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Nevada Copper Corp. has completed the sale of nearly all of its assets to Southwest Critical Materials LLC, an affiliate of Kinterra Capital Corp. The sale, previously outlined in an asset purchase agreement (APA), is part of the ongoing bankruptcy process under Chapter 11 of the U.S. Bankruptcy Code.

The sale, which amounts to $128 million in cash consideration, also includes the payment of cure costs for assumed contracts and the assumption of certain liabilities by the buyer. The transaction follows Nevada Copper’s voluntary petition for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection filed on Monday, June 10, in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the District of Nevada.

On Friday, September 27, the U.S. Bankruptcy Court approved the sale, allowing the assets to be transferred free of all encumbrances and interests. The court also authorized the assignment of specific contracts and leases. Following this, on Wednesday, October 2, the Superior Court of Justice of Ontario granted a Recognition and Vesting Order, recognizing the U.S. court’s decision across all Canadian provinces and territories.

With the completion of the sale, proceeds are expected to be distributed to certain creditors, as overseen by the bankruptcy court. However, Nevada Copper has indicated that the proceeds will not be sufficient to pay company shareholders of common stock.

The saloon was thick with the stench of stale beer, sweat, and tobacco smoke. The floor stuck to your boots, but nobody cared. Mexican Joh sat at the corner of the bar, closet to the front doors, face half-hidden beneath the brim of his hat, nursing whatever they called whiskey in this shitty place. His eyes were half-closed, but he wasn’t sleeping. No, he was watching.

Slim had been talking trash for a while, slurring every word. He was a half-wit but thought he had something to prove. He shuffled toward John, pushing past others at the bar like he was important. “You’re a pervert, Greaser,” he slurred. “Bet you’re one of those sick son-of-a-bitches, huh? Get your kicks fucking little girls.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You’re probably the kind that lures ’em with candy. Old man like you, bet you like’em young,” Slim’s voice got louder–like he was putting on a show for the few half-drunk idiots around the room.

Still, Mexican John didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. He just took another drink, his eyes down, his mind somewhere far away, maybe Mexico, maybe the desert. Didn’t matter. Slim was the problem here, not him.

Slim didn’t like being ignored. He slapped John hard on the back. Once, twice, three times. It echoed through the room like a warning shot. Still, John didn’t react.

The bartender, a wiry man and younger than John with more wrinkles than an old saddle, wiped the counter and muttered under his breath, “Ain’t ya gonna do nothin’?”

John slowly looked up at the bartender, eyes half closed and with a lazy grin. “I don’t carry a gun in town,” he said. “Never have, besides the kids a half-wit and unarmed.”

The bartender shrugged. Slim was a fool, and fools, well, they don’t last long around these parts. The kid staggered out the batwing doors, still running his mouth, and John was happy to see him go.

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the street orange and red. John stepped out of the saloon, slow and steady like always. He hadn’t been in a hurry in years. But then he saw Slim step off the boardwalk across the street, a shotgun in hand, shaking like a leaf.

“You’re dead, old man,” Slim yelled, his hands too shaky to hold the shotgun steady. The weapon was too big for him, but Slim didn’t care. He thought this was his moment. He thought he could do something.

Mexican John didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just stared at Slim like he’d seen it all before.

“You gonna kill me, Slim? he asked, voice low. “You gonna do it?”

John reached under his duster, his fingers brushing the cold steel of his knife. Slim didn’t notice. Slim didn’t have the sense to know what was coming.

The knife was in the air before Slim thought of pulling the trigger. John’s wrist flicked, and the blade flew, cutting the distance between them. It sank deep into Slim’s chest, right between the ribs.

Slim’s eyes went wide. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t even gasp. He tried to raise the shotgun, but his hands wouldn’t work. The gun hit the ground with a thud, and Slim staggered back, blood spilling out of him like a river.

He didn’t last long.

Mexican John stood over him, wiping his knife clean on Slim’s shirt. He looked down at the kid, now just another dead fool in a long line headed to Boot Hill. John felt tears well up in his eyes, knowing it didn’t have to end this way, but for Slim’s actions.

The bartender came running out, short on breath, eyes wide like he’d seen a ghost. “I thought you said you weren’t armed,” he said, voice shaky.

“I never said I wasn’t armed,” Mexican John said. “I said I don’t carry a gun in town.”

The neon sign flickered, casting a sickly glow on the cracked linoleum floor. The bartender–a grizzled soul with nicotine-stained fingers, wiped down the counter. His name? Hell, nobody knew. They just called him “Barkeep.”

“Another round?” he grunted, sliding a glass toward me.

The whiskey tasted like remorse and gasoline. I nodded because what else was there to do?

The regulars huddled in their usual spots—lost souls nursing wounds that wouldn’t heal. There was Old Man Joe, his liver pickled by decades of cheap bourbon. He had fought in Korea, but nowadays, his battles are with the jukebox. He’d curse Sinatra and croon along to Hank Williams.

And then there was Sad-Eyed Sally. She wore too much eyeliner as if trying to hide the world’s disappointments. Her laugh? A rusty hinge. She’d lost a husband, a dog, and her faith in humanity. But she still believed in happy hour.

“You know,” she slurred, leaning across the bar, “life’s a shitshow. Might as well dance in the rain.”

Outside, the rain tapped on the window like a desperate lover. The alley cats yowled, and the city coughed up its secrets. Bukowski would’ve loved this place—the sticky floors, the broken jukebox, the smell of desperation.

“What’s your poison?” Barkeep asked, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better days.

“Life,” I replied. “Pour me a double.”

He obliged, and I stared into the murky depths. The mirror behind the bar reflected my weariness—the lines etched by missed chances, the eyes haunted by lost loves.

“You’re a writer, ain’t ya?” Barkeep squinted at me.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Words are my whiskey.”

“Well, kid,” he said, “Bukowski once sat right where you’re sittin’. Wrote poems about broken hearts and broken bottles. Said life was a beautiful catastrophe.”

And so, I wrote. Scribbled on napkins, spilled ink on coasters. My muse? The jukebox, belting out Tom Waits. The patrons? My characters—flawed, desperate, and achingly real.

Sad-Eyed Sally swayed to the music, her mascara running. Old Man Joe hummed along, lost in memories of lost wars. And Barkeep? He poured another round because that’s what he did.

As the night wore on, I penned my Bukowski homage—a love letter to the damned, the dreamers, and the drunks. The rain outside? It wept for us all.

And when the clock struck closing time, I left the dive bar, my pockets lighter, my soul heavier. Bukowski would’ve approved.

“Keep writing,” Barkeep boomed. “Maybe one day, they’ll remember your name.”

And so, I stumbled into the rain, my words trailing behind me like cigarette smoke: “Remember, my friend: Life’s a shitshow. We might as well dance in the rain.”

The Sierra Nevada Realtors (SNR) released its August 2024 report on existing home sales across Storey, Lyon, Carson City, Douglas, Churchill, and Washoe counties. The report indicates that the median sales price for single-family homes across all six counties was $566,864 in August, reflecting a 1.4 percent decrease from the previous month.

However, the median sales price has increased over the past year in several counties, including Carson City, Washoe, Lyon, Churchill, Storey, and Douglas counties have seen year-over-year declines. Additionally, active inventory levels decreased from July in both Carson City and Washoe County, but there was an increase in available listings compared to August 2023.

In Storey County, only one existing single-family home sold in August, which remained unchanged from the previous month but marked a significant 66.7 percent decrease compared to last year. The median sales price for the month was $490,000, representing a 29.8 percent increase from July, though it was still 2.6 percent lower than the previous year.

Lyon County saw 86 sales of existing single-family homes and manufactured properties, an increase of 1.2 percent from the previous month, although this was 1.1 percent lower than August 2023. The median sales price for existing single-family and manufactured homes rose to $414,995, a 3.7 percent increase from the previous month and 9.2 percent higher than last year, signaling a strong housing market in the county.

In Carson City, 73 single-family homes were sold in August, a 3.9 percent decline from the previous month. Despite this, sales were up by 23.7 percent compared to last year. The median sales price rose 3.6 percent from July to $545,000, a 13.5 percent increase from August 2023. Active inventory in Carson City was at 164 homes, a slight decrease of 0.6 percent from July but an increase of 10.1 percent compared to last year.

Douglas County experienced 53 sales of existing single-family homes in August, a 7 percent drop from July and a 20.9 percent decline from last year. The median sales price in the county reached $819,900, which is 15.2 percent higher than in July but 2.4 percent lower than in August of the previous year, reflecting some variability in market conditions.

Churchill County recorded 26 home sales, a 36.8 percent increase from July but remaining unchanged year-over-year. The median sales price in Churchill County rose by 1.2 percent from July, reaching $399,890, which is 3.9 percent higher than the same period in 2023.

In Washoe County, excluding the Incline Village area, there were 378 closed sales and 511 new listings in August. The median sales price for an existing single-family residence remained stable at $610,000, showing no change from the previous month, reflecting a 6.1 percent increase from last year. Active inventory levels in Washoe County stood at 998, representing a 2.4 percent decline from July, but there was an 11.4 percent increase in available listings compared to August 2023.

Victra, the nationwide retailer of Verizon mobile devices and the business name of ABC Phones of North Carolina, is facing a federal lawsuit after allegedly denying an employee’s request for medical leave related to her pregnancy and rescinding her job offer.

The U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) announced the lawsuit on Wednesday, October 9, charging Victra with violating federal laws designed to protect pregnant employees. The lawsuit stems from an incident at Victra’s Dayton store where a woman, hired as a sales consultant, was forced to withdraw from her new hire training.

Before her start date, the employee discovered she needed an immediate ultrasound and medical evaluation for her high-risk pregnancy. On the day of her first training session, she notified her district sales manager that she had a medical emergency involving her unborn child’s heart. Hours later, Victra withdrew the job offer, instructing her to reapply only when she could commit to attending training “100 percent.”

The EEOC alleges that other new hires got to adjust or reschedule their training for reasons unrelated to pregnancy. Allegedly, Victra did not extend the same flexibility to this worker, constituting discrimination under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA.) The laws prohibit discrimination based on pregnancy and pregnancy-related impairments.

Nancy Sienko, district director for the EEOC’s San Francisco District, emphasized the impact of the company’s actions.

“Workers should never be forced to choose between keeping their job or seeking urgent prenatal care to protect the health of both parent and child,” Sienko said. “Losing the ability to earn income at such a critical time is devastating, and the EEOC will vigorously defend the rights of pregnant applicants and employees against employment discrimination.”

EEOC Senior Trial Attorney Mariko Ashley added that federal law now provides further protections under the Pregnant Workers Fairness Act, which took effect on Tuesday, June 27, 2023, and requires employers to provide equal opportunities and flexibility to pregnant workers.

The EEOC filed the lawsuit in the U.S. District Court for the District of Nevada after unsuccessful attempts to settle the case. The lawsuit seeks back pay, compensatory and punitive damages, and injunctive relief to prevent future discriminatory practices.

As I drove my creaky truck up the hill that drops down into the north end of Virginia City, I knew trouble was brewing. Trouble, like a stubborn mule, had taken up residence in the middle of my path. And it was not the kind of trouble you can shoo away with a stern look or a well-aimed pebble.

You see, there was a detour—one so convoluted that even a cat with a compass would get lost. It was for yet another motorsport event, so I had to figure out how to get around it, lest my newspapers remain undelivered and the good folks of Virginia City miss out on their weakly dose of gossip, scandal, and weather predictions.

First, I turned onto Carson Street, which was as wide as a river during the rainy season. But lo and behold, there was a blockade—a large pick of equipment squatting in the middle of the thoroughfare like a stubborn mule with a penchant for mischief.

So, I cut up to B Street, zigzagging like a drunken sailor trying to find his sea legs. A Street came into view, and I thought, “Ah, salvation,” but no, it was like trying to thread a needle with a sausage—impossible.

I turned down to B Street, and my wheels protested at each jolt.

Finally, I found myself on C Street, where the post office sat like a grumpy old fart guarding his stash of love letters and overdue bills. I had to ask permission to use the parking lot to load my vehicle.

The postmistress eyed me up and down as if I were a bandit trying to make off with a supply of stamps. But I sweet-talked her—I told the mistress my truck was just a humble steed, burdened with the weight of ink-stained truths.

Loaded up and ready to roll, I made all my deliveries, including those in Silver City and Dayton. Then, I decided to take Six Mile Canyon back to Virginia City. An act of faith, mind you, as I was not sure the canyon had suffered the same fate as C Street—a detour apocalypse.

But I figured, “What is life without a little adventure?”

So, I urged my truck onward, its wheels protesting like a choir of rusty hinges. And that is when I found myself in a pickle—a jar labeled “Off-Road Racers.”

There they were, lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery. I could not back out—the street had become narrower than a preacher’s smile. So, I did what any sensible man would do–I joined the line.

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, they say.

As I inched forward, I noticed the lead mechanic doing qualifying checks on the vehicles. He was a grizzled fellow with oil stains on his overalls and a wrench tucked behind his ear.

I leaned out and hollered, “Hey there! Mind checking my truck’s oil and wiper fluid while you’re at it?”

Well, that did it. The dude scowled, kicked me out of line, and muttered something about “horseless carriages” and “city slickers.”

I did not qualify to race.

Perhaps I’ll grease my truck’s wheels and practice my pit stops for next year. Or maybe, I’ll stick to delivering newspapers—the only race where the finish line is a bar stool and a shot of whiskey. Because, you know, the newspaper business is where the real money is at. Ask any broke journalist—they’ll tell you, “We’re rolling in dough, one headline at a time.”

He’s been at the same effing desk for forty damn years. Forty.

The same chair, creaking every time he settles in, mocking him—the ghost of countless deadlines and missed opportunities. A fluorescent light buzzes overhead, a monotonous hum, the soundtrack to his life.

They tell him that’s how things are—a steady paycheck, good benefits. As if it’s enough to fill the void of a soul slowly hollowed out by the daily grind of goddamn spreadsheets and calls that lead nowhere.

The writing? That’s the part he clings to. He tells himself it matters.
After the kids are in bed and the wife is either sleeping or pretending to care about something else, he pulls out the laptop or sits in front of the big computer, depending on the mood, and gets to work. Fiction, poetry. Whatever flows out. But it’s all the same.

He writes into the void and hopes for a miracle, but shit like that doesn’t come to guys like him. The mailbox is empty. The inbox is just junk. Rejection letters pile up like memento mori to how much of a joke he has become to the world.

His name? You can’t find it unless it’s under some crappy pen name. He doesn’t even bother submitting anymore. He knows it’s all just one big hustle for the people who have the right connections, the bullshit, the look. He’s never had that look. Hell, he doesn’t even know what the hell that is.

He writes in the dead hours, waiting for anything to pull him from his rut. He tells himself it’s not about fame. It’s about the craft, the words. But deep down, he knows. He knows if he were just a little younger, a little luckier, he’d be in some room right now, giving a reading to people who gave a damn. Instead, he’s sitting in his cramped bedroom office, pounding out another stupid-ass story few will ever read, hoping for the one thing he’ll never get: someone to tell him it mattered, he mattered.

At work, they don’t know about his writing. The son of a bitches would laugh if they did. They’d think he was a loser trying to hold on to a dream that never had a life, a chance. The assholes don’t see the scars, the long nights, the fingers sore from typing when they should have been sleeping. All they see is the guy who shows up, does his job, and gets a paycheck.

Some nights, he stares out the window and wonders if he missed it—whatever it is. That spark, that chance, the break. But that’s the hell of a thing to wonder about when you’re forty years in and no closer to fame than the day you started. So he sits there, another cigarette, and writes because that’s all he knows to do.

The world keeps turning, indifferent as ever, and he keeps typing, trying to write something that’ll make it all matter, the truth, his truth. But the silence in the room tells him all he needs to know.

The world’s already fucking forgotten him. And sixty-plus years hasn’t been long enough to leave a fucking mark.

U.S. Representative Steven Horsford has introduced legislation to reshape the compensation system for tipped workers, echoing former President Donald Trump’s idea of eliminating the taxation of tips.

Horsford’s Tipped Income Protection and Standards (TIPS) Act, unveiled last week in Washington, D.C., seeks to eliminate the federal sub-minimum wage for tipped workers and end federal income tax on tips altogether. The bill has garnered support from Nevada’s Culinary Union, which praised the legislation for addressing unfair treatment of tipped employees.

A union spokesperson noted the impact the TIPS Act would have on millions of workers, particularly those in Nevada.

“By eliminating federal income taxes on tips and ending the sub-minimum wage, this legislation that Congressman Horsford is championing will uplift millions of workers.”

Nevada has become a focal point for the national conversation surrounding tipped workers’ wages.

Horsford pointed to the state’s wage structure as a model for others, noting that Nevada’s elimination of the sub-minimum wage would increase productivity and employee retention in the restaurant industry.

“In Nevada, restaurants have seen increased productivity, employee retention, and customer satisfaction since eliminating the sub-minimum wage,” Horsford said.

Horsford’s approach contrasts with the national trend, particularly in states like Texas, Virginia, and Alabama, where tipped workers still earn as little as $2.13 an hour.

Former President Donald Trump brought the issue of taxes on tips to the national stage during his presidency, and the debate has gained traction ever since. Trump, along with Vice President Kamala Harris, has supported the idea of eliminating federal income taxes on tips, a proposal that resonates with both parties.

For Horsford, the TIPS Act is more than just wages and taxes—it is a matter of fairness and economic social justice.

“No one working full-time in America should live in poverty, yet millions of tipped workers do just that—many of whom are women and people of color,” he said.

The minimum wage for tipped workers in Nevada is $12, the fifth-highest, after Washington, California, Oregon, and Hawaii.

I was at the bar again, same damn place I always end up when the day has gone to shit and the night is too fucking quiet. The jukebox spat out some old blues track, probably the only thing left in this dump with any soul.

Tony, the kid behind the bar, was half-ass wiping down the counter, staring into nowhere like he had better shit to do, but we both knew he didn’t. None of us did.

I dragged myself onto the stool in the darkened corner, where the light flickers like some poor bastard’s getting fried out back in the electric chair. The stool was hard as hell, but I didn’t give a fuck anymore. My back’s already fucked up, so what’s another hour of pain?

“Whiskey. Straight,” I said. Just the hooch and me, and that’s all, no distractions.

“Life is short,” I thought. “No time for chasers or any of that fancy crap, straight up, no ice, no frills. The kind that stings as it goes down, reminding you you’re still here, whether you like it or not.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “How’s the wife?” he asked, barely glancing up as he poured.

I snorted, “Still fucking breathing, I guess.”

Tony didn’t laugh. He never does. Smart kid.

Linda left me six years ago. She said I was a fucking bastard, said I drank too much, was lazy, and she wasn’t wrong. She walked out like I didn’t matter, and I let her because what the hell could I say?

She tore a hole in me, one I could never fill, so I just kept drinking and kept showing up at my job and here. I kept doing what I do best: playing fuck it all.

I took a gulp of whiskey and let it burn its way down, let it sit in the pit of my gut where everything had gone rotten.

A couple in the booth caught my eye. The woman wore too much makeup, and the guy had too many tattoos. They laughed like idiots, but there was something off—like they were trying too hard. It made me wanna puke, tell them to shut the fuck up, get a room at the flop house across the street, but I didn’t. Who gives a shit?

The door opened, and some guy stumbled in. His face was all kinds of fucked up—black eye, busted lip. He looked like he just had his ass handed to him in a back alley. He dropped onto the stool next to me and tapped the bar. Tony poured him a drink, no questions asked. Nobody gives a fuck here, and why I like it here.

“Fight?” I asked because it seemed like the only thing worth saying.

He chuckled, low and bitter. “Yeah. With myself,” he said, taking a long swig like the whiskey was the only thing keeping him upright. “Guess I fucking lost.”

I nodded and took another drink. “We all fucking lose. But you keep going. That’s the game.”

He turned to me then and looked at me. His eyes were dark, hollow. Like he’d seen some serious shit like maybe he’d been in a war with himself for years and didn’t know how to get out.

“I don’t know, man,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t fucking know anymore.”

The couple in the booth started yelling, voices raised over some bullshit—maybe he grabbed her too hard, or she found lipstick on his shirt. It didn’t matter. Their fight was just as phony as their laughter. Tony dragged his feet around the bar like he was about to break it up, but we both knew he wasn’t trying. He didn’t give two shits. None of us did.

I drained my glass, slamming it on the counter. Tony looked over and nodded like he knew I’d be back tomorrow, or maybe he thought I wouldn’t even make it through the night. Neither of us cared either way.

I stepped outside, and the cold slapped me across the face like an insult. I shoved my hands in my pockets and started walking. The sound of my boots on the concrete was the only thing that made sense, a steady beat in a world filled with fucking noise.

The streets were empty except for a few drunks down the block, laughing and shouting at nothing. The flickering fluorescent lights at the entrance of another bar illuminated a group of drunks, their raucous laughter and off-key singing piercing through the night. But that’s all we got left, a city that’s is just as fucked as we are, and that’s the goddamn truth.

The streetlights cast that sick orange glow like the whole city was in some bullshit made-for-television nightmare it could not wake up from. The air stunk of piss and exhaust, a mix of cheap liquor and bad decisions.

I walked past another bar and heard the laughter, the clinking of glass, all that bullshit that comes with pretending life doesn’t suck. The stench of stale beer, and cigarette smoke, wafted toward me like a cheap cologne on an even cheaper whore, mingling with the sharp tang of the nearby sea.

But I knew the truth. No matter how far I walked, I’d always end up back at the bar because at least it was familiar, and at least it was real, the same shit, but different night. And that is the thing—no matter how fucked up it gets, you just keep going. And if you are lucky, maybe you’ll forget why.

And that’s all you can do. And that’s what I do.

The Storey County Sheriff’s Office (SCSO) confirmed that Virginia City High School was evacuated around 7:30 a.m. on Wednesday, September 18, following reports of a possible propane leak. However, after investigating the situation, authorities determined there was no active threat, and students and staff were safely allowed to return to class.

On Friday, September 20, The SCSO addressed a separate issue involving a potential threat made against the school weeks earlier but only recently reported. Following an investigation, one student was expelled from the school and will not be returning to Virginia City High School.

In a joint statement, the Storey County School District (SCSD) and the SCSO assured the community that they are taking the matter seriously and that the safety of students, staff, and visitors remains their top priority.

“The School District and Sheriff’s Office worked and continue to work closely to address the reported threat,” the statement said. “Safety is our top priority, and we will always act to the best of our abilities to protect our community.”

The SCSO office says there is no threat to the safety of students or staff, and the propane leak incident was unrelated to the threats against the school.