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South of Reno, along that stretch of road they call Interstate 580–a place not fit for man nor beast in the wee hours–a most lamentable business took place Saturday morning.

‘Twas about 2:15 by the clock when one solitary soul, beset by moonshine, saw fit to wreck his vehicle smack in the middle of the southbound lanes just south of Mt. Rose Highway. No sooner had his wreckage come to rest than a Good Samaritan, a woman of stout heart and tender conscience, took it upon herself to stop and offer aid–a thing so rare these days it ought to be preserved in a museum.

But Fate, which has no more manners than a goat at a garden party, had other ideas. Before she could assist–another motorist–barreling along the southbound way with a head full of booze–crashed into the wreckage and struck the Good Samaritan dead where she stood.

The Nevada Highway Patrol, speaking later in that sober, solemn way that law officers adopt after a particularly grim duty, noted that both the first and second drivers seemed to have taken to drink, or something worse, before climbing behind the wheel. Both were arrested and carted off to the Washoe County jail, there to reflect upon their sins.

The authorities, keen to keep the rabble from gawping at the scene, shut down the southbound side of I-580 at Mt. Rose Highway around six o’clock and kept it closed for several hours. No names are getting released right now, and the conditions of the offending parties were left to speculation–though one might wager they were in no condition to make introductions.

The road is open again, though the stain upon the morning and human nature remains.

Out in the land of dust and double-dealers, where a man can get robbed of his hat and still get taxed for the privilege, one Michele Fiore, a woman of stubborn disposition and unladylike courage, finds herself once again on the receiving end of a great American pastime–namely, public character assassination masquerading as justice.

It took a federal jury no more time than it does a rooster to crow twice to convict Miss Fiore on several counts of wire fraud back in October ’24. They called it an eight-day trial, but it had all the careful consideration of a saloon brawl. Each count came carrying the weight of twenty years–or, as some call it in Las Vegas, just long enough to forget who dealt the cards.

With a twist befitting a country where justice rides a three-legged mule, President Donald Trump issued a pardon, turning the whole affair upside down and inside out. The mob, it seems, cannot abide when a rope prepared for hanging goes unused.

The cause of all this ruction? Fiore once endeavored to raise money for statues honoring fallen officers Alyn Beck and Igor Soldo, gunned down like dogs while on a lunch break in 2014. Some money changed hands — from union boss Tommy White, from the then-sheriff and now Governor Joe Lombardo — and soon after, accusations began to breed like rabbits.

Governor Lombardo has stayed silent as a grave, which is prudent when the wolves are baying. Nevada’s Attorney General, Aaron Ford, took to the new-fangled ‘X’ platform to heap curses on the pardon, President Trump, and Fiore.

Ford, who calls himself the “top cop,” declared it a “disgrace, which, coming from a politician, is like being called damp by a fish.

Meanwhile, the law professors and learned men remind everyone that while Miss Fiore cannot get tried twice by the same court, there’s no rule stopping Nevada from dragging her back into the dock under their authority. Like an unlucky gambler who keeps pulling the wrong lever, Fiore now faces the possibility of being charged again.

The esteemed Professor Benjamin Edwards at UNLV, speaking with the gravity of a man who has never missed a meal, explained that federal and state prosecutions are as different as two fleas on a hound–one might jump, but the other still has a bite left. He even suggested that Nevada may have a “responsibility” to pursue her should the hunger for blood prove too strong to resist.

The District Attorney, Steve Wolfson, has maintained a silence deep enough to drown in. No doubt he’s consulting his horoscope to see if political winds favor mercy or mayhem.

As for the Nevada Commission on Judicial Discipline–a body of bureaucrats well-practiced in removing the speck from others’ eyes while ignoring the planks in their own–they first suspended Fiore with pay, then without, proving that even when standing still, they can manage to step on their own feet. Now, while the high-hatted gentlemen and silk-stockinged reformers sharpen their knives, Fiore remains a symbol of something that rankles the soul of every weak busybody–a woman who refuses to kneel, confess, and die quietly.

And that, dear reader, is why they still hunt her.

In the days when young McAvoy Layne, a lad yet to know he carried the reincarnated spark of ol’ Sam Clemens himself, took it into his head to join the United States Marine Corps, the world was a tangle of mischief and muddle, much like a yarn spun by a man with too much whiskey and too little sleep. To Vietnam, he went in 1966, bound for what the recruiters called an “extended vacation” of two years, though it bore as much resemblance to a holiday as a dog does to a cat.

Picture the scene, a sultry jungle night, where the air’s so thick with tension, you could slice it with a butter knife and spread it on your biscuit. Young Layne, greener than a spring frog, was posted as sentry just inside a snarl of concertina

wire he and his comrade—a wiry fella with a laugh like a busted squeezebox—had strung up that very day.

They’d laced that wire with tin cans, each holdin’ a single rock, a contraption meant to jangle a warning if the Viet Cong came sneakin’. The pair hunkered down in their fighting hole, eyes wide and nerves taut as a banjo string, waitin’ for trouble to announce itself.

It wasn’t long—a half-hour, maybe, though it felt like a coon’s age—before a rustle came from the wire, sharp and sudden, like a ghost tiptoein’ through a graveyard. Layne’s buddy, quicker than a hiccup, popped up like a jack-in-the-box, let loose a burst from his rifle toward the sound, then dove back into the hole faster than a sinner slidin’ into church on Judgment Day.

The two of ‘em froze, ears strainin’ for any hint of what might be out there. Not a whisper. The jungle held its breath, and so did they. Across the ravine, another outpost of Marines, brothers-in-arms with their worries, had heard the shots and perked up, figurin’ trouble might be brewin’.

The sudden quiet left them as jumpy as a grasshopper on a hot skillet, but that’s warfare for you—full of surprises, mostly unpleasant. What none reckoned on was young Layne, nervous as a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs in a home for the aged, cookin’ up a plan that’d make a mule laugh and a General weep.

“Best we see what’s comin’,” says his mate to Layne, his voice shakin’ like a leaf in a gale. “Let’s shoot a flare.”

His buddy, figurin’ it couldn’t hurt, nodded, and Layne, eager as a pup with a new bone, grabbed the flare gun. Now, aimin’ a flare ain’t no harder than pointin’ a finger, but Layne, bless his heart, was so rattled he might as well have been tryin’ to thread a needle in a hurricane.

He set the thing up, squeezed the trigger, and—whoo-eee!—that flare didn’t soar skyward like it was supposed to. No, sir, it shot across the ravine like a comet with a grudge, a red streak of pure cussedness headin’ straight for the other outpost.

By the grace of Providence and dumb luck, it missed the boys on the far side, sailin’ past ‘em close enough to singe their whiskers. The fellas hit the dirt, hearts poundin’ like a blacksmith’s hammer, thinkin’ the devil himself had come callin’.

When the flare fizzled out in the jungle beyond, they picked themselves up, cussin’ and laughin’ in that way men do when they’ve cheated death by a hair. Come dawn, when the outposts gathered to swap tales and tobacco, one of the Marines from across the ravine, a lanky cuss with a grin like a possum, swore that flare looked like a locomotive barrelin’ right at him, headlight blazin’ and whistle screamin’.

“Night Train,” he dubbed Layne, and the name stuck tighter than a tick on a hound. For the rest of his days in the Corps, McAvoy answered to Night Train, a moniker earned by one part courage and nine parts calamity.

Years rolled by, and Layne, havin’ survived the war’s brand of foolishness, found his true callin’. The spirit of Mark Twain, that old riverboat rascal, must’ve been lurkin’ in him all along, for he took to wearin’ a white suit and a mustache that’d make a walrus jealous, tourin’ the world with Chautauquas that spun tales of human nature with a wink and a chuckle.

And if you ever caught one of his shows, you might’ve seen a glint in his eye, a flicker of that night in Vietnam when Night Train Layne lit up the dark with a flare and a prayer, provin’ that even a fool can stumble into glory, so long as he’s got a story to tell.

Now, folks, gather ‘round and lend an ear to the latest chapter of American absurdity–a tale so rich in foolishness that even the Carson River would blush to tell it.

It seems Nevada, that grand stretch of desert and dice, had a law passed back in 1985–a simple enough notion–sayin’ that if a young’un wanted an abortion, their folks ought to get told first. You know–like parents are for birthdays, broken arms, and everything else that matters.

But quicker than you can say, “rabbit in a briar patch,” the law was tied up and tucked away, all because of Roe v. Wade, which back then gave folks the notion that the Constitution had a secret footnote about killing babies.

Fast-forward to 2022, when the Supreme Court, perhaps tired of pretending otherwise, sent Roe packing.

Nevada’s dusty old law stirred in its slumber, ready to rise and mind the children. That is until U.S. District Court Judge Anne Traum–with the solemnity of a cat pawing a ball of yarn–granted Planned Parenthood’s wish to pause the whole affair.

Let’s not mistake ourselves–Planned Parenthood don’t deal in healthcare, no matter what pretty banners they sew. Their business is the death of babies, neat and clinical as a bank ledger, and they fight for that grim trade like a gambler fights for a full deck.

In her wisdom or some pale imitation of it, the judge told Planned Parenthood they could ask the 9th Circuit Court to keep the law on ice a little longer, provided they hustle and file their papers in a week.

And so, the law that Nevada once had but never used, then thought finally to use, will keep sleeping–at least for now–while the great wheel of the courts turns slow and crooked, like an old mule heading uphill.

One’s tempted to believe that common sense might someday catch up, but like good whiskey and honest politicians, it’s always in short supply.

It was a fine spectacle to watch the Nevada Legislature try to hogtie artificial intelligence like some wild steer fresh out of the mountains when AI is more like fog–and slips through your fingers and makes you look foolish for trying.

During this session, more than a dozen bills got cooked up, all promising to regulate, restrict, survey, or otherwise boss around the machines now clever enough to answer questions, settle arguments, and, soon enough, probably run for office themselves. The grand hope seems that if enough laws get passed quickly enough, maybe the government can pretend it was steering the wagon the whole time–instead of hanging on for dear life.

The Department of Employment, Training, and Rehabilitation, being the first to admit it’s got more work than workers, put an AI system from Google to work, ruling on unemployment appeals, with a human standing by to nod solemnly at whatever the machine decided. Over at the DMV, an AI chatbot got set loose to answer questions, and from all accounts, it has performed no worse than the flesh-and-blood clerks it replaced–which is to say, it left most folks equally confused.

Not wishing to be left behind, the Office of the Chief Information Officer announced a “responsible and ethical” AI policy last fall–a document so carefully worded–that it kept a bureaucrat busy enough to miss lunch. They banned the use of AI for discriminatory content, demanding that all personal data used by the machines get washed clean first–a fine idea, assuming anyone can figure out what “clean” means when it comes to a machine that knows your shoe size, your dog’s name, and what you ate for supper last Tuesday.

The same office declared that every state agency would soon get its own Microsoft-powered AI assistant–good for writing emails and “brainstorming,” which in government circles means having a meeting that accomplishes nothing but burns up the afternoon.

Not to be outdone, U.S. Senator Dina Neal put forth SB199, a bill as broad as a river in flood season. It started life banning AI-written police reports and AI-built lesson plans for schools, and following some horse-trading and watering-down, it now mostly orders the creation of “working groups” to study the matter–a sure sign that the problem has been declared too complicated to solve and will thus be talked to death instead.

The bill does manage to protect folks’ private medical data from being fed to insurance company machines, and it forbids landlords from using secret AI tricks to boost your rent behind your back–a practice already alive and well across the California border, where AI has been whispering sweet nothings into landlords’ greedy ears.

Meanwhile, Nevada’s Division of Welfare and Supportive Services is fixing to use an AI-powered grocery app that tracks wasted food and serves up deals to SNAP recipients. Thus, while AI won’t plan your child’s lesson in history class, it might soon be trusted to tell you where to find half-priced ham.

Other bills are riding along–one to ban AI from denying your medical care, another to keep AI from making final decisions in emergency management, and another still to outlaw AI-generated child pornography–a sickening thing to have to write a law about, but necessary when humans and machines conspire.

There was even a bill to help voters figure out when a political ad is gettin’ spun by a machine, which is just as well, seeing as some human campaign ads are already so low-down and dishonest that a robot could hardly do worse.

A few bills died quiet deaths before the first committee deadline, but not to worry–their language and good intentions got grafted onto surviving bills, like mismatched planks hammered onto a boat that’s already halfway sunk.

Nevada’s attempt to rein in AI looks much like trying to put trousers on an octopus–messy and guaranteed to leave everyone inked and wondering whose bright idea it was in the first place.

It is one of the grand marvels of American life that whenever a simple rule gets laid down, like “don’t discriminate,” there’ll be a thousand learned men to stand up, puff out their chests, and explain why it doesn’t apply to them.

Seeing the rickety DEI contraption creaking and groaning in every schoolhouse, the Trump Administration had the brass to insist states obey the Civil Rights Act as written–and not twisted by self-important professors and well-paid consultants. The demand was plain–stop using “diversity, equity, and inclusion” as a fig leaf for racial discrimination, or else find yourselves fishing for funds without a federal hook.

After certifying its good conduct in February, Nevada is stumbling over its two left feet. When asked to reaffirm its commitment—this time with clear eyes and a sober mind about what the law says—Nevada’s education department responded like a boy who swears he cleaned the barn but can’t explain the lingering smell.

Steve Canavero, the interim school boss in Nevada, put pen to paper and delivered the political equivalent of a shrug. He said the state believed it was following the law but wasn’t sure what the Trump administration meant by “illegal DEI.” One might wonder how many lawyers it takes to define the word “illegal,” but then–this is government work, where common sense is often the first casualty.

The Trump team, led by Secretary Linda McMahon, is not asking for anything wild or novel. They are not banning kindness, fairness, or opportunity. They’re reminding the states–who seem to forget at every turn that you can’t violate the Civil Rights Act in the name of virtue.

Equity is not equality. Preference is not justice, and discrimination dressed up in fancy language is still discrimination.

Of course, the bigwigs who love DEI like a hog loves slop are screeching at the top of their lungs. Nineteen Democratic attorneys general, including Nevada’s Aaron Ford, rushed to the courthouse, shouting that Washington’s being mean. Meanwhile, federal judges handed down a temporary slap on the wrist, telling the administration to slow its roll–for now.

Several states, loyal to their liberal masters, flat-out refused to comply. Connecticut and Maine paraded their defiance like a child showing off a black eye. Others, like Georgia and Iowa, recognized a simple truth: if you want the money, you follow the rules. Utah, too, hedged its bets, not rejecting the Trump administration outright but playing the waiting game—a favorite sport among the politically cautious.

And what of Nevada? It stands in the middle, peering down the tracks at the oncoming train, hoping to collect the ticket money and dodge the ride. But there’s no escaping the plain fact–the Trump administration is not trying to rewrite the law; it’s trying to enforce it. If Nevada wants to keep pretending that discrimination is noble so long as it wears a polite label, it may find itself reading about school funding in the past tense.

In the end, there are two kinds of people in this country–those who bend the law to suit their fancies and those who remember why it got written in the first place.

And the latter, thank Heaven, are not yet extinct.

Out yonder in Nye County, where the sun sets slow–and the law rides quicker than a jackrabbit with its tail on fire, a peculiar incident unfolded that’d make even a demon raise an eyebrow.

On the evening of April 8, just after supper time, Deputy Sedrick Sweet was rolling down Highway 160 in his marked sheriff’s wagon–a modern contraption with lights and sirens to wake the dead–spied the oddest sight. A white Dodge Neon, creeping along slower than molasses in January–flashing its hazard lights like it had a mind to join a parade that nobody’d heard of.

Deputy Sweet, a man of keen observation and sounder suspicion, reckoned something was amiss. His sharp eye lit upon what appeared to be a Nevada temporary placard stuck in the window–but something about it wasn’t right, like a three-dollar bill on payday.

Sweet wasted no time turning on his siren and pulled the Dodge to the side of the road, ready to investigate this rolling mystery. Behind the wheel sat a Hispanic gentleman who, by all appearances, understood English like a coyote does Latin.

Sweet tried explaining the situation, but the driver shrugged and smiled in that universal language: “I don’t know what you’re hollerin’ about.”

Not to be outfoxed, Sweet called for backup, summoning Deputy Deon Ford, a man blessed with the gift of tongues–or at least Spanish. Upon Ford’s arrival, the driver produced a California driver’s license, showing a name and a photograph that seemed respectable enough to a blind man at twenty paces.

But Nye County dispatch, not being easily hoodwinked, reported that the license belonged to a different soul out of Granada Hills, Calif. Smelling something stronger than skunk cabbage, the deputies pressed the man harder, and he eventually coughed up another document from Mexico–about as genuine as a politician’s promise.

When the dust finally settled, the man admitted that not only was the placard as fake as a snake oil tonic, but the license he handed over was a lie, too. Since the deputies couldn’t get his real name or make any sense of the documents he juggled, they hauled him off to the Nye County Detention Center under the timeless title of “John Doe.”

For his troubles, John Doe now faces a collection of charges, including operating a vehicle without a valid license, no proof of insurance, and displaying fictitious registration–crimes that, while mighty creative, don’t sit kindly with the local authorities.

In Nevada, where the sun don’t ask permission to fry a man like a flapjack, the price of gasoline has taken a polite little tumble. A gallon of regular now fetches $3.87, which is four cents less than it did just last week–about enough to make a feller smile before he remembers he still can’t afford pie after dinner.

It is an improvement from last year when you couldn’t fill your motorcar without feeling like you’d got waylaid by highwaymen. Back then, it was $4.60 a gallon, and people considered takin’ up hitchhikin’ as a profession.

John Treanor, a spokesman for the AAA–an outfit that knows more about car trouble than Job knew about misery–reckons folks are stirring out of their winter dens now that the weather is fairer.

“More people gettin’ out and about is nudgin’ the prices upward,” he said, squinting into the middle distance like a man who’s seen too much.

He also allowed that the price of crude oil is loafing at a lowly $62 a barrel, compared to a loftier $82 this time last year.

Meanwhile, the Energy Information Administration–that wellspring of figures nobody understands–reports that gasoline demand has hopped from 8.46 million barrels to a lively 9.41 million a day. Being a fickle mistress, supply dropped from 234.0 million barrels to 229.5 million. Nevertheless, gasoline production puffed along respectably at 10.1 million barrels a day, like a steamboat captain who’s a little behind schedule but determined to make up for it with bluster.

In Las Vegas–where fortunes rise and fall quicker than a drunkard’s promises–gas averages $3.87. Up yonder in Reno, where the air’s clear and the poker faces sterner, it’ll set you back $4.16. In the rest of the Union, the going price is $3.17, creeping upward by a hair’s breadth but still a ways south of last year’s gouging.

On the oil front, West Texas Intermediate crude oil prices slipped down $1.40 to rest at $62.27 a barrel–a mighty tumble from the highfalutin’ prices of yesteryear. U.S. crude inventories are nudging upward like a man who’s had too many chili beans they’re still a good five percent shy of where they ought to be.

As for the electric contraptions–those motorcars that run on lightning and wizardry–the price for charging has held steady. Thirty-four cents per kilowatt hour nationally and thirty-seven cents in Nevada. If nothing else, it’s good to know one part of modern life that ain’t swimmin’ around like a cat in a rain barrel.

In the bright, painted halls of Pinecrest Academy down in Henderson, where the floors shine slicker than a politician’s promise, Governor Joe Lombardo declared he’s goin’ to fix Nevada’s schools–this time for real.

He called it the Nevada Accountability in Education Act, a name so dressed-up it needs a bonnet and parasol. According to the Governor, the new law will see to it that if a school district don’t do its job, it’ll be shaken up, rattled loose, and maybe even handed over to the government itself–which, in these parts, is about as comforting as handing a chicken coop to a fox with a necktie.

“After delivering the largest investment in K–12 education in Nevada’s history,” the Governor said, puffing out his chest like a prize turkey, “we owe it to our communities to match that investment with real results–and real accountability.”

He spoke about not letting a child’s fate get chained to the family’s income or the sorry corner of a city they were born in–a noble notion, sure as sunrise.

He mentioned opportunity scholarships, too–a golden ticket for a few lucky children to leap over the fence and escape the government-run paddock.

“All the students in the front here are currently utilizing opportunity scholarships,” Lombardo said as the chosen few beamed like prize pumpkins at a fair.

The Governor talked about open enrollment, charter school funding, school choice, and sprinkling a few prizes on excellent teachers–if they’re still around after the politics, paperwork, and pestering.

Now, you might think, hearing all this, that the sun is about to break over Nevada’s educational horizon. You might even think, dear reader, that salvation is nigh, but you’d be wrong.

Because while the Governor is busy making speeches and cutting ribbons, the unions still sit fat and sassy at the table, and the Democratic bosses still clutch the purse strings with fists tighter than a miser’s on Christmas Eve. As long as those two remain, Nevada schools will stay right where they’ve been for years–at the bottom of every list that matters and the top of every list that shames us.

The Governor means well, no doubt. But fixing Nevada education without breaking the back of the union stronghold is like trying to patch the Hoover Dam with chewing gum.

And as sure as the sun rises in the east and sets behind the Sierra, not a blessed thing will change.

It appears the great Tesla chase has taken a curious turn, and the boys in the suits have gone and moved the goalposts while the game was still afoot. This week, the Trump administration, no stranger to ruckus or favor trading, threw a mighty fine lasso around the neck of the federal crash-reporting rules and yanked’em clean off the books — at least for some.

Under the new order handed down by the Transportation Department, automakers who deal in half-smart machines–known among the learned as “Level 2 systems”–can now keep many of their fender-benders to themselves. And who might be riding highest in that buggy?

Why, none other than that much-hunted fox of a man, Mr. Elon Musk.

You see, Mr. Musk, who has been squealing louder than a stuck pig about the “unfairness” of having every ding and scrape pinned to his good name, now finds himself in a twisted position.

Thanks to these rules, Tesla can trumpet a spotless record without the bother of every little bump making the evening news. It’s a fine thing for stock prices — which jumped like a frog on a frying pan, nearly 10% in one day — and a finer thing still for Mr. Musk, who’s still getting hunted by regulators, rivals, and the high-minded folk of polite society with a fury fit for a witch trial.

Critics, including Wall Street types and other men with softer hands than farmers, said the new rules smell of favoritism, like last week’s fish. They point out that while Tesla gets to walk around the mud puddles, full-self-driving outfits like Waymo — backed by the mighty Alphabet family — still have to slosh through everyone, boots and all.

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, filled with lawyers who can say something’s fair while holding a thumb on the scale, insists nobody’s gettin’ special treatment. “No ADS company is hurt,” they said, which is the kind of talk a man uses when he just sat on your hat and tells you it improved the fit.

In truth, under the old rules, Tesla accounted for more than 800 of 1,040 reported crashes in a year — a mighty big chunk of the pie. The new rules politely look the other way unless the car is wrecked to the point it needs a tow, unless the unfortunate driver meets the Grim Reaper, or unless the airbags make their sudden, uninvited appearance.

Meanwhile, Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy–a man who talks about China like it’s the Big Bad Wolf waiting to blow our little houses down because he knows it will–said this is all to beat the Middle Kingdom at the self-driving game. “The stakes couldn’t be higher,” he said.

Musk, never shy with a compliment for himself, has long argued that his Teslas are safer than a Sunday stroll and that if the bureaucrats would only stop peeking through his keyhole, they’d see he’s saving lives, not endangering’em. Maybe so. But the hunt is far from over.

Tesla’s sales have taken a whipping lately, with Mr. Musk’s habit of sidling up to some of Europe’s far-right flamethrowers and cozying into President Trump’s cost-cutting cabal. His fortunes now ride on the promise of driverless Teslas filling the streets like tumbleweeds in Austin, Texas, come June.

Waymo’s already there, waiting, wagging its tail.

Mark my words–they’ll keep hunting Musk until they catch him, or he slips the noose for good. Either way, the chase itself is the thing, and America, God bless her, does love a good foxhunt.