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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.

Nevada Pushes Back, Of Course

President Donald Trump has taken it upon himself to tighten up the election process with all the vigor of a frontier sheriff cleaning up a crooked town. In a move that has sent many a bureaucrat into fits of righteous indignation, he has signed an executive order demanding that voters produce proper proof of citizenship before participating in federal elections—something that most reasonable folks might assume was already required. Alongside this–he insists that ballots be received by Election Day rather than lingering about in the postal system like a lost dog waiting for a bone.

The order is a fiery proclamation that the United States has been far too lackadaisical in securing its elections, and it puts state officials on notice–work with federal agencies to ensure accuracy or find yourselves short of federal funding. Naturally, this has drawn a chorus of outrage from those who find such demands inconvenient, particularly among the professional class of politicians who profit from confusion.

Enter Cisco Aguilar, Nevada’s Secretary of State, who wasted no time declaring the order an overreach. He insists that Nevada already has sufficient safeguards—paper audit trails, regular voter roll maintenance, and penalties for fraud.

In other words, he suggests Trump is trying to mend a fence that isn’t broken, at least not in Nevada.

“We know the people best prepared to run our elections are those at the local level who understand the needs of their community,” Aguilar declared, adding that the state would be weighing its legal options.

Aguilar’s opposition comes as no surprise. Nevada, being a key battleground state, has been a favorite target for election integrity debates since 2020 when Trump and his supporters pointed to questionable mail-in ballot practices. The state’s rules require voters to affirm their citizenship when registering, and giving false information can result in felony charges and a hefty fine—though critics argue that’s hardly an impenetrable defense against fraud.

The objections to Trump’s order are coming fast and furious. Some claim this is “federal overreach,” a phrase they seem to have misplaced when President Biden, by a similar stroke of the pen, ordered federal agencies to boost voter registration efforts in ways that conveniently favored his party. Others, such as Colorado’s Secretary of State Jena Griswold, have labeled it “unlawful,” though one suspects the legality of elections has only recently become a concern for such individuals.

Of course, the matter of mail-in ballots has caused no small amount of uproar. Ever skeptical of the system that saw his presidency cut short, Trump argues that these ballots invite fraud. With the straight-faced confidence that only lifelong politicians can muster, his critics insist fraud is “rare” and “limited.” The argument, it seems, is whether a flawed system is acceptable so long as its failures are not overwhelming.

Yet, Trump is not waiting on Congress to act—perhaps a wise decision given its tendency to move at the speed of molasses in January. The SAVE Act, which sought similar election reforms, has been slow to gain traction. So, in true Trumpian fashion, the president has taken matters into his own hands.

The response from the usual suspects has been predictably apocalyptic.

Lawsuits have already been threatened, with one Democratic lawyer declaring, “This will not stand.”

Yet, stand it may, as the order directs federal agencies to ensure the integrity of voter rolls, prioritize prosecution of election crimes, and set new security guidelines for voting systems. It’s a clear message–the days of ballots mysteriously appearing after election night, of names long since removed from this world remaining on voter rolls, and of uncertain identities slipping through the cracks may be drawing to a close.

And yet, one must admire the theatrical nature of the opposition.

Representatives and officials from various states have lined up to call the order “immoral,” “illegal,” and a “weaponization of government.” One wonders if these same individuals saw such weaponization when their party attempted to rewrite election laws in ways that benefited them.

Aguilar and his allies are dug in for a fight, insisting that their system is fine. But one must wonder—if the state’s elections are so secure, why should any of these reforms be problematic? Perhaps the real objection isn’t to security but to the man demanding it.

The real question, of course, is not whether the order will face legal challenges—it most certainly will—but whether the American people will tolerate an electoral system that remains porous and open to manipulation. Trump has put forth a challenge. Should elections be secure, or should they stay in the foggy realm of ambiguity where so many politicians thrive?

If Trump is good at anything, it’s stirring up a ruckus—and this ruckus is just getting started.

A Grave Reminder

The Grim Reaper has been keeping himself mighty busy on Nevada’s highways, and if the latest numbers are correct, he ain’t planning to retire anytime soon. Last year alone, 412 families had the misfortune of setting an extra place at supper out of habit, only to remember that their loved one had gone and met their end on the asphalt instead.

Clark County, always eager to be the biggest and best at everything, contributed 293 of those unfortunate souls to the tally. And to keep things exciting, 2024 decided to one-up its predecessor with 22 more names added to the roll call of the dearly departed.

Now, you might wonder what brand of foolishness is responsible for all this calamity. According to the sages at Zero Fatalities, more than half of these misadventures involved some feller who mistook his whiskey for wisdom and took to the road in an advanced state of enthusiasm.

Speeding, too, did its fair share of the reaping, contributing to a third of these unfortunate demises—because nothing says “bound for glory” quite like seeing how fast a man can get himself from here to eternity.

To drive the point home—preferably at a responsible and legal speed—Nevada State Police held a vigil to honor the fallen and, one can assume, to plead with the rest of us to use a lick of common sense. The message was simple–if you must drink, then by all means, drink—but kindly refrain from piloting a ton of metal down the thoroughfare while under the influence.

There are many ways to make an impression on a Friday night, but piloting a Porsche up Geiger Grade like the Devil himself was riding shotgun is one of the more memorable—if not advisable—methods.

Late on March 28, a 2016 Porsche Coupe was engaged in what might generously be called an unwise expedition northbound on SR-341 at a speed more appropriate for a comet than a car. The posted limit was a respectable 45 mph, but the Porsche, evidently believing speed limits were mere suggestions, was galloping along at an estimated 80 to 85 mph.

As it approached a left-hand curve, the driver—perhaps emboldened by spirits of the liquid variety—realized, rather too late, that physics was not inclined to negotiate. A fellow motorist loomed ahead, and in a heroic but ill-fated maneuver, the Porsche veered right, kissed a metal barrier, and then proceeded to perform an unscheduled descent down a dirt embankment, ultimately coming to rest on its wheels—a salute to German engineering, if not to common sense.

Storey County Sheriff’s deputies and the Nevada Highway Patrol arrived, likely shaking their heads before placing the driver under arrest for suspicion of driving under the influence and carrying a firearm while intoxicated–because why stop at just one poor decision?

Meanwhile, the passenger was carted off to the hospital with non-life-threatening injuries, presumably to reconsider their choice of travel companions. The driver, now a guest in the Storey County Detention Facility, will have ample time to reflect on the consequences of speed, spirits, and steel barriers.

Elsewhere in the Silver State, fortune tragically dealt a far graver hand.

Near Mineral County’s mile marker 37 on US-95, a commercial vehicle hauling a flatbed trailer was making its way southbound when a bracket—a seemingly innocuous piece of metal—made a bid for independence. It separated from the trailer, hurtled through the windshield of a northbound GMC Yukon, and like a cruel stroke of fate, ended the driver’s life in an instant.

The Nevada Highway Patrol is still working to identify the deceased.

And though the circumstances of the incident are still under investigation, the grim truth remains: sometimes, a man meets his end not by reckless choices or foolish misadventure–but by the heartless randomness of fate, as a single piece of errant steel turns a highway into a scene of sorrow.

Being a fan of Mark Twain and Dan DeQuille and their journalism style, called “Quaints,” I decided to update the style (for myself) as I continue to write at Substack. And so, may I present Fictalism (n.) – A literary approach that blends fiction and journalism, using narrative techniques traditionally found in storytelling—such as character development, dialogue, and immersive scene-setting—to explore real-world events. While grounded in factual accuracy, Fictalism allows for creative structuring and perspective shifts to provide deeper emotional and thematic insights, enhancing the reader’s understanding of complex truths.

My throat felt rough as gravel, and my eyelids heavy as a sack of wet grain. “How much longer I got to stay awake, Pa?”

“Just a little bit longer, boy,” Pa said, his tone steady. “You’ll get a chance to rest soon enough.”

He poked at the blaze with a stick, sending sparks swirling up into the dark like a scatter of stars.

“This is a damn fool thing, you know,” I grumbled, squinting at the flames roaring high and hot. “Got this fire blazing like a beacon, practically begging for trouble to ride in.”

Pa snorted, the sound sharp as a whipcrack. “That fire’s keeping us warm, you ornery cuss. A flea on a horse’s hind end’s worth more than all your gripin’ and groanin’.”

The snap of a twig and Pa muttered, “Go fetch my scattergun,” before calling, “Who’s out there?”

He straightened, his hand resting easy on the worn grip of his Colt. “All right, come on out now, afore I start shootin’. You hear me?”

A voice cut through the night, low and smooth as a river stone. “Hold up, mister. I mean you no harm.”

Pa’s eyes narrowed, glinting like steel in the firelight. “I’ll be the judge of that. Speak your piece—and be fast about it.”

“Please, don’t shoot,” the stranger said, stepping slowly into the glow. “I can explain.”

“Quit toyin’ with him, Pa, and plug the son of a gun!” I snapped, my patience frayed thin as old rope.

“Shut up, boy,” Pa barked, his gaze never leaving the man. “One step closer, stranger and the next one’ll be in your belly.”

The man froze, hands raised. “Please, sir, if you let me come up, you’ll see I ain’t no danger to you.”

Pa chewed on that for a moment, then tilted his head. “I reckon there’s more’n one of you out there, seein’ as you ain’t tucked tail and run by now.”

“If I had company,” the stranger said, calm as a still pond, “wouldn’t they be at your back already?”

Pa grunted–a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a curse. “Go on, then. What’re you after?”

“Just a place to rest for the night,” the man said, easing closer now. “A map or a line on the nearest town, and I swear I’ll be on my way come mornin’. Look at me—I ain’t in no shape to trouble you or yours.”

The man was without boots, and his holster was empty.

Pa squinted at him, then glanced at me. “I reckon this one’s a mite touched, ain’t he, boy?”

The stranger gave a faint smile like he’d heard worse. “I know this might tickle you some, but I’d mighty like to know if you can help me. What you got there?”

He nodded at Pa’s hand, where a twist of tobacco sat pinched between his fingers.

“Only the finest leaf in five states,” Pa said, offering it over.

“What’s your name, stranger?”

“Carl, sir,” he replied, taking the tobacco with a nod.

“Well, Carl, you’re welcome to bed down here tonight,” Pa said. “That’s about all I can do for you. Ain’t got no maps, but I’ll point you true come daylight.”

Carl settled by the fire, warming his hands. “Would you like to know what happened to me tonight?”

Pa grinned–a rare thing that split his weathered face like a crack in stone. “Let me guess—you was robbed by a man decked out in black?”

Carl’s jaw dropped. “Yeah, but how’d you know?”

“Well,” Pa said, leaning back, “I was sheriff of a town ‘bout ten miles east of here. Retired recent-like. Seen plenty of tales like yours.”

“You were sheriff?” Carl asked, eyes wide.

“Sure was,” Pa said. “So, was I right? That the yarn you was fixin’ to spin?”

“Yeah,” Carl said, scratching his head, “but this fella was different. Polite as you please, even while he was trussin’ me up. Kept sayin’ how cooperative I was. First, I wasn’t even sure he aimed to rob me—then it was over quick as a rattler’s strike.”

Pa chuckled, deep and low. “Well, ain’t that a hoot? You met Black Jack Holmes. Famous as they come ‘round these parts. You’re a lucky man.”

“Black Jack Holmes?” Carl echoed, like the name carried weight he couldn’t heft yet.

They called him Black Jack Holmes, a name that drifted through the saloons and stagecoach stops like a tumbleweed on a lonesome wind. Wasn’t no ordinary road agent, this one.

Most bandits’ would stick a gun in your face and snarl for your coin, but Holmes? He’d tip his hat, flash a grin that’d charm a rattlesnake, and ask for your valuables like he was borrowin’ a cup of sugar.

Folks said he’d robbed more coaches than there were stars over the Llano Estacado, yet half the tales swore he never fired a shot unless he had to—and even then, it was to wing a man, not bury him.

He cut a lean figure, Holmes did, tall as a cottonwood and dressed in black from boots to brim, with a coat that flared like a raven’s wings when he rode. That blackjack of his—a short, leather-wrapped club—was his mark, tucked in his belt like a preacher’s Bible.

He’d use it to rap a man senseless quicker than you could draw a breath, but he’d always leave ‘em breathing, tied neat with a knot that’d shame a sailor.

“No sense in killin’ a man over a few dollars,” he’d say, voice smooth as whiskey over ice, “when he’s apt to earn more for me to take later.”

Word was he’d been a gambler once, a cardsharp who could read a man’s soul in the flick of an ace. Some claimed he turned outlaw after a night in Abilene when a cattle baron caught him dealing from the bottom and swore to string him up.

Others reckoned he’d been a lawman himself gone crooked after seein’ too much justice bend for the rich. Whatever his trail, he’d washed up in the badlands east of the Pecos, a shadow among the mesquite, preying on the stage lines that rattled through the dust.

Take the night he hit the San Antonio-El Paso run, nigh-on ten miles from Pa’s campfire. The driver, a grizzled cuss named Jed Tully, told it later over a bottle of rotgut.

Moon was high, silvering the scrub, when Holmes stepped from the dark, his horse—a coal-black Mustang—silent as death.

“Evenin’, friend,” he said, polite as a Parson. “I’ll be takin’ your strongbox if you’d be so kind.”

Jed reached for his scattergun, but that blackjack flashed, and he woke up trussed like a steer, the box gone, with Holmes tipping his hat as he rode off.

“Much obliged for your cooperation,” he called, and Jed swore the bastard was laughin’.

Folks couldn’t figure Holmes. He’d rob a man blind, sure, but he’d leave a dollar in your pocket for a meal or slip a trinket back to a lady passenger with a wink.

Once, they said, he hit a payroll coach, then rode into the next town and bought drinks for the whole saloon—paid with the company’s silver. The law chased him plenty, but he’d vanish like smoke, leaving sheriffs cussin’ and posses lost in the canyons.

Some swore he had a hideout in the Guadalupes, a cave stacked with loot and guarded by a wolf meaner than sin. Others figured he just knew the land better’n God Himself.

Pa reckoned he’d met him that night by the fire, and maybe he had. Carl—call him what you will—didn’t fit the mold of a killer, and that blackjack tale rang true as a church bell.

But Holmes wasn’t a saint, either. He’d gut a man if pushed, and there were whispers of a Pinkerton he’d left cold in the dirt after a double-cross. Still, the frontier loved him for it—loved the gall, the grin, the way he danced on the edge of the law like a cat on a hot tin roof.

So, who was Black Jack Holmes?

A thief with a gentleman’s heart or a devil playin’ at bein’ good? Maybe both. Out there, where the sun blisters and the wind carries a man’s sins away, he was a legend carved in shadow and dust.

And if you ever saw a rider in black tipping his hat as he took your gold, you’d know—you’d met the man himself and lived to tell the tale.

“All right if I catch some shut-eye now, Pa?” I asked. “Good night, Mister.”

Pa said, “Come mornin’, head east. Town’s that way—folks there’ll sort you out.”

Carl nodded, curling up near the fire. I watched him as Pa got up.

That’s when Carl struck, his voice turning hard as flint. He sprang up, a knife glinting in his hand.

“Now, you’re gonna gimme everything you got of value, or I’ll gut you and your boy like hogs.”

I heard Pa chuckle as Carl said, “Think this is a game?”

Pa didn’t flinch. “Not at all. You reckon that famous Black Jack Holmes—the gentleman robber—would waste his time on a lowlife like you?”

“Shut your damn mouth or I’ll slit your throat.” Carl snarled.

“Knew you was a lyin’, mister,” Pa said.

“Drop that knife, easy now,” I said, my Colt flashing smooth as silk.

“I was only foolin’ with you,” Carl said.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t,” I said.

I stepped in close, my piece drawn steady.

Pa turned and held his hand out for the knife, “Much obliged for your cooperation, Carl.”

Pa grinned at me, “Well, boy, looks like we tangled with a different breed of outlaw tonight.”

That’s about when he saw the wanted posters that Pa had been busy burning when Carl interrupted him. He recognized the face in the line drawing as the man standing before him.

“Oh, son of a—” Carl started, but the fight was gone from him, and the night swallowed the rest.

If the Virginia City Muckers felt high and mighty after steamrolling Coleville 14-4, the Portola Tigers quickly brought them back to earth. The Muckers took a 13-8 tumble, marking their fourth straight defeat at the hands of the Tigers. With that loss, Virginia City now finds itself in rough shape at 2-7 on the season, while Portola clawed its way to 4-3, snapping a five-game home losing streak that stretched back to last year.

The Muckers have been surrendering nearly 10 runs per game, which doesn’t bode well for their chances of turning the tide. Meanwhile, the Bulldogs weren’t just winning—they were putting on a clinic in Smith Valley.

Fresh off back-to-back blowout victories, they kept the train rolling with a 16-1 mauling of the Wolves. For Smith Valley, winning big is just business as usual—they’ve now racked up three wins of 12 or more runs this season.

Wyatt Wulfing and Cole Balda were at the heart of the action, dealing damage on both sides of the ball. Wulfing was dominant on the mound, tossing two innings without surrendering a hit or an earned run. At the plate, he went 3-for-4, smacked his first home run of the season, and drove in five runs for good measure. Balda, meanwhile, added his own two innings of scoreless pitching, went 2-for-4 with a run, and swiped a base.

The Bulldogs’ bats were red-hot, with Gaston Rodriguez and Devin Gleason leading on the basepaths. Rodriguez crossed home plate four times and stole three bags, while Gleason added two runs and three steals of his own.

With a blistering team batting average of .560, Smith Valley has been putting on a hitting masterclass, posting averages north of .485 in three straight games. Smith Valley now sits at 3-1, riding a nine-game home winning streak that dates back to last season, in that they’ve been downright ruthless, averaging over 14 runs per contest.

As for Virginia City, they’ll have to shake off another loss and prepare for their next battle. They’d be wise to remember what happened last time they tangled with Smith Valley—back in March, the Bulldogs shut them out 14-0.

They say turnabout is fair play, and the Lowry Buckaroos took that to heart when they stepped onto the field against the Fernley Vaqueros. With memories of their last meeting in March still fresh, Lowry made sure there would be no repeat of that loss, galloping away with an emphatic 11-3 victory.

For whatever reason, the home field has been more of a hindrance than a help when these two teams clash. It marks the third straight contest where the visiting squad has walked away victorious. And this time, it was the Vaqueros who felt the sting. The loss is Fernley’s biggest since February 28, extending their home losing streak to five.

Not that Riley McCullar let the scoreboard dull his bat—he made the most of his time at the plate, going 2-for-4 and scoring a run. But his efforts weren’t enough to stop Lowry’s stampede.

The Buckaroos, now back to an even 7-7 record, were led by Erick Valencia, who put on a base-running clinic. Reaching base in all five plate appearances, he crossed home plate three times and swiped two bases, setting a new career-high in runs scored. Michael Heikkila wasn’t far behind, tallying two runs and a stolen base while reaching base four times.

Lowry’s lineup showed patience and precision, posting an on-base percentage of .523. That number is more than just eye-catching—it’s a winning formula. The Buckaroos are a perfect 5-0 when they clear the .513 OBP mark, proving that a steady stream of baserunners is their key to success.

For Fernley, the defeat drops them to 3-11-1, and the road ahead doesn’t get any easier, even when averaging 2.7 stolen bases per game. However, Lowry has been even bolder, swiping 3.1 per contest.

In a display of criminal consistency that would make even the most loyal baseball fans wince, local man Zach Neely found himself tagged out not– once but twice–after allegedly swiping hundreds of dollars worth of baseball cards from Walmart.

Deputy Spencer Hagan of the Nye County Sheriff’s Office responded to Walmart’s call where Neely was reportedly seen making a break for it—albeit in a white GMC Denali rather than on foot. Hagan intercepted him before he could steal home, placing him in handcuffs and seating him in the patrol car, where the suspect promptly confessed to the previous day’s heist as well.

According to the arrest report, Neely, perhaps mistaking himself for a bankable major leaguer, admitted he “had the means of paying for the items, but just chose not to.” This bold strategy, while impressive in its sheer audacity, did not, as it turns out, pay off.

Inside the vehicle, deputies discovered what Hagan described as a “plethora” of baseball cards—though it’s unclear whether Neely was aiming to start a collection or open an underground trading post. Walmart’s surveillance footage confirmed that Neely had indeed rounded all points of sale without so much as a courtesy nod to the cash register, swiping approximately $530 worth of cards.

In a move that suggests Neely believes in second chances—at least for himself—he had allegedly attempted this same stunt at the same Walmart two years prior. Store security had a memory longer than he anticipated.

With this history in mind, law enforcement concluded that Neely would continue treating Walmart like his personal clubhouse unless stopped, leading to his arrest on two counts of petit larceny.

It remains unknown whether Neely will attempt a third inning in this ongoing match-up against Walmart, but for now, he’s benched—by the Nye County Sheriff’s Office.