RIP Transheuser-Busch.

Allison Bailey was found unconscious on her kitchen floor on the evening of Sat., Mar. 4, 2023. She died at the hospital later that night.

Two months earlier, on Sun., Jan. 15, 2023, she was kicked out of the Nevada National Guard with an “other than honorable” discharge.

Her final days of life began when she reported her rape on Fri., Jan. 29, 2021. That is when the world she knew as the Nevada National Guard turned on the Sergeant First Class destroying her career and eventually her life.

In January 2021, Maj. Gen. Ondra Berry, Nevada National Guard Commander, launched a zero-tolerance campaign to address sexual assault encouraging soldiers to report rape no matter how much time had passed and vowed to support them.

As an officer with the Reno Police Department, Berry was the subject of an internal affair probe into an incident where they were hot tubbing with some underage girls. Nothing became of the investigation, and Berry continued rising through the ranks until his retirement.

Bailey, who was suffering from undiagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD,) had been raped in May 2020 by another soldier. She did not report the attack because she did not want to ruin the reputation and future of her attacker.

Bailey eventually filed a formal unrestricted sexual assault report and an Inspector General (IG) complaint in October 2020 after being forced to be alone with her alleged attacker and act as his evaluation officer, which violated regulations.

But once she filed her complaint, the Guard launched a misconduct investigation against Bailey on Mon., Jan. 4, 2021. They charged her with having a sexual relationship with her rapist, who was never charged, coercing subordinates to sleep in her bed, engaging in sexually explicit conversations with junior soldiers, falsifying documents, and making false official statements.

Bailey was also issued a military protection order forbidding her to make contact with the soldier she accused of rape after he filed a sexual harassment complaint against her. Her defense counsel later learned that the alleged rapist, a male, had a personal relationship with the female investigating officer.

Bailey was demoted from an E7 to an E1 and informed she would receive a dishonorable discharge, losing all earned benefits. Despite not issuing Bailey a DD214, the National Guard cut off her medical care without notice.

She had no civilian healthcare insurance since being in the Guard for ten years. At the end of her life, Bailey suffered from seizures, severe anxiety, depression, pancreatitis, malnutrition from pancreatitis, pancreatic mass, and a blood clotting disorder.

Bailey died before she got justice. She was only days away from her 34 birthday on Thu., Mar. 23.

Saying that the Route 91 killer was angry because he lost money is like saying the Nashville shooter was pissed over a bad grade point average.

Generally speaking, I perpetrate April Fool’s Day jokes around the house. However, I have not been feeling well (a cold) for the last week, so I had nothing in mind and did not care to try.

So, it was left up to my wife to become the day’s prankster.

She is a believer in Vitamin C when one has a cold. Swallowing the horse pills she offers is not enjoyable, so we compromise: I will drink a large glass of orange juice instead.

Barely out of bed, she called me to the kitchen for my morning juice. I generally guzzle it down before I proceed to where my actual morning-time interest lies, the coffee pot.

Taking the offered glass, I started drinking as quickly as I could. In an instant, I knew something was wrong.

A long blob of something slipped over my tongue and halfway down my throat before I could stop myself. Whatever it was, it caused me to gag and nearly throw up, but somehow I managed to swallow and keep it down.

My watering eye must have told the whole story as my wife began laughing at my sudden conundrum. Still braying like a jack-ass on steroids and trying not to vomit, I choked out, “What…in…the…yak…was that…yak?”

She showed me the empty eggshell.

 

The last rays of light were gleaming behind Mount Davidson when the crowd of 30 or so men and women, half-angry, fully drunk, decided Silver City had to pay for what was happening in Manhattan, New York. Soon the sound of trucks and cars turning over in the chilled evening echoed through the small town of Virginia City.

South they headed, three miles downhill to their Comstock neighbors. They planned to burn down every home in the burg and send all the men, women, and children packing into the desert sage.

The crowd was hostile, angry at the indictment of the 45th President of the United States by an east coast grand jury on bogus charges of paying hush money to a pornstar who told the grand jury she never slept with Trump. It was more than the crowd could take after witnessing how the Biden campaign had come to power three years earlier.

Now their progressive neighbors would pay for not standing with them.

As they rounded the bend leading to Devil’s Gate, they could see the tangle of vehicle headlights that crowded the granite passage. It was this reporter’s nightmare, this reporter’s dream.

Having come down the mountain trailing the crowd, I stood off in the background, ready to eat dirt. when the shooting and burning commenced. Scant traces of words from raised voices echoed through the widened canyon but became lost to the hearing.

Then the crowd from Virginia City started returning to their vehicles, backing up, turning around, and heading back to the town beneath Davidson. Then I saw what had repelled the vigilante crowd, an o.d. green M48 Patton tank that one of the reclusive Marshall brothers had procured during their four-year stint in the Army during Vietnam and managed to smuggle home.

Being the last to leave the uphill side of the stand-off, I felt my blood chill a bit as the old beast rumbled to life as I sped toward supposed safety.

It was easy to find them, crowded together at the Red Dog Saloon, ordering pizza and more drinks. That’s where I also found one of the instigators.

“Figger if that crazy sum-bitch is crazy enough to still have that tank hid out in one those old mine shafts,” hold man Critner said. “Prolly has a nine-mill shell to go with it.”

“Takes await to get one of them bastards warmed up, so the question is, who the hell tipped them off?” he asked.

Not liking how he looked at me when he asked the question, I quietly sidled across C Street to the Union Saloon for safety’s sake.

During the mid-1850s, pioneers journeyed into the Truckee Meadows, where the Truckee River winds from Lake Tahoe to Pyramid Lake. They tilled the fertile land and seized the opportunity to engage in commerce with travelers traversing the California Trail.

Thus began the tale of Reno’s humble beginnings.

The year 1850 saw the emergence of a modest mining community in Dayton Valley, allured by the prospect of gold. However, the discovery of silver in 1859 at the legendary Comstock Lode set off a frantic rush, prompting adventurous souls to abandon their homes and venture westward in search of fortune.

A significant turning point came in 1859 when Charles W. Fuller constructed a toll bridge spanning the Truckee River, connecting Virginia City to the California Trail. Soon, a small settlement began to thrive near the bridge, catering to the needs of weary travelers.

Two years later, Fuller sold the bridge to Myron C. Lake. Lake’s Crossing, as the settlement came to be known, flourished under his stewardship with the establishment of a grist mill, kiln, and livery stable alongside the existing hotel and eating house.

Lake’s Crossing gained newfound importance when, in January 1863, the Central Pacific Railroad laid tracks eastward from Sacramento, Cal. and converged with the Union Pacific Railroad at Promontory, Utah, to create the Transcontinental Railroad. In exchange for the Central Pacific Railroad’s commitment to construct a depot at Lake’s Crossing, Lake generously deeded land to the railway company.

The partnership cemented the settlement’s prospects and set the stage for its transformation. In 1864, the consolidation of Washoe County with Roop County elevated Lake’s Crossing to the status of the largest town in Nevada, making Myron C. Lake the revered “founder of Reno.”

On Sat., May 9, 1868, Reno officially came into existence with the establishment of a railroad station. Its name was bestowed by the Central Pacific Railroad’s construction superintendent, Charles Crocker, in honor of Major General Jesse Lee Reno, a Union officer who had made the ultimate sacrifice during the Civil War’s Battle of South Mountain.

Reno’s ascent to the prestigious position of the county seat in 1871, following Washoe County’s expansion, marked another milestone in its development. Political influence in Nevada, which had initially resided with the mining communities in Virginia City, eventually shifted towards non-mining communities like Reno.

The railroad’s 1872 extension to Reno proved a game-changer, infusing new life into the city’s burgeoning economy. Reno thrived as a vibrant hub for commerce and agriculture, emerging as a primary settlement along the transcontinental railroad between Sacramento and Salt Lake City.

While the mining industry gradually declined in the early 20th century, Nevada’s political and economic epicenters shifted towards non-mining communities, with Reno at the forefront of this transformation. Today, Reno, from its humble origins as Lake’s Crossing to its current status as a thriving urban center, Reno’s journey is a remarkable tale of ambition, resilience, and prosperity.

Last night on my evening walk, I completely lost my mind because ahead of me was a white rabbit sitting upright, waiting for me on my path. I could not believe it.

I took out my phone to take its photo. It didn’t move, I wondered if it was an early Easter decoration, but it was too far down on the road and not in front of a home.

I thought – – it’s frightened so it’s staying still, take it slow. I walked up to it little by little, carefully, so as not to frighten it. Friends, I just spent a very slow ten minutes walking up to a plastic bag of dog poop.

The next move by Communist-Democrats is to regulate guns by declaring firearm violence a public health emergency, like the so-called COVID emergency, further limiting American freedoms. The idea of a public health emergency for firearms violence has been around for years, and they are using it to revive their push to take new gun control measures.

President Biden recently renewed his call for an “assault weapons” ban like Congress approved in 1994. The president also signed an executive order stiffening background checks to buy guns.

The Communist-Democrat party is also trying to curtail Nevadan’s second amendment rights as Assemblywoman Sandra Jauregui introduced Assembly Bill 355, raising the age limit from 18 to 21 for purchasing a handgun and possessing and handling one. The bill also bans hunting for persons under 21.

Her Communist-Democrat colleagues, Speaker Steve Yeager and Assemblywoman Daniele Monroe-Moreno are sponsoring this legislation.

There are around 400 million privately owned firearms in the U.S., with a population of 332 million, making the nation home to nearly half of the civilian-own guns in the world.

Wandering through the upper floors of the Washoe Club with my friend Jim Cleek, his daughters Kim Petty and Lily Mae Collins, their cousin Shannon Kean, and tour guide Zack Demo, we were having a grand time. It was my first time upstairs, so everything, noises, lights, creaking boards, was new to me.

The Washoe Club is perhaps the second most ‘famous’ haunted building in Nevada, behind the Goldfield Hotel south of Virginia City. It has been featured at least twice on television’s Ghost Adventures.

At any rate, the three women, accompanied by Jim and Zack, were channeling spirits while I moved up and down the hallways and into various rooms taking pictures. I missed at least one hall in my journey, as I soon learned.

Believing I’d traversed each one, I aimed my cell phone down this one corridor and pressed the camera button. The flash illuminated the area in front of me with lightning speed.

“Agak!” or “Son of a bitch,” I shouted, or something akin to it, as I jumped from fright.

Sitting in front of me at a distance of fewer than five feet was a damned mannequin dressed as an American Indian, braids and all. I had no idea it was seated on an old chair in the hall.

My jump scare made for a good laugh.

We walked south from the Red Dog Saloon to the Washoe Club. I had no idea why, but I soon learned.

Beckoned to follow, I obeyed, tailing behind Kimberly Pettie, who had stopped to chat with some women at the end of the bar. Secretly, her cousin Shannon Kean had assigned me the task of staying with her and keeping her out of trouble.

Out the door and to the right, we finally walked up the stairs to the second and third floors of the club, where there had once been offices, a hospital, and small apartments. Immersed in darkness, Kim, Shannon, and I followed our guide Zack, who also led Jim Cleek and his daughter Lilly Mae Collins upstairs.

There we learned a little bit about the history of the mid-nineteenth-century building and some of its many occupants throughout the years. One is a little girl named Grizell, who a freight wagon ran over, leaving her on death’s doorstep in 1862.

She died from her injuries a few hours after the incident. And now, her spirit allegedly remains trapped in the building, on the second floor near the staircase leading up to the third floor.

Lily made first contact with her from our touring party. Lily said that the child was frightened by something at the top of the stairs and that she secrets herself under the staircase.

Upstairs is where most of the activity happened for us. There were rooms where Shannon felt joy and wished to dance and others where Kim came to near collapse from an oppressive heaviness.

In one room, near the middle of the building and towards the back, was the most activity we would have for the night. The room was heavy, filled with grief, and where I had to force my way to the back of the apartment despite nothing physically blocking my path.

While Kim squatted, fighting back against a desire to lay on the floor forces unseen, Shannon grew lightheaded and sad, almost coming to tears. Meanwhile, I developed pain in my left chest and arm.

As I debated exiting the room before I suffered a heart attack, I perceived the word “Go” as Kim heard “Get out.” The three of us obeyed, taking about five minutes to recover.

After lingering in a hallway that intersected the third floor, listening to knocking and voices, we started down the stairs for the exit. However, I saw movement at the base of the stairs, and Lily said she could feel Griselle in the same place.

As Jim led Kim and Shannon to the street level and outside, I stayed with Lily as she attempted to communicate with the little girl. Near the top of the stairs from which we had come a minute before, a light blue mist appeared, seeming to form into a shadow.

While I didn’t pick up on the command, Lily heard “get out,” as the mist turned to shadow, and perceptibly frightened, she scrambled by me in the stairwell with me now close behind as I had already started down. We stood on the boardwalk for a few minutes shaking off whatever it was that had affected our touring.

Having had enough, Lily was walked home by her father. As for me, a shot of whisky helped steady my nerves but did nothing for the general body fatigue I felt.