favorite creepy legend.

The group was nervous but determined. “We’ll just look around,” their leader, Greg, said confidently.

Greg was always confident until things got scary. The gate creaked open, and they stepped inside, flashlights bouncing across moss-covered headstones.

At first, it was just a graveyard: eerie but not unusual. But then the air grew colder—too cold. Shadows seemed to move just outside the reach of their lights. And then, without warning, it happened: those who had vanished reappeared.

At first, relief swept through the group. “Oh my gosh, they’re alive!” someone whispered. But something was wrong. Very wrong.

The newly returned people weren’t quite right. Their movements were stiff and unnatural, and when they stepped into the flashlight beams, their eyes glowed an unnatural mix of red and yellow.

“What’s with their eyes?” Greg whispered, already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.

Before anyone could respond, the glowing-eyed figures lunged. Chaos erupted as the creatures attacked, their strength unnervingly inhuman.

The group scattered, screaming. Somewhere in the madness, a little girl’s terrified cry pierced the night—but it cut off abruptly.

When the others found her, her eyes had already turned red and yellow. She was one of them now.

From that night on, the pattern continued. Every time a group entered the graveyard, the glowing-eyed creatures would emerge, attack, and vanish into the shadows before sunrise. No one knew why they attacked or what drove them. Some thought them cursed, while others believed the graveyard was a portal to something far worse.

One morning, after another brutal night of disappearances, the last group decided they had to end it once and for all. Armed with makeshift weapons and grim determination, they entered the graveyard before dawn, vowing to confront whatever evil lurked there.

But as the sun rose, no one emerged. The entire group disappeared without a trace.

From then on, the graveyard remained silent. No glowing-eyed figures, no strange sightings. Just an eerie quiet, as if the land itself had swallowed its secrets whole.

But every once and a while, on cool, quiet nights, people say they hear faint whispers from the graveyard—like voices trapped between this world and the next, waiting for someone foolish enough to open the gate again.

Once, before men’s ambitions and their wagons rattled across every inch of this old Earth, there lay a little green patch amid a whole lot of brown nothing. That oasis, an emerald in a dustpan, became known to the weary pioneers as Humboldt Wells.

And why not? It had springs clear as a preacher’s conscience, or at least his pre-sermon one, and meadows so lush that even a mule might whistle a tune of gratitude.

From the 1840s to the 1870s, this spot was as good a rest stop as any along the California Trail—a rustic paradise where the overland emigrants paused to fatten their livestock and thin their tempers. Humboldt Wells even rivaled all other watering holes, and for twenty years, it existed as a kind of ghostly stagecoach passenger: always present, never staying.

When Nevada strutted onto the national stage in 1864, Humboldt Wells didn’t even make the state line—it remained part of Utah Territory, a political afterthought at best. It wasn’t until Congress, with a flourish of its almighty pen in 1866, handed over a sliver of land that Humboldt Wells finally joined the Nevada fold, whether it cared to or not.

When the iron horse thundered across the plains and the Central Pacific Railroad rolled into Humboldt Wells, the place got its first taste of civilization—or what passed for it. A water tower sprouted like some mechanical cactus, and a humble boxcar parked beside the tracks served as the station. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to lure a bar into existence, which naturally meant civilization had officially arrived.

The Bulls Head Saloon staked its claim as the town’s first permanent structure, followed by the obligatory livery stable, telegraph office, general store, and—of course—another bar. In those days, a man could set up a town with only whiskey and grit.

Then came the Chinese workers, left behind after the railroad handshake at Promontory, Utah, in 1869, where East finally met West, and they both awkwardly pretended they’d been on time. These industrious souls built a bustling Chinatown with cafes, stores, and laundries. Some even took to living in underground hovels—a choice that likely confused the gophers but suited the pioneers’ brand of practicality.

By 1873, Humboldt Wells was feeling its oats and decided to drop the “Humboldt,” shortening its name to just Wells. It had grown to a respectable town of 300, with a school where the morning bell wasn’t a bell but a locomotive’s dulcet whistle. And, if that isn’t a quintessentially Western symphony, I don’t know what is.

Through the years, Wells proved to be a master of adaptation. When one economic leg got kicked out from under it, the town leaned on another.

Mining went bust? Ranching picked up the slack. Railroads shifted priorities? Well, the highways came along just in time. And when even the mighty steam engines gave way to diesel beasts, Wells shook its head, rolled up its sleeves, and kept going, much like the trains it had faithfully served.

Today, Wells sits at the crossroads of Interstate 80 and US 93, still a pit stop for the weary traveler. It boasts truck stops, a golf course, and a museum celebrating the emigrants who once cursed and prayed through town. Angel Lake sparkles in the nearby Ruby Mountains, overlooking the place like a guardian angel with a soft spot for Nevadans.

Wells has never been a boomtown, so it never keeled over dead like its many mining camp cousins. The folks are tough–weathered by the desert sun and tempered by the hard times that always come knocking.

They’ve taken the cards life dealt them—crooked as they sometimes were—and played their hand with all the grit and gumption that the West demands. And for that, Wells stands today, not as a boomtown or a ghost town, but as a reminder that the best towns aren’t born in gold rushes or railroad booms—some get forged by the resolve of people who refuse to quit.

Down in ma cups, I tried tae drown,
The gloom that haunts me every day,
Aye, climbin’ in, a bottle’s crown,
Hoping it’ll wash ma cares away.

‘Tis no’ love’s loss, nor bitter tears,
No loneliness that holds me tight,
But chemical waltz feeds ma fears,
More thistle than rose in the night.

Perchance I’ve lost ma mind for sure,
Yet cannae tell the reason why,
Seekin’ wish at the whiskey’s lure,
Genie deep in a glassy sigh.

At long last, I reckon I’ve deciphered the sage musings of Charles Earl Bowles—Black Bart, the poetic plunderer—when he scribbled down his verses and left them behind for the bank detectives to puzzle over. Then again, maybe I knew the truth all along but was too busy being bamboozled by life’s little indignities to add two and two and get the proper answer before now.

“I’ve labored long and hard for bread,
For honor, and for riches,
But on my corns too long you’ve tread,
You fine-haired sons of bitches.”

My tribulations, mind you, do not come by way of any six-shooter-wielding highwayman but by a more refined species of scoundrel—the erudite kind with college degrees, fine waistcoats, and a constitution that forbids labor but encourages the squeezing of the workingman till he hollers for mercy. These gentle people rob a body without the discourtesy of a mask or a pistol, preferring the pen, the ledger, and the unholy arithmetic of compound interest.

“An erudite bastard’s wits run deep,
Yet silver is a prize they’ll never keep.
For their rusty tongues and ink-stained hands
Ain’t worth a damn in law abided lands.”

And while I ain’t inclined to take up robbery just yet, I do find myself contemplating the dubious honor of being flat busted, wondering where the next house payment is coming from, and whether any enterprising soul is in the market for an elderly cuss such as myself—one who still knows a thing or two, but ain’t got the needed papers to prove it.

The ranch hands had taken to calling Steve “Old Man” or “Pops,” though he wore his years like a badge of honor. At forty-six, he had a decade and a half on most of them, but his calloused hands and wiry frame left no doubt he could still pull his weight.

When Joey—barely more than a kid—told him he was too old to be breaking roughstock, Steve’s blue eyes twinkled with a challenge. He swung himself atop a twisting cyclone of a horse and rode it to a standstill, the boys hollering and clapping from the corral rails.

But pride comes with a price. As Steve dismounted, he didn’t see the hooves coming. The horse lashed out, striking him square in the head and shoulders, then trampled him in the arena dirt.

The men scrambled, hauling him to the bunkhouse and laying him on his cot. Cookie, the camp’s cook and de facto medic examined him with a grim shake of his head.

“Man needs a doctor,” he muttered.

But they were miles from the nearest highway, and snow-heavy clouds were already rolling in.

Steve stirred as Cookie wrapped his head in bandages.

Raspy and determined, his voice cut through the murmurs. “It’s gonna snow. Big one. You better gather the boys.”

Jose, the young vaquero assigned to keep watch over him, exchanged a look with Cookie, who stepped outside just as the first flakes began to fall. Within an hour, the ranch was a hive of activity.

Cowboys bundled in heavy coats and scarves saddled their horses, preparing to round up cattle scattered across two hundred acres of open land. The snow was approaching quickly, and if they failed to move the herd, they would lose more than just a few to the cold.

Steve watched the preparations from his cot, his jaw tight with frustration. He tried to sit up, but his body rebelled, a sharp reminder of his injuries.

“’Fore they tail up and freeze,” he muttered, wishing he could saddle up and ride with the boys.

Instead, he sank back into the cot and closed his eyes as the yard grew quiet. When Steve woke again, it was dark and silent, save for the howl of the wind.

His body ached, but his mind was clear. Hours slipped by, the storm hammering the bunkhouse. By morning, the snow was piled in drifts, deep and treacherous.

Steve swung his legs over the side of the cot, his determination outweighing his pain. He willed himself to stand, gripping the back of a chair until the dizziness passed.

Dressed in layers against the bitter cold, he stumbled to the barn and saddled his horse. The wind nearly knocked him off his feet, but he pressed on, driving himself toward Thompson Draw. He knew cattle would seek shelter there, hunkered against the canyon walls where the wind couldn’t bite so deep.

After hours of grueling effort, he found the handful of cows half-buried in the snow. Steve whooped and hollered, his voice echoing off the rock walls, spurring the cattle to their feet.

They balked and turned, trying to retreat to the safety of the canyon, but Steve’s horse blocked their way.

“Not today,” he growled, forcing them to move.

He drove them out of the draw, their hooves breaking a path through the drifts.

As night fell, Steve found himself in unfamiliar territory. The canyon narrowed into a treacherous path, and the snow showed no mercy.

He relied on instinct, driving the cattle downhill through the dark. The wind burned his face raw, and his hands were numb around the reins, but he pushed on.

When dawn broke, the sun rose in a direction that left Steve uneasy. He’d taken a wrong turn in the dark, but the snow was thinning now, giving way to dry ground. Once the sun was high, the herd and horse stood on open range where the storm hadn’t touched.

Steve sat tall in the saddle, his body aching and his stomach growling, but his heart swelled with satisfaction. Below him stretched a landscape painted in hues of red rock and sagebrush, beautiful and unforgiving.

He tipped his hat back, drawing a deep breath of the clean, dry air, allowing the sun to warm his numbed body. His job finished, cattle safe, and that was enough.

When a man has been around long enough, he knows when he sees a rigged game. I saw it clear as day.

At every turn, a new contraption of misery came into play until making an honest living felt less like a job and more like a traveling circus act. I did my best to keep jumping the fences, but after a while, they got so high I started leaving bits of myself hanging on the barbed wire—pants, dignity, and other necessary accouterments of a man.

The final insult that broke the camel’s back and possibly its spirit was the sudden and mysterious reduction in pay. I inquired, as a man is wont to do when he finds his pockets have grown lighter through no fault of his own, but my inquiry met an impressive display of silence.

For two long hours, my email sat ignored with such commitment that I had no choice but to bring in the big boss. Even she proved more of a decorative figure, as she promised a phone call that never came—a fine display of executive-level vanishing acts.

To add insult to injury, the author of this lament found hisself promptly dismissed over a comment on social media. The door wasn’t merely closed; it got bolted, barred, and possibly bricked up with a commemorative plaque reading, Here Lies the Career of One Who Spoke Too Freely. Were there a chimney, they’d have stuffed that shut, too.

After hours of waiting for a reply that never arrived and several medicinal applications of bourbon, I began pondering the situation. Where else is a man of advanced years supposed to vent his frustrations but in the public square—or, failing that, the digital watering hole of our modern age? Alas, the answer is clear: nowhere.

And so, with my fate sealed and prospects dim, I am doing the only thing a man of principle can do—I picked myself up, dusted off my wounded pride, and moved on. It might have made a compelling article or short story if the whole affair were not so pitiful.

Either way, it’s bound to be worth more than what they were paying me.

Ah, the grocery store—a modern arena where humanity’s virtues and vices collide in glorious, fluorescent-lit splendor.

Picture it: I stood there, noble and magnanimous, presiding over a cart with essentials that could double as Noah’s Ark for packaged goods. My patience, like my shopping list, was endless.

Enter Ronald, clutching a loaf of bread and a carton of milk, his visage etched with the weariness of a man deciding between sustenance and surrender. I beckoned him forward.

“Go ahead,” I said, “I insist.”

Now, here is where our tale veers toward the peculiar. Ronald vanished from view and returned moments later, not with bread and milk alone but with the unmistakable amber glint of a small whiskey bottle. He paid for his items, and as he turned to leave, he handed the bottle to me with all the gravitas of a man bestowing a royal scepter.

“Happy Saturday!” he declared, with a smile that could have melted the polar ice caps. “Your kindness has reminded me that good people still walk this earth. This is for you—a small token of my gratitude.”

Now, I must confess, while I accepted his words with the grace of a benevolent deity, inwardly, I was wrestling with a singular thought: Did I just become the proud owner of Ronald’s escape plan?

But his sincerity was disarming, and I was left pondering the profundity of it all.

Perhaps small acts of compassion are the bedrock of society, or maybe I just enabled a man to buy whiskey without the guilt of keeping it for himself. Either way, Ronald shuffled off with his bread, milk, and a lighter heart, leaving me with a bottle of contemplation and, ironically, no plans for a whiskey-based Saturday.

And so, my friends, the moral of this tale is clear: Kindness is its reward. But sometimes, it also comes with a side of liquor.

When I gave a fuck, they fed off me like rats at a banquet, gnawing away until there was nothing left but bones and a half-hearted smile. Every favor, every kind word, every damn ounce of effort—they pocketed it like loose change, never looking back.

Gratitude?

Hell, it wasn’t even in their vocabulary. I was a convenience, a goddamn vending machine of good intentions, and when I finally ran out, they shook me like I owed them more.

But then I said, “Fuck it.” I stopped playing their game by lighting myself on fire to keep their pathetic asses warm. And that’s when the knives came out.

Oh, the outrage. I was selfish now, cruel, cold-hearted. The same people who bled me dry were suddenly victims of my indifference, all saints, crucified on the altar of my apathy.

The hypocrisy is enough to choke on. When you care, you get stripped bare. When you don’t–you become the villain in their two-bit morality play.

Here’s the thing: I’ll take the villainy. I’ll wear the black hat and ride off into the sunset while sitting in a circle jerk of self-pity.

Let them talk. Let them stew.

I’ve got nothing left to give, and for the first time in my life, that’s freedom.