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My home carries on through the night like a mule protesting its burdens. I attributed the racket to the wind—until last evening when I bumped into a cowboy ghost loitering in the hallway.

I was headed to the kitchen to seek solace in a warm glass of milk, but I found myself face-to-face with a spirit that had no intention of keeping to itself. He tipped his spectral hat and regarded me curiously as the tears streamed down his face.

“Why’re you leaking?” I asked.

“Men don’t cry,” he tried declaring, throat as dry as tumbleweed.

“Well, they do,” I said, “though half the time they don’t know they’re doing it until they’re screaming at the sky, punching a barn door, or wringing their hands in a church pew. Men cry all the time—even cowboys.”

At this, the ghost let loose a scoff that could’ve rattled a tin roof. “That’s a heap of bull if ever I heard.”

I wasn’t about to be cowed by a ghost, so I forged ahead.

“Men cry,” I said, “when they see their children’s eyes for the first time or when the western wind hugs them like an old campfire blanket. They cry, telling a wild tale at a friend’s funeral or casting a fishing line, pretending it’s just the sun stinging their eyes. They cry seeing a bill they can’t pay on time or when curling up with the dog they didn’t want but now couldn’t live without. Sometimes they cry from laughing too hard, ribs aching under the weight of all the things they can’t say out loud. They cry when they sip whiskey, when they pluck a guitar string in an empty room, or when they hold the one they love and sway under a sky so full of stars it seems ready to spill over. Men cry,” I said, “to remind themselves they’re still alive.”

The ghost’s glowing eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought he might challenge me to a duel, but instead, he dissolved into a mist and seeped through the floor planks, fleeing from a truth he’d spent eternity avoiding.

That night, as my house resumed its usual symphony of complaints, I heard something new—a low, soft weeping rising from the vent, mingling with the faint strains of a guitar ballad. It wasn’t a tune I knew, but it carried the sound of a heart shedding its burdens, one chord at a time.

When the house finally settled into silence, I realized the ghost was gone for good. I reckon even the spirits of cowboys need to cry sometimes. It’s how they cut the ties that bind them to this world—same as the rest of us.

So take it from me: whether you’re alive, dead, or something in between, there’s no shame in a tear. It’s just the soul’s way of stretching its legs.

Even out here, in this wild west world where the men are tough as old boots, there’s no escaping it. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the way it ought to be.

It’s a peculiar thing about human beings that they’ll dabble in the most unnecessary experiments to prove a point that nobody asked to be proven. It is a quirk that sets us apart from the rest of nature.

You’ll never catch a fox lugging a hornet’s nest back to its den for decoration, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a mule trying to lick an icicle in January to see if it’ll stick. But humanity, bless its eternal curiosity, has a knack for such foolishness.

And so, we find ourselves at the bathtub, where some bright soul—no doubt armed with both hubris and a spare toaster—decides to test the compatibility of electricity and water. I reckon this idea sprouted from a restless mind that sees a roaring fire and wonders what might happen if they poke it with a stick of dynamite.

The toaster, in its natural state, is an innocent enough contraption. Its sole purpose in life is to crisp up bread.

But man, unsatisfied with a mere golden crust, has sought to challenge this simple appliance in ways never designed to endure. And what better arena for this challenge than the steamy porcelain coliseum of the bathtub?

There’s a particular madness in the method. You’re lounging there, surrounded by warmth and soap suds, feeling as close to nirvana as a mortal can get outside a hammock on a Sunday afternoon.

And then comes the toaster, clutched in wet hands, teetering on the edge of destiny. Why, the very notion sends the angels scattering in alarm and the devils lining up for a front-row seat.

Now, some might call it bravery; others, lunacy. Me? I’d call it a way to turn a relaxing soak into a pyrotechnic finale.

The instant that toaster kisses the water, the bath transforms into a spectacle that would put a Fourth of July firework display to shame. The bubbles fizz, the lights flicker, and your tub has enough sparks to light up Times Square.

It’s a tragic comedy—a partnership doomed from the start. Electricity and water are like feuding in-laws: they don’t mix, and together by force, someone’s bound to get fried.

The toaster, faithful to its craft, becomes an unwilling executioner. And the bather, instead of emerging refreshed and squeaky clean, achieves enlightenment that is less transcendental and more terminal.

So let this be a lesson–if you’re thinking of bringing your toaster into the bath, think twice. Stick to rubber duckies and a good book.

There’s enough excitement in this world without tempting the kind of fate that makes the obituary pages sparkle.

Some adventures are better left unexplored—particularly those involving being electrocuted in the pursuit of toasted bliss.

You can’t keep knockin’ my noggin against a brick wall, expectin’ the wall to up and apologize for your actions. That’s about as useful as tryin’ to teach a mule algebra.

Those bricks ain’t changin’ their ways, no matter how much you plead or pout. Bricks are stubborn things, and, truth be told, most folks ain’t much different.

Now, you can’t go treatin’ people like the scrapings off your boots, especially when they’re out here tryin’ to lend you a hand. Even if they’re bumble-footed and bunglin’ about like a hobby bull in a china shop, they’re still people—flawed and fantastic.

And don’t let their momentary clumsiness fool you; even the most down-on-their-luck soul is bound to catch their own worth one day. They’ll stand tall, dust themselves off, and say, “I reckon I’m more than just mortar for your wall.”

But here’s where the trouble starts. Lines get drawn, friendships crumble, and kin’s cast aside like last week’s sermon notes. It’s in our nature, see.

Humans are about as predictable as Nevada weather—bright and warm one minute, with a storm’s fury the next. And when the wind shifts, you’d best be ready because there ain’t no holdin’ it back.

And here’s a final thought: no man or woman stays the same. We’re like tadpoles turnin’ into frogs, leapin’ away from the ponds we once called home.

So if you keep treatin’ folks like they’re part of some construction project, don’t be surprised when they hop away–a-leavin’ you with nothin’ but a pile of bricks, a good, hard lesson about stubbornness and being unfriended–which remains done.

While awaiting the return of my hound, Buddy, battling an infection in the recesses of the veterinary clinic, I found myself at the front desk, requesting a cup of coffee. In their infinite benevolence, they provide a veritable cornucopia of Keurig containers, with promises of caffeinated elixirs to soothe the anxious soul.

Armed with three chocolate chip cookies and the harmonious symphony of the coffee maker gurgling a serenade, I witnessed a curious scene.

A woman waltzed into the clinic and, with an air of solemnity, proclaimed, “I’m here for ashes.”

As quick as a jackrabbit in a thunderstorm, a dutiful attendant scurried into an adjacent room, undoubtedly on a mission of utmost importance, as I, in a moment of misguided empathy, turned to the woman and, with the gravitas of a funeral director, intoned, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The woman regarded me with a gaze that could strip the bark from an Aspen tree and responded, “My dog is named Ashes.”

At this revelation, my face turned a shade redder than the throat of a Ruby-throated Hummingbird in full mating display. Another attendant, displaying impeccable timing, handed me my coffee, and I slinked away, cookies in tow, vowing to keep my nose firmly out of other folk’s affairs.

Later, as I settled my bill with all the grace of a chastened schoolboy, I mentioned my mortification to the kindly coffee-bearer, saying, “I was so embarrassed, I could have crawled into a cave and died.”

Without missing a beat and with a wry smile, she asked, “Would an urn do?”

Ah, the tangled web of the newspaper game. It is a profession where best-laid plans are as likely to trip over their own ink-stained feet as they are to strike gold—or, in this case, government financial reports.

Allow me to relate one escapade that began with the noble pursuit of truth and ended with a detour. The evening was as bleak as a congressman’s explanation of public debt, and my spirits were about as buoyant.

Deadlines loomed, and my editor had promised unspeakable consequences if I returned empty-handed from my hunt for the government’s latest financial report. I stumbled out of the office, pondering my plight, when I spotted the familiar gait of a rival reporter.

She worked for the competition, but for the moment, necessity made her an ally—or so I hoped.

“Where you headed?” I asked, affecting a casual tone as though I were out for a midnight stroll and not scrambling to avoid professional ruin.

“After the government financial report,” she replied.

“Mind if I tag along?” I ventured.

She stopped, turned, and looked at me with a disdain usually reserved for a used car salesman caught in a lie. “No, sir. They don’t like you or your newspaper.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” I said, sighing as though the news had crushed my tender heart. “But fair enough.”

We walked on, and as we passed a bar, the scent of food wafting out, curling around us like a siren’s call. She hesitated, gazing at the doorway with a longing usually reserved for a long-lost lover.

“I could use a short drink,” she admitted, “but the report won’t wait.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “But if you ever need assistance, I’ll be at your service—provided it doesn’t interfere with my own deadline, of course.”

That seemed to soften her. “All right,” she said. “You can help me copy the report. But no tricks, mind you.”

We procured the report—an uninspiring little document filled with numbers that would have put an insomniac to sleep—and returned to the bar. I copied the text while she indulged in whiskey.

The arrangement seemed equitable until I noticed she was making extraordinary progress on the bottle I had purchased. By the time I jotted down the last figure, she had developed a cheerfulness one could only describe as catastrophic.

We parted ways, she toward the nebulous regions of journalistic ambition, and I to the office, where I triumphantly delivered the report to my editor. My satisfaction was short-lived as not long after we went to press, the door to our office burst open, and in strode the editor of the rival paper, his face as red as his ledger.

“Have you seen my reporter?” he bellowed. “She’s gone missing, and the report is nowhere to be found.”

Feigning innocence, I offered my condolences and suggested she might have gotten sidetracked. The man stormed out, muttering oaths that made the wallpaper blush.

It wasn’t long before the missing journalist was discovered in another bar, delivering an impassioned speech on the sins of government waste. Her audience, a group of intoxicated folks, greeted her every pronouncement with thunderous applause. Her editor carted her off as she protested that she had not yet reached her most damning conclusion.

Naturally, the competition’s paper went to press without the report, and naturally, the blame for this fell squarely on my shoulders. I protested my innocence—truthfully, I had done nothing but watch the evening unfold—but the aggrieved parties were not inclined to believe me.

And so, I learned that in journalism, as in life, the path to success is paved with failures, mine included. As for the financial report, it was published in our paper the next day, ignored with the enthusiasm it so richly deserved.

It was as if I were dreaming. A soft, surreal haze enveloped me as I opened my eyes, only to find myself surrounded by a group of alien Grays.

Their large, unblinking eyes hovered above me like something out of a nightmare. Before I could process what was happening, I felt a sharp pinch at the back of my left knee.

The sudden pain jolted me awake, so I inspected the area and found a small bump, like a bug bite. I shrugged it off as a half-remembered dream, rolled over, and fell asleep.

Years passed, and life moved on. My wife and I had just moved into a new apartment, still in the midst of unpacking boxes and settling in.

She suggested grabbing fast food for dinner one evening, and I happily agreed. I heard the front door close and her head down the stairs, footsteps fading into the quiet night.

Walking into the bathroom, I heard the front door open again, far sooner than expected.

“What’s the matter? Did you forget something?” I called out.

As I returned to the hallway, she stood there with a bag of burgers and a pair of sodas in a holder. Confused about how she’d managed to get the food so quickly, I started to ask, but before I could finish, she cut me off.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, her voice edged with concern.

I looked down to see a dark red stain spreading across the left leg of my sweatpants. Puzzled, I pulled them down to my ankles. There, at the front of my knee, was a small wound, oozing blood.

Together, we leaned closer. A tiny, dark object, no larger than a grain of rice, was slowly pushing its way out of the wound. My wife, instinctively using her fingertips, plucked it free. She held it out, placing the mysterious object in my hand.

“What is it?” we wondered aloud, but before we could form a theory, the object disintegrated into fine dust, slipping through my fingers as though it had never existed.

The wound stopped bleeding almost immediately, and within two days, it had nearly healed, leaving no trace of its presence—except for the lingering question: what had just happened?

 

It was hard to imagine anything worse than starting high school in a town with a population smaller than the cheerleading squad back in Reno. But that was Janie Wilson’s life now–Virginia City.

A town so small and quiet it might as well have been the afterlife, except the dead were probably better company than the local kids she’d so far met. Her dad called it “a fresh start,” but it felt more like exile.

She knew why they were here—it was her fault, even if they didn’t say it out loud. One little “incident” back in Reno, and suddenly, Janie was a problem that needed fixing.

“It’s not punishment, sweetheart,” her mom had said on the short, winding drive into the mountains. “It’s a chance to figure out who you are. To learn control.”

Control. That was the word everyone said as if Janie was some rabid animal instead of a girl who’d just gotten carried away.

She hadn’t meant for that cheerleader to fly across the gym, just like she hadn’t meant to rip the locker door clean off its hinges. But try explaining that to a bunch of humans who couldn’t even imagine the strength it took to hold yourself back every second of every day.

Virginia City wasn’t like Reno. Here, she wasn’t the odd one for having “abilities.” She was downright ordinary compared to the werewolves, vampires, and sirens who lived in the cracks and shadows of this tiny mountain town.

The first time she saw a man in a miner’s slouch hat casually phase into mist and float through the wall of the Washoe Club, she nearly lost her lunch. But no one else blinked an eye.

Her dad was born here, and it showed. He knew everyone—called them “Old Pete” and “Crazy Marge,” like it was still the Wild West.

The locals welcomed him back with open arms, though their smiles were too toothy for her liking. Janie wasn’t sure if they saw her as part of the family or just another new chew toy.

The first week was a blur of introductions and awkward silences.

“You’ll fit right in,” her dad kept saying–but Janie wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like she wanted to fit in with a bunch of kids who spent their free time hunting jackrabbits or practicing their bloodlust in the old mining tunnels.

But then the town began to shift.

It started small. A boarded-up storefront would collapse at night, splintered wood scattered across the boardwalk.

An abandoned mine shaft caved in without warning, sending a plume of dust spiraling into the air. Then it got stranger. The ground trembled beneath their feet during morning announcements at school, and everyone acted like it was just another Tuesday.

Janie started asking questions.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” her dad said, pouring another cup of coffee like the whole town wasn’t falling apart. “This place has always been a little… restless.”

“Restless how?” she pressed.

“Just the usual. Ghosts, echoes, whatever you want to call them. Don’t go poking around, Janie. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

But she couldn’t let it go.

In Reno, she’d thought her parents were overreacting, dragging her away from everything she knew for a “safer” environment. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Because whatever had caused her powers to flare up back there—it felt like it had followed her here. She could feel it, thrumming in the air, humming through the old wooden beams of the saloons and the rusted metal of the old train tracks.

The final straw came when she saw the Julia Bulette statue.

Virginia City didn’t have much in the way of landmarks, but the locals were proud of their connection to the famous prostitute. Her wooden likeness stood at the mouth of Six Mile Canyon.

But one night, walking home from the diner, Janie swore she saw it move. Not just move—crack. Fissures ran along the base, spiderwebbing up her dress, and her face twisted into something that looked less than friendly and more like a grimace.

She blinked, and it was back to normal.

“Don’t go near Six Mile Canyon,” her dad warned her, his voice unusually sharp. “Stay away from the mines. And for God’s sake, don’t mess with that statue.”

The thing was, Janie wasn’t messing with anything. It was messing with her.

And now she had to figure out why.

The answer came piecemeal, the way everything did in Virginia City. No one wanted to give her a straight explanation, just ominous half-warnings and jittery looks.

Her dad wouldn’t budge when she pressed him. “Some things are better left alone, Janie,” he said, staring down at his coffee.

“Better left alone? That’s the best you’ve got?” She was furious, her voice rising. “Dad, the whole town is cracking apart! I’m not stupid. I know it’s connected to what happened in Reno. If I can’t figure out what’s going on—”

He cut her off. “You’re not going to that canyon. End of discussion.”

So, of course, she went to the canyon.

The place was less than a mile from the center of town, but it felt like another world entirely. The main road dipped into the valley, but Janie cut across the scrubby hillside, her sneakers crunching through dry sagebrush and across rocks.

There was no mistaking it when she crossed the threshold. The air seemed thicker and heavier–like she’d walked into a room where someone had just whispered her name.

The mines loomed dark and hollow, their gaping entrances scattered across the canyon like open mouths. Janie couldn’t explain why, but she felt drawn to them.

It was a pull in her gut, the same instinct she’d felt back in Reno before her powers exploded. She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder, half-expecting to see someone following her.

That’s when she noticed the stillness.

There was no wind, no rustling of leaves, no chirp of insects. Even Janie’s footsteps sounded muffled like the canyon swallowed the noise whole.

And then she saw it.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the light—a shimmer in the air, like heatwaves rising off the desert. But as she got closer, the shimmer took shape.

It was indistinct and wavering, standing just outside a mine entrance. It didn’t move or speak–just stood there, waiting.

Her breath caught. She should have turned back right then, back to the safety of her dad’s cryptic warnings and the cramped, creaky house. But something about the figure held her in place. It felt familiar, like a dream she couldn’t quite remember.

“Hello?” she called, her voice trembling.

The figure didn’t respond, but the air around it seemed to ripple, and the ground beneath her feet gave a low, resonant groan. Janie stumbled back, her heart pounding.

The groan turned into a rumble, and then the mine seemed to exhale, sending dust and ash into the air. And just like that, the figure was gone.

Janie stood there, coughing and shaking, staring at the mine entrance. She wanted to believe it was just her imagination, but deep down, she knew the truth.

Six Mile Canyon wasn’t just a place people avoided because it was creepy or dangerous. It was alive, and it didn’t want her there.

And yet, whatever was down there in the mines—whatever was hiding in the cracks of this strange, secret town—it wanted her to come back. And, of course, she went back.

Janie Wilson had a lot of flaws—impulsive, stubborn, a little too curious for her good—but cowardice wasn’t one of them. The canyon had challenged her, whispered something she couldn’t quite hear, and she wasn’t about to let it win.

Besides, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just about her anymore. The cracks in the town, the restless energy in the air, the unease that sat heavy in her chest—none of it had started until she arrived.

She thought she’d escaped the mess made in Reno, but now it felt like she’d just brought it with her. Six Mile Canyon might hold the answers, and she wouldn’t stop until she found them.

The second time, she went at night. With a flashlight in one hand and her nerves tightly wound in the other, she slipped out the back door and headed for the canyon.

The air was colder this time, biting at her cheeks and fingertips as she crept down the rocky slope. The mines loomed ahead, darker and more forbidding than she remembered, but she forced herself to keep moving. She felt the pull again, stronger now, like an invisible hand tugging at her ribs.

She stopped at the same mine entrance, her flashlight trembling as it swept over the gaping blackness. For a long moment, she just stood there, her heart hammering in her chest. Then she took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The air was stale and metallic, thick with the scent of earth and something she couldn’t quite place—something sharp, like ozone before a thunderstorm. Her footsteps echoed against the walls, each one louder than the last, until the mine itself was breathing around her.

And then she heard it, a voice. It wasn’t clear or human but more like a vibration that settled into her bones, but she understood it all the same.

“You have come back.”

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. The flashlight flickered, and for a second, she was in darkness. When the light came back, she wasn’t alone.

The figure was there, but it was no longer shimmering. It had taken form, solid and almost human, except its eyes glowed faintly in the dark—two pinpricks of light that cut through the shadows.

“Who are you?” she managed to whisper.

The figure tilted its head, and the movement was so slow, so deliberate, it sent a shiver down her spine.

“We are the faultlines,” it said, its voice like gravel grinding beneath her feet. “We are what was buried. And you…” It paused, and she swore she saw it smile, sharp and toothy. “…you are the crack.”

The ground beneath her trembled harder this time, and she stumbled, nearly dropping the flashlight. The walls of the mine seemed to close around her, the air growing thicker with every passing second.

“Why me?” she asked, her voice breaking.

The figure didn’t answer. Instead, it raised one hand—a clawed, gnarled thing—and pointed into the mine.

The pull in her chest grew unbearable, almost painful, and against every ounce of common sense, she started walking. She didn’t know what she expected to find, but whatever it was, Janie was sure of one thing–she wasn’t going to like it.

Janie had no idea what she was doing. She wasn’t a hero, someone who stared danger in the face and came out on top.

Hell, Janie wasn’t even a good student. But as she followed the figure into the mine, she realized something–she didn’t get to choose.

Whatever was happening here, whatever she was—it would not stop. Not unless she stopped it first.

The air grew colder as she descended, and her flashlight faltered again. She tapped it against her palm, muttering curses under her breath until it finally steadied. The figure had disappeared into the darkness ahead, but the pull in her chest guided her like a string tied to her ribs.

The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, the walls glittering with veins of quartz and something darker, almost oily. In the center of the room was a massive fissure, a jagged tear in the earth that pulsed faintly with a sickly green light.

It wasn’t natural—she could feel that much. It was alive, and it was hungry.

The figure reappeared on the far side of the fissure, its glowing eyes fixed on her.

“You are the crack,” it repeated, echoing through the chamber. “You opened the door. Now you must close it.”

“I don’t even know what I did,” Janie shouted, her voice bouncing off the walls.

The figure tilted its head again, and she felt that awful, toothy smile in her bones. “Yes, you do.”

And suddenly, she did.

The memories came rushing back, sharp and vivid. The cheerleaders sneered at her in the locker room.

The rage that boiled over, the surge of energy she couldn’t control. The feeling of the world cracking open around her, just for a moment.

She hadn’t just lost control. She’d torn something.

The fissure pulsed again, and she felt its pull like a magnet, dragging her closer. Her body screamed to run, but her feet wouldn’t obey. She was part of this now, tied to it in a way she couldn’t undo.

The figure stepped closer, its form shifting and rippling like a mirage. “Close the door,” it said, its voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Or it will take everything.”

Janie’s hands clenched into fists. “How?”

The figure raised its clawed hand and pointed at her chest. “You already know.”

She looked down, her heart hammering. The pull in her chest wasn’t just some strange instinct—it was the same energy that had caused the crack in the first place. She could feel it, coursing through her veins, a wildfire waiting.

But this time, she wasn’t going to lose control.

Janie stepped closer to the fissure, the green light washing over her skin. She could feel it fighting her, pulling at her thoughts, memories, everything that made her her. But she held on, gritting her teeth and focusing on the energy inside her.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, her voice steady.

The fissure pulsed violently, but she didn’t back down. She closed her eyes, reaching deep into herself, finding the thread of power that had always been. Slowly, she began to pull it back, reeling it in like a fisherman hauling in a heavy net.

The fissure screamed—or maybe it was her mind screaming—but she didn’t stop. The green light began to fade, the jagged edges of the crack knitting together like a wound healing in fast forward.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over.

Janie opened her eyes to find the chamber dark and silent. The fissure was gone, replaced by smooth stone. The figure was nowhere to be seen.

She collapsed to her knees, gasping for air, her body trembling from the effort. She had done it. She didn’t know how, but she had.

When she finally stumbled out of the mine and into the cool night air, the stars above her seemed brighter than ever. She didn’t feel like a hero. She didn’t feel like a superhero, either.

She felt like a girl who had a second chance.

Deep down, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the door she had closed wasn’t gone. But now she knew how to close them, and that was control.

Data analysts with the Election Truth Alliance (ETA), a non-partisan non-profit organization focused on election analysis, have completed an independent investigation into ballot-level voting data in Clark County for the 2024 U.S. Presidential Election. Their findings suggest patterns consistent with vote manipulation, similar to those in countries with confirmed election interference, such as Georgia and Russia.

The analysis revealed drop-off vote irregularities across multiple swing states, raising concerns about potential county-level manipulation. Kamala Harris appeared to underperform consistently in five states, including Nevada, which analysts flagged as a significant anomaly warranting further investigation.

Drop-off votes, which refer to the difference between ballots cast in the Presidential race and the subsequent down-ballot race, exhibited unusual patterns. In Nevada’s 2024 election, this meant examining the disparity between the Presidential and Senate races.

In December 2024, Clark County publicly released its Cast Vote Record (CVR), a dataset providing ballot-level information for mail-in, early, and election-day voting. The CVR also gave results via tabulation machine, offering a granular view of voting data and letting analysts identify several concerning trends in the county’s voting process.

Nevada’s overall drop-off vote rate for the Presidential election was significantly higher than historical averages, with the disparity particularly pronounced in precincts favoring Harris. Early voting data exhibited additional irregularities.

While mail-in and election-day votes showed no evidence of manipulation, early voting tallies revealed a spike in Donald Trump’s votes when processed by tabulation machines handling higher ballot volumes. The pattern became increasingly distinct as the number of ballots processed rose, with results clustering at approximately 60 percent for Trump and 40 percent for Harris in these machines.

Another anomaly involved the lack of expected randomness in the early voting data’s distribution patterns, a deviation not observed in election day voting results. These trends led analysts to suspect possible vote manipulation targeting early voting processes.

Nathan Taylor, Executive Director of the Election Truth Alliance, explained the implications of their findings: “In the Clark County Early Voting data, we see indications of a potential ‘vote-flipping hack’ that may have shifted votes after 400 ballots were processed, gradually limiting Candidate Harris to near 40 percent and Candidate Trump to a minimum of around 60 percent of vote totals.”

The Election Truth Alliance has called for further investigation into these irregularities. The consistency of the patterns identified in Clark County and other swing states underscores the need for transparency and a thorough review to ensure public confidence in the electoral process.

Clark and Washoe County share the same algorithm and the same possible datasets.

Marshal Elijah Turner was riding through the scrubland, his horse, Samson, kicking dust behind him. The sun was high, and the heat was relentless, but his mind was elsewhere.

He heard the voices before he saw the scene: two men, their voices harsh and cruel, laughing over some dark jest. Rounding a bend, he saw them—two white men, rough and bearded, with the look of troublemakers. They had an Indian man strung up on his horse, which they ran off on purpose, leaving him to swing by his neck, his feet barely touching the ground.

“Hold it right there!” Elijah shouted, his voice carrying the authority of the law.

The two men turned, surprise and then contempt flashing across their faces. One of them, a man named Jeb, spat on the ground. “What do we have here? The law? And a Nigra one at that?”

“Cut him down,” Elijah commanded, his hand resting on his Colt revolver.

The other man, Silas, chuckled, “This ain’t your business, Marshal. This Injun’s been caught stealin’. We’re just doin’ what’s needed.”

Elijah eyed the Indian, his face turning blue, desperation in his eyes. “He’s still a man under the law, and you’re not judge, jury, or executioner. Cut him down, now!”

Jeb sneered, “And what if we don’t?”

Without hesitation, Elijah drew his revolver. “Then I’ll cut you down.”

The tension snapped like a dry twig. Silas went for his gun, but Elijah was quicker, his bullet finding its mark. Seeing his partner fall, Jeb tried to draw, but Elijah’s second shot rang out, echoing across the empty plains.

With both men down, Elijah holstered his gun and hurried to the Indian, quickly cutting the rope. The man gasped for air, falling to his knees.

“What’s your name?” Elijah asked, helping him to stand.

“Two Moons,” the Indian managed between breaths.

“Two Moons, you’re safe now. Can you walk?”

With his help, Two Moons stood, regaining some strength. “Why?” he asked, looking at the dead men.

“Because this land needs more justice and less hate,” Elijah replied.

Together, they took the horses of the two outlaws and their dead bodies and rode towards the nearest settlement of Como, where Two Moons could maybe find sanctuary, and Elijah would report the incident.

 

Without liberty, peace and security are illusions of contentment shrouded in chains. True peace is not the mere absence of conflict, nor is security solely the assurance of safety.

Both are hollow if they demand the surrender of one’s freedom. Liberty is the force that transforms peace into harmony and security into empowerment.

When liberty is stripped away, peace becomes a coerced silence—a brittle stillness born of fear, where dissent is stifled, and individuality is smothered. It is the quietude of submission, not the vibrancy of unity. Security, under these conditions, morphs into surveillance and control. The promise of protection becomes a pretext for domination, where the walls that shield also imprison.

History bears witness to this paradox. Societies that prioritize order above all and forsake the freedoms of their citizens may achieve fleeting stability. Yet, such stability is fragile, resting on the suppression of the human spirit. Over time, the desire for liberty stirs, breaking the bonds of tyranny and shattering the façade of peace.

Liberty is not without cost; it demands vigilance and courage. It requires the willingness to embrace uncertainty and to endure the risks that come with the exercise of free will. But it is through liberty that peace gains its dignity—a peace chosen, not imposed. Similarly, security grounded in freedom is resilient, fostering trust and mutual respect rather than fear and obedience.

In the balance of peace, security, and liberty, it is liberty that must serve as the foundation. For without it, the others become mere tools of subjugation. As humans, our essence thrives not in confinement but in the boundless pursuit of dreams, ideas, and truths.

Thus, let us remember that peace and security are treasures, but only liberty can make them ours.