Skinning a Cat Without It Yowling

In the grand tradition of statesmen who solemnly assure the public that a fleecing is for their good, Washoe County Commission Chair Alexis Hill recently declared it’s time to have a “conversation” about raising taxes. Conversations is a polite term for reaching deeper into the taxpayer’s pocket with the delicacy of a pickpocket at a church social.

“With our expenses outpacing our revenues, we’re in some trouble,” Hill lamented as if this predicament had descended upon Washoe County like an unexpected Nevada snowstorm rather than being the predictable result of their financial acrobatics.

Inflation, population growth, and the pesky habit of employees expecting pay have all contributed to a projected $27 million budget shortfall in Washoe County by 2026. Meanwhile, Reno anticipates a $24 million deficit, and Sparks—a city known for its unshakable optimism— is staring at a $12 million hole.

Inspired by the wisdom of the ages, Hill has identified the solution–taxes. Among the favorite options are an increase in vehicle registration fees and a little upward nudge to the sales tax—both delightful choices because they hit every citizen, from the weary commuter to the penny-pinching retiree, with the even-handedness of a steamroller.

“We are all experiencing our revenues not meeting our expenses,” Hill explained, pointing to the cost of pensions and competitive wages as primary culprits.

Naturally, the only recourse is to collect more money, not to, say, spend less of it.

In a fit of uncharacteristic realism, Sparks Mayor Ed Lawson admitted that his city might have to consider layoffs. On the other hand, Reno remains as silent on the issue as a gambler, hoping the house won’t notice his empty pockets.

Hill, however, insists that Washoe County has been a responsible steward of taxpayer money—an assertion that might have held more water if the public hadn’t just learned that one of its top officials, IT Chief Behzad Zamanian, earning a tidy $240,000 per year while reportedly gracing the office with his presence fewer than five days a month.

Zamanian, a proud Southern Californian by primary residence, has been defending his remote work situation with the confidence of a cat claiming ownership of a neighbor’s fish dinner. In his role as guardian of the public purse, County Manager Eric Brown insists that Zamanian is quite good at his job–his physical presence seems entirely unnecessary.

“I was quoted in the newspaper saying it’s concerning, and it is,” Hill admitted, as though the discovery of a highly paid ghost employee had taken her by surprise.

An investigation is now underway because nothing soothes public outrage quite like an inquiry that will likely conclude long after the taxpayers have resigned themselves to their fate.

Of course, Hill also has her sights set on property taxes because, as she helpfully reminds us, “we all know where the wealth in America is.” No doubt, the prospect of a “realistic conversation” about property tax increases will inspire the same enthusiasm as a rattlesnake in a sleeping bag.

But fear not—if they succeed in hiking property taxes, they might consider easing up on all the other taxes. And if you believe that, dear reader, there’s a guy with a gold mine at the bottom of Pyramid Lake he wants to sell you.

“Now, ain’t that rich?” The Peanut Gallery roared as the Communist Party USA took to denouncing the firebombing of a Tesla collision center in Las Vegas, all while federal prosecutors point at Paul Kim, a man who, by their telling, harbored “far-left extremist ideologies.”

Las Vegas police had themselves a busy spell, nabbing Kim, 36, on March 26 after a fiery display at 6260 West Badura Avenue on the morning of March 18. Arson, homemade explosives, and a charge sheet long enough to paper a saloon wall followed in short order.

But here’s where it gets juicier than a Sunday sermon–Metro police claimed Kim had “loose ties” to the Communist Party USA. Not to be outdone in the public pronouncement department, CPUSA Co-Chairman Joe Sims wasted no time firing back.

“It’s militant non-violent protest that has time and again proven to be the most effective response to attacks on democratic rights,” he declared, evidently with a straight face, even as the accused sat in custody for torching a car shop.

Tesla’s head honcho, that ever-talkative Elon Musk, didn’t mince words, calling it “terrorism.” Federal prosecutors agreed in spirit, though they lamented the fact that there’s no official federal charge for domestic terrorism. As the accused’s lawyer helpfully pointed out, Kim hadn’t exactly fled town like an old-timey bank robber—he stuck around, chatted with police, and had a record as clean as a preacher’s Sunday vest.

But before the ink had dried on Kim’s arrest papers, the usual cast of online finger-waggers had been hollering that the culprit must be some radical leftist. It appears Kim’s a registered nonpartisan, which is a fancy way of saying neither side gets to claim him for their own.

Meanwhile, over the weekend, a hundred or so anti-Musk crusaders gathered outside a Tesla dealership in Las Vegas, shaking fists at the man they see as the villain of their particular story. Whether any had opinions on firebombing remains unclear, but at least the crowd had the good sense to keep their demonstrations from going up in smoke.

A Lament for Lost Wagers

There was once a time when Nevada’s gaming halls seemed incapable of losing at anything except humility. The dice tumbled favorably, the cards turned precisely, and the slot machines hummed a tune so profitable that one might think the laws of math were in the Silver State’s favor. But alas, February arrived, and with it, a most unwelcome discovery: the house does not always win—at least, not as much as it would prefer.

After two months of raking in fortunes so vast that even the pharaohs of old might have blushed, Nevada’s casinos managed a mere $1.22 billion in winnings. Respectful in gaming terms, but like a prospector trading a mountain of gold for just a pocketful of silver.

Compared to the glories of a year prior, when the Super Bowl filled Las Vegas with eager souls willing to exchange their hard-earned wages for fleeting excitement, the Strip’s take fell by nearly 14 percent. Once the darling of the high rollers, Baccarat suffered a loss so dramatic—51 percent—that one might suspect the ghosts of past gamblers had come back to collect their dues.

Slot machines fared a bit better, with their gains barely registering above last year’s mark. And while December and January had painted a picture of unrelenting prosperity, February took up an eraser and scribbled doubt all over the ledger. The coffers found themselves $202 million lighter, down $150 million, and others could only console themselves with the knowledge that they were, at the very least, not doing quite as bad off as their better-lit brethren.

The decline was not entirely a mystery.

Fewer visitors came to admire the neon wonderland, hotel occupancy dipped to a modest 80 percent, and the once-glorious parade of tourists thinned to a mere procession. Given such figures, one might assume that the gaming halls would take a moment of solemn reflection.

But this is Nevada, where there is always another hand to deal, another wheel to spin, and another month ahead to restore the rightful order of things—provided players return with pockets full of doe and spirits high.

Once upon a time, in the grand and bewildering expanse of the American West, there resided—albeit briefly—one Jairo Ivan Paredes Cota, a gentleman of Mexican birth with a peculiar fondness for unofficial border crossings. The enterprising traveler first became acquainted with the U.S. government in the spring of 2013, when the diligent fellows at Customs and Border Protection took it upon themselves to expedite his return to his native Mexico.

Alas, Mr. Paredes found the siren call of the United States too compelling to resist, for he reappeared on these shores at some undisclosed time and location, much like a misplaced sock suddenly turning up in the wrong drawer. Not until this past March did his adventures take a turn when ICE officers in Reno demonstrated their keen ability to reunite a man with his homeland.

He was promptly removed, not with fanfare, but with firm resolve, and escorted back across the border by way of ground transportation—one not his choosing. Authorities remain watchful for others who, like Mr. Paredes, believe national boundaries are mere suggestions.

Should enterprising citizens wish to assist in such matters, they are invited to report any suspicious doings via 866-DHS-2-ICE.

The Fernley women came into Saturday hoping to shake off Friday’s loss to Lowry, but fate had other ideas. The Vaqueros battled hard but ultimately fell 6-3, stretching their losing streak to four games.

Despite the setback, Lauren Smith and Sara Moffett did their best to keep Fernley in the fight. Smith notched a 2-for-3 performance, stealing a base and crossing the plate once, while Moffett added another run and a stolen base of her own. Hunter Lyle also made her presence known, cracking a double and driving in a run on a 2-for-3 showing.

The Vaqueros swung the bats well, finishing with a solid .379 team batting average—which usually spells victory. But on this day, the scoreboard told a different story.

The loss dropped Fernley to 8-5, while Lowry continued their dominant run, improving to 13-3 after winning nine of their last ten. However, the Vaqueros got a measure of revenge later that day, shutting out Lowry 2-0 to finally snap their skid.

The Fernley men, meanwhile, found themselves on the wrong end of another tough battle with Lowry. The Buckaroos had already bested them 11-3 on Friday, and they doubled down on Saturday, squeezing out a 3-1 victory. The trend of road teams winning in this matchup held again, with the visiting squad emerging victorious for the fifth straight meeting.

Dylon Comer gave the Vaqueros every chance to win, pitching a complete game and allowing just one hit across seven innings. Not a single earned run crossed the plate against him, and he fanned eight batters in a commanding performance.

But in a cruel twist of fate, unearned runs and a quiet Fernley offense cost him the win. Riley McCullar tried to spark a rally, going 2-for-3 with a run scored and two stolen bases, but the Vaqueros couldn’t muster enough firepower to get over the hump.

With their sixth straight home loss, Fernley fell to a dismal 3-12-1 on the season, while Lowry crept above .500 at 8-7. And if Saturday’s loss wasn’t frustrating enough, the Vaqueros got another dose of the same medicine in their rematch later that day, falling 6-1 to the Buckaroos.

With their recent struggles, Fernley’s teams need to dig deep to turn things around. Whether they can reclaim their early-season form remains to be seen.

The Virginia City women stormed into Saturday’s doubleheader against Smith Valley riding high on a four-game winning streak, and when the dust settled, they had stretched it to five. The Muckers took the Bulldogs to task in a 20-10 rout, marking their most decisive victory over Smith Valley since April 2021.

Leading the charge was Bity Lopez, who turned the basepaths into her playground. She crossed home plate four times and swiped five bases, reaching base in all five at-bats. Not to be outdone, Nanna Lopez hammered out a 3-for-3 performance, smashing two doubles while scoring three runs and stealing two bases. Danika Baker added to the carnage, stealing four bases and going 2-for-4.

When all was said and done, Virginia City had battered Smith Valley’s defense with a .562 team batting average—just another day at the office for a squad that has hit .412 or better for seven straight games.

Not finished, the Muckers squared off against the Bulldogs again later that day and once more left them in the dust, this time by a 23-15 margin. With the victories, Virginia City lifted their record to 8-4-1, while Smith Valley’s losing streak stretched to 11 games, their 0-4 start to this season looking grimmer by the day.

On the men’s side, the Muckers weren’t quite as fortunate. Their struggles continued with a lopsided 23-8 defeat at the hands of Smith Valley. It marked the second consecutive game Virginia City had lost by 15 runs, a statistic that does not bode well for their fortunes moving forward.

Despite the rough outing, Derek McCoy gave the home fans something to cheer about, going 1-for-2 while scoring twice and swiping a base. History suggests that when McCoy gets two or more runs, the Muckers have a shot—but with an 0-8 record in games where he doesn’t, the team needs more bats to come alive. Shiloh Coelho also made his presence felt, scoring twice and stealing two bags.

With the loss, Virginia City’s record dipped to 2-9, while Smith Valley improved to 5-1. Both teams return home to familiar surroundings, hoping for some hometown magic. The Muckers will host North Tahoe at 3:00 p.m. on Thursday, while Smith Valley takes on Mineral County on Tuesday at 3:00 p.m.

The question now is whether Virginia City can shake off the road woes or if the home field will offer little more than a change of scenery.

The Yerington Lions are packing their bags and heading into opposing territory to face off against the Oasis Academy Bighorns on Tuesday at 4:00 p.m. Both teams roll into this contest fresh off commanding victories, their bats hot, and their pitchers dealing.

Yerington’s latest triumph saw them blank Pershing County 14-0, with pitcher Erika Landa keeping the Mustangs in check over five solid innings, surrendering just three earned runs. Karla Zarazua spearheaded the offensive attack, racking up three RBI, two runs, and a triple, as Laney Triplett and Yessenia Zarazua kept the bases busy with key steals and scores.

The Lions have been relentless at the plate, posting a staggering .595 OBP in their last outing—just the latest chapter in a six-game stretch where they’ve reached base at an eye-popping .528 clip or better.

Tom shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and yawning, the gray light of dawn seeping through the blinds. He flicked on the coffee maker, long since gone cold from yesterday’s brew, and poured the stale, dark liquid into his chipped ceramic mug.

He’d turned the machine off last night—why waste power keeping it warm? It was a ritual as old as his apartment lease–cold coffee, microwave, sip, repeat.

He slid the mug into the microwave and punched in 1:30. The old machine only worked in 30-second jumps—thirty seconds, one-minute, one-minute-thirty-seconds, nothing in between. A full minute and a half was too hot, so he always stopped it early.

The hum filled the silence as the numbers ticked down one minute-twenty-nine seconds, one-minute-twenty-eight seconds. At 1:15, he hit the stop button, pulled the mug out, and sipped. Warm enough. The display froze at fifteen seconds.

He tapped clear, resetting it to zero-zero, and a stray thought flickered through his mind: What happens to those fifteen seconds I skip?

A minute and a half was the “proper” cycle, but he never let it finish. Where did those leftover seconds go?

He smirked at the absurdity, but the question lingered as he leaned against the counter, staring at the microwave. The room felt oddly still, the fridge’s hum unnaturally loud.

Then, a faint tick came from the microwave—a sound it shouldn’t make when idle. The display flickered back to life, unprompted, showing fifteen seconds.

Tom frowned and tapped clear again. The screen went dark, then snapped back to fifteen seconds. He yanked the cord from the wall.

The display stayed blank for a heartbeat before the numbers glowed faintly despite the lack of power. A chill crawled up his spine.

“Okay, that’s weird,” he muttered, setting his coffee down.

He reached out to touch the handle, and the moment his fingertip brushed it, the world lurched. When his vision cleared, Tom was no longer in his kitchen.

He stood in a vast, shimmering expanse—a place like liquid glass stretching infinitely in all directions. The air buzzed with a low, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat.

Floating before him was a jagged tear in reality, a rift the size of his microwave door. Through it, he saw his kitchen frozen, mug suspended mid-air, a droplet of coffee hovering inches from the counter.

“What the hell…” he whispered.

A voice answered, sharp and metallic, echoing from nowhere. “You asked about the fifteen seconds.”

Tom spun around, but there was no one—just the endless glass plane and the rift. “Who’s there? What is this?”

“You discarded them,” the voice said, ignoring him. “Every day, you cut the flow short. Fifteen seconds here, ten there. They don’t vanish. They pool.”

“Pool?” Tom’s mouth went dry. “Where am I?”

“You’ve breached the Margin—the void where your rejected fragments collect. You’ve pulled too many threads loose.”

The rift pulsed, and Tom glimpsed faint shapes beyond—not his kitchen now, but flashes of other places: a bustling city street, a snowy mountain peak, a star-filled void. Each scene flickered for fifteen seconds before shifting.

“I didn’t mean to—” Tom started, but the ground trembled.

Cracks spiderwebbed through the glass, and the pulse quickened. The rift widened, sucking air inward with a low roar.

“You’ve destabilized it,” the voice snapped. “The Margin holds the excess, but your curiosity tore the seam. Fix it, or it swallows everything.”

“Fix it? How?” Tom shouted, stumbling back as the cracks raced toward him.

“Return the seconds.”

The rift flared, and Tom was yanked through—not back to his kitchen, but to the city street he’d glimpsed. Car horns blared, people jostled past, faces blurred.

A strange intuition gripped him. He glanced at his wrist, where a faint fifteen seconds pulsed like a countdown.

Fifteen seconds.

He bolted to a street vendor selling coffee, shoving a crumpled bill into the man’s hand. “Quick—microwave this!” he yelled, thrusting his mug forward.

The vendor blinked, confused, but popped it into a small microwave behind the cart. Tom punched in 1:30—no stopping early—and hit start.

The count on his wrist ticked down with it fourteen, thirteen, twelve. When it hit zero-zero, the world lurched again. He was back in the Margin, the rift slightly smaller, the cracks less jagged.

“One fragment returned,” the voice said. “More remain.”

Before Tom could protest, the rift swallowed him again.

He bounced through moments—a battlefield where he reheated a soldier’s ration, a spaceship warming a nutrient pack, and a medieval village where he improvised with a fire and a pot. He let the complete 1:30 run, watching the countdown on his wrist shrink fifteen, ten, five seconds.

Finally, he landed back in his kitchen, gasping, mug still in hand. The microwave displayed zero-zero, and the rift was gone.

The voice echoed, “Time is whole. Don’t pull the threads again.”

Tom stood there, heart pounding, staring at the microwave, “Whoa, no more thinking before I’ve had my coffee.”

There are men born with the sense of a barn owl, men graced with the common sense of a fence post, and then there is Brandon Blount—a man whose thought process, if it can be called such, operates on a plane of reality not yet charted by science.

Mr. Blount, a 39-year-old specimen hailing from Nevada, recently undertook an odyssey across this fine nation, choosing as his chariot not a modest station wagon, nor even an ill-advised minivan, but instead the noble and spacious confines of a U-Haul truck. Not content to merely ferry furniture or household goods, Mr. Blount—who, one presumes, has never once consulted a map, a rulebook, or a scrap of his conscience—decided to cram his seven daughters into the said vehicle, dispersing them in a manner one might expect from a man accustomed to packing crates rather than caring for children.

On March 25 in East Ridge, Tennessee, the local constabulary received an alarming report–an individual shoveling children into the back of a U-Haul, like sacks of potatoes. Now, while the human race has made questionable transportation decisions—consider, if you will, the historic perils of the covered wagon—this particular method lacked both necessity and dignity.

Officers, ever diligent in pursuit of justice and baffling stupidity, soon located the rolling nursery on I-75 northbound. Upon halting the vehicle, they discovered Blount at the helm, two of his unfortunate offspring riding up front like proper passengers, and the remaining five enjoying the unventilated, shock-absorbing splendor of the cargo hold.

After confirming that this was not, in fact, a surreal misunderstanding but rather the full scope of Blount’s plan, the authorities saw fit to relieve him of his paternal responsibilities, placing him under arrest on multiple counts of child endangerment and neglect. The Tennessee Department of Children’s Services, accustomed to sorting out the misdeeds of the misguided, whisked the children away for medical evaluation.

And so, Mr. Blount now sits in the company of others who have mistaken reckless foolishness for ingenuity, no doubt wondering why society refuses to acknowledge his brilliance. One can only hope that the time spent in reflection will yield some understanding of why people ain’t freight.

In a grand display of legislative valor, U.S. Senator Catherine Cortez Masto, flanked by her trusty Montana counterpart, Steve Daines, has unsheathed the Small County PILT Parity Act—a bill of such magnificent importance that one wonders how civilization has managed to persist without it.

This noble measure, aimed at counties with fewer than 5,000 souls, would tweak the Payment in Lieu of Taxes (PILT) formula to shower a slightly less pitiful sum upon the proud but sparsely populated lands of Esmeralda, Eureka, Lincoln, Mineral, and Storey Counties. The concept is simple–Uncle Sam owns most of the land, won’t pay property taxes on it, and now, in boundless generosity, proposes to toss a few extra coins into the collection plate.

“This bipartisan bill ensures that our most rural counties are treated fairly,” declared Senator Cortez Masto, presumably with a straight face, as she championed the desperate quest for equity among counties competing for federal crumbs.

Meanwhile, bureaucrats in Washington, no doubt exhausted from their herculean efforts to carve out these marginal increases, patted themselves on the back for this triumph of rural justice. To enhance the newfound fairness–the bill introduces four breathtakingly specific new tiers—1,000, 2,000, 3,000, and 4,000—presumably so each county may now agonize over whether its population lands it in the “Pittance” or the “Slightly Larger Pittance” category.

While the good folks of Nevada’s least populous counties wait with bated breath for this windfall, the rest of the country can only marvel at Congress’s ability to tackle the issues of our time—one fraction of a tax dollar at a time.