The Old Blog in the Desert

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.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man, when given the opportunity to showcase his wit, will almost certainly regret it. The truth was reinforced one evening as my wife and I embarked on the simple yet perilous task of creating a password for our household computer.

As a man of modest intelligence and endless mischief, I aimed to bring some lightness to the proceedings. With a flourish of fingers that would make Mozart weep, I typed, “My penis.”

The response was instantaneous and seismic.

My wife, ordinarily possessed of grace and decorum, collapsed onto the floor in a fit of laughter so violent I feared for her respiration. She waved one trembling hand toward the screen, wordlessly imploring me to witness what had felled her.

Turning my gaze back to the screen, where the computer, in its cold and unfeeling wisdom, had delivered its judgment: “Not long enough.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I have been humbled by many things–time, gravity, and my mother-in-law chief among them—but never before had I been so succinctly eviscerated by a machine.

If this is progress, I want no part of it.

In modern-day Nevada, where sprawling deserts meet neon-lit cities, Tuff found himself in the dim light of a desolate bar in Virginia City, far from the glitz of fancy casinos. The door swung open, and in walked Jackson, a figure from his past, rugged and relentless.

“You know, Tuff,” Jackson began, his voice a gravelly drawl, “I ain’t here for a social visit.”

Tuff looked up, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Don’t suppose you wanna hear my side?”

Jackson shook his head, eyes cold as steel. “Naw. Too late for that.”

Years of bad blood had led to this moment. Once partners, now adversaries.

Tuff stood, the creak of his worn leather jacket barely audible over the tense silence. He knew Jackson was a man of few words but many actions.

“Jackson, this ain’t gonna end well for either of us,” Tuff said, trying to diffuse the tension.

“Should’ve thought of that before you crossed me,” Jackson replied, hand hovering near his side where a gleaming piece of modern weaponry rested.

“You should’ve thought of that before you put me in that position,” Tuff returned. “I see jail didn’t do you no harm.”

The standoff stretched, an eternity packed into mere seconds. The neon lights flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the bar’s walls, accompanied by the faint hum of electricity.

In this new Wild West, it wasn’t just about survival but about reckoning.

Tuff glanced around the bar. The patrons sensed the tension, silently slinking out the back door, leaving an open space like a makeshift arena. The bartender, a grizzled old cuss with more secrets than wrinkles, quietly moved behind the counter, shotgun in hand, leaving the two men to their fate.

“Think about what you’re doing, Jackson,” Tuff pleaded, hoping to sway the inevitable. “We were friends once.”

Jackson’s eyes hardened. “Friends don’t betray each other, Tuff.”

In the blink of an eye, Jackson drew his weapon. But Tuff was no slouch; years of survival had honed his reflexes. Before Jackson could level his aim, Tuff’s hand darted out, knocking the gun aside.

The two men grappled in a furious struggle that spilled over tables and chairs, the bar filling with the sounds of breaking glass and grunts of exertion. Just as Jackson seemed to gain the upper hand, pinning Tuff to the ground, a loud bang echoed through the room.

Jackson froze, eyes wide with shock. Tuff looked up to see the bartender, shotgun in hand, standing protectively behind the counter.

“That’s enough,” the bartender said, his voice steady. “This ain’t the way to settle things.”

Jackson slowly released his grip, stepping back. Tuff scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. The tension in the room was palpable, but the immediate danger had passed.

Tuff looked at Jackson. “Maybe it’s not too late, after all.”

Jackson didn’t respond, his expression unreadable.

The bartender kept his shotgun trained on them, and each man knew their paths would never diverge. The echoes of the past were too strong, binding them together in a web of shared history and unresolved conflict.

Outside, the night was split by a woman’s scream, pulling both men from their personal vendetta to a more urgent matter. Without a moment’s hesitation, they sprang into action. Years of shared history and raw survival instincts kicked in, their differences momentarily forgotten as their past battles flashed before Tuff’s eyes.

“Get the driver!” Tuff shouted, his voice sharp.

Jackson nodded, eyes narrowing as he drew his weapon and fired at the van’s front tire. The tire blew, sending the van careening to a halt in a cloud of dust.

The kidnappers spilled out of the van, their faces masked but their intent clear. The leader, a burly figure with a menacing scowl, barked orders to his accomplices.

Tuff squared off against one of the kidnappers, his movements fluid and precise. His fists flew, each punch landing with the force of years spent brawling in rough bars and back alleys.

The kidnapper swung wildly, but Tuff dodged, his experience giving him the upper hand. With a final blow, Tuff sent the kidnapper sprawling to the ground.

Meanwhile, Jackson faced off against the leader. The man’s strength was formidable, but Jackson’s resolve was unyielding.

They exchanged blows, each strike echoing with the weight of past betrayals and old grudges. Jackson ducked a wild swing, coming up with a punch that connected with the man’s jaw. The leader staggered but didn’t go down.

The other kidnapper, seeing his comrade downed, lunged at Tuff with a knife. But Tuff was ready.

He sidestepped the attack, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting. The knife clattered to the ground, and Tuff delivered a swift, decisive kick that sent the kidnapper reeling.

Jackson, meanwhile, pressed his advantage against the leader. With a final, punishing blow, he knocked the man out cold. Breathing hard, Jackson stood over him, the fire of battle still burning in his eyes.

Tuff and Jackson turned to the woman, who was trembling but unharmed.

“You okay, ma’am?” Tuff asked, his voice gentle despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

She nodded, tears of relief streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Sheriff’s deputies arrived soon after, taking the kidnappers into custody. Tuff and Jackson exchanged a weary nod as they watched the woman escorted to safety.

Tuff turned to Jackson, “Maybe it’s not too late for us,” he said quietly.

Jackson didn’t respond, his face inscrutable. But for the first time in a long while, there was a glimmer of something other than anger in his eyes—perhaps, a slim chance for redemption in the unforgiving land of the modern cowboy.

A reddish moon hung low and lazy in the western Nevada sky, casting long shadows over the scrubland of Five Mile Canyon, south of Virginia City. Cole Anders and Jesse “Buck” Tanner moved with a quiet purpose, their eyes fixed on the cabin where the three killers holed up.

Suddenly, a figure darted from the shadows—a killer, young but hardened by the desert’s harsh lessons, already shooting. Cole reacted first, his hand flashing to his Colt.

The air filled with the sharp crack of gunfire. Cole’s bullet found its mark, and the killer crumpled with a grunt.

But there were more of them. From the cabin burst two more men, their faces twisted in grim determination.

Buck Tanner, his eyes glinting like cold steel, swung the butt of his rifle in a wide arc. The solid thunk of wood meeting flesh was satisfying.

The killer staggered back, clutching his face.

Cole moved with the lithe grace of a mountain lion, closing the distance between himself and the remaining man. They grappled, fists flying in a brutal dance.

Cole’s knuckles met bone, and he felt the give of the man’s jaw. But the kidnapper was no slouch.

He swung a knife, the blade catching the moonlight. Cole felt a sting as the blade grazed his arm, but his focus never wavered.

Buck, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of motion. He dodged a wild swing, delivering a punishing blow to his opponent’s ribs.

The killer gasped, his breath escaping in a painful wheeze. Buck’s rifle came up again, this time slamming into the man’s temple. The killer dropped, his eyes rolling back in his head.

The last man standing, bloodied and desperate, lunged at Cole. But Cole was ready.

With a swift, practiced motion, he disarmed the killer, sending the knife spinning into the dirt. A final punch, delivered with all the power of a seasoned brawler, sent the man sprawling.

The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. Cole and Buck stood amidst the fallen killers, breathing hard but victorious.

The thousand-dollar bounty hung like the promise of rain in a parched desert. The pair would take it without a second thought, for in this unforgiving land, a man had to make his way however he could.

“Whiskey is for drinking, water is for fighting.” They say Mark Twain said that, though I reckon it might’ve been some fellow who’d had too much of the first and not enough of the second. Either way, it stuck in my head as I prepared for a fate worse than fighting over water—waiting for a colonoscopy.

Now, I must confess I was in considerable discomfort. My mouth was drier than a Nevada desert at noon in July, my tongue felt like a scrap of worn-out carpet, and my mood ungentlemanly.

With my brain gears stuck between boredom and despair, my hand found a bottle of sparkling water. I unscrewed the cap, took one ill-fated sip, and—heaven help me—triggered a ruckus worthy of a barn fire.

“Stop! You can’t drink that!” Five or six folks hollered like I’d swallowed a lit stick of dynamite.

You’d have thought I had single-handedly undone a century of medical science. My heart started up like a mule with a burr under its saddle, and let me tell you, as anyone acquainted with me knows, I don’t fly. Fighting, sure—especially with good sense—but running ain’t my strong suit.

But let’s backtrack, though, so you can fully appreciate my plight. The day prior, I’d swallowed a regimen that I can describe only as a devil’s brew. The prescribed gut cleanser worked its wicked magic, emptying me with the thoroughness of a flooding river flood clearing a valley. By midnight, I was as hollow as a gourd, forbidden from sniffing food or hearing a running faucet.

Fast forward to nearly one in the afternoon. I’d been waiting, parched and miserable, for what felt like a geological ice age when I made that fateful mistake—a mouthful of water, my sole act of rebellion against the gods of modern medicine.

For my crime, they sentenced me to an additional hour of waiting lest my reckless hydration cause me to “aspirate.” And so, there I sat, contemplating the absurdity of my existence.

It occurs to me that reality might’ve become unhinged, like a door swinging loose in a storm. For all I know, I am still under sedation, dreaming up this whole mad episode.

And if that’s the case, I beg you: wake me when the comedy’s over, or at least when the whiskey’s poured.

Addendum

Once they finally managed to drag me out of that uncomfortable room, I awoke from the sedation haze with all the grace of a bear poked with a stick. My throat felt like someone had slit it, and to add insult to injury, my belly button seemed to be doing its best impersonation of a low-rent accordion—pressed so close to my back I could practically taste my spine.

The hunger hit me like a freight train, and my first thought was to rush to Wendy’s and order a Triple with all the works as if I hadn’t been through enough. But then, being the picture of restraint and wisdom (at least for a moment), I reconsidered and thought better of it.

Next, I set my sights on a large beef burrito from the local joint, a noble endeavor, but that fell by the wayside, too. As the hunger pangs raged on like a river in flood, I concluded that sometimes, small is better—so I ended up at Jack in the Box, of all places.

I went for the small fry, a vanilla milkshake (for medicinal purposes, naturally), jalapeño poppers, and egg rolls. Yes, you heard me right, egg rolls—who knew?

And let me tell you, my body appreciated the effort, doubling my fuel efficiency, so to speak, with the amount of gas I expelled. If someone were giving out medals for digestive prowess, I would be wearing a gold one right now.

But I digress; food, after all, is best enjoyed with laughter—and perhaps a dash of humility, which I have in no short supply.

Years ago, Mr. Hanson, a man of high expectations and short temper, hired me to lend a hand on his sheep ranch. It was a modest operation, the kind where the sheep outnumber the humans by a scandalous margin, and the humans, therefore, feel compelled to boss the sheep around to reassert their dominance.

My duties were vague at best and as indefinite as a Nevada horizon, stretching from “helping out” to “staying out of trouble,” to “not getting in the way,” and I was doing a passable job until the day he fired me outright. It all started with a harmless task–he handed me a crook and sent me to the pasture with strict instructions to count the sheep.

“It’s important,” he said, though his smirk suggested otherwise.

Nevertheless, I took my duties seriously as a fellow who knows he’s being underpaid can. The pasture stretched before me like a sea of woolly sameness as I began my count with vigor, pointing at each creature with the crook like a sort of amateur shepherd savant.

“One, two, three…” I counted aloud, determined to prove my mathematical prowess to the only audience available—the sheep.

By the time I reached 37, something peculiar began to happen. Each successive sheep seemed to blur into the next, the bleating like the world’s most hypnotic lullaby. I felt my eyelids grow heavy, my sense of purpose dimming.

The last conscious thought I had was fuzzy, something like, “Is 37 enough sheep for one ranch? Feels like plenty.”

When Mr. Hanson eventually found me, I was facedown in the grass, drooling slightly and snoring softly. His arrival roused me, but not gently—with a boot to the butt and a look in his eye that suggested he’d spent a good ten minutes trying to decide if he should wake me up or bury me right there.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he growled. “I sent you to count sheep, not join them.”

Staggering to my feet, brushing off the dirt and grass, trying to salvage what dignity I had left. “Well, Mr. Hanson,” I said, rubbing my eyes, “the way I see it, I was doing both. I counted them until I could count no more, and then I did what any reasonable person would do in the presence of 37 sheep—I took their advice and rested.”

“Fired,” he snapped. “You’re fired.”

And that was that. As I trudged away from the pasture, I couldn’t help but think I’d learned a valuable lesson. When counting sheep, you’re enumerating the seconds till you’re back in the unemployment line.

 

Let me tell you, there is no surer way to bungle a perfect day than to tangle oneself in the muddled musings of an organization that couldn’t organize a picnic without losing track of the sandwiches. Such was my fate when I endeavored, in earnest, to report on a national car show, a seemingly simple assignment that proved about as crystalline as molasses in January.

Here’s the rub: for ten long years, Virginia City has been the grand opener for the organization in question—a proud tradition, you’d think. And yet, when the press conference rolled around, the folks running the circus spoke of everything under the sun—new venues, old venues, venues that may or may not exist in alternate dimensions—but not a word about the one venue that mattered.

The result? A chorus of confused reporters, all singing different tunes, none of them in harmony, and yours truly leading the cacophony like a tone-deaf conductor.

Oh, but thank goodness for the Internet. That glorious superhighway of enlightenment, where misinformation travels faster than a speeding ticket, and corrections limp behind like a three-legged dog.

While every other news outlet scrambled to fix its errors, I, in my infinite wisdom, almost failed to realize my mistake and correct my article. Well, I fixed it after Asa, my editor, who possesses the keen eyesight of an eagle and the patience of a wet cat, had read it.

And what did Asa do upon discovering my blunder? Why, he pulled my story faster than a gambler snatches his winnings and replaced it with a version—polished, precise, and utterly devoid of my charming errors. And there it was, the cold, hard truth: I had made myself look as ridiculous as a rooster trying to crow with a mouth full of marbles.

Some might call this a humbling experience, but I prefer to think it a valuable lesson. And that lesson is this: when an organization can’t be bothered to clarify what it is or isn’t doing, and when the press conference is as useful as a screen door on a submarine, the only safe course of action is to write about something else entirely.

Perhaps next time, I’ll report on the weather. At least clouds don’t hold press conferences — they just wordlessly float away.