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Not the Usual Fare in News

Sixty-two years ago, on November 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was killed by an assassin’s bullet in Dallas, becoming one of the most pivotal and controversial moments in U.S. history. Kennedy’s relationship with the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) had already been strained, particularly after the disastrous Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961.

Furious with the agency, its director Alan Dulles, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the State Department, and even himself, Kennedy replaced Dulles with John McCone, a respected Republican and Cold War hardliner. However, Kennedy later grew frustrated with McCone, finding him disloyal.

A 1961 memo from advisor Arthur Schlesinger, addressed to Kennedy, urged a reorganization of the CIA, cautioning that another high-profile failure could severely undermine public confidence in U.S. policy due to the significant autonomy the agency had enjoyed. The popular notion—that Kennedy wanted to “splinter the CIA into a thousand pieces” and dismantle it entirely—remains debated, as he refrained from restructuring it despite such advice. Over time, Kennedy came to value certain CIA products, like the President’s Daily Brief (then known as the President’s Intelligence Checklist), some of which from the days surrounding the assassination have now been declassified.

On the day of the assassination, Kennedy’s motorcade wound through Dallas when three shots rang out from the Texas School Book Depository. The Warren Commission, tasked with investigating Kennedy’s death, claimed that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone–the first shot missed by 65 yards, the second—the “magic bullet”—pierced Kennedy’s back, angling up and exited his throat, then making a right angle turn that struck Governor John Connally, and the third landed a fatal headshot from 100 yards.

President Lyndon B. Johnson, who succeeded Kennedy, denied CIA involvement. However, the commission was kept in the dark about the CIA’s knowledge—receiving, in the words of one member, “almost nothing” of substance from the agency.

Oswald, widely regarded as the lone gunman, is a central figure in the story. Documents later released provide a detailed account of his activities in the months leading up to the assassination.

These files chronicle a trip to Mexico, his subsequent return to the United States, and evaluations of his affiliations with foreign entities. One striking document includes an assessment from a KGB official who asserted that Oswald was never an agent under Soviet control.

The official remarked on Oswald’s poor marksmanship, based on observations of his target practice during his time in the USSR, where the KGB kept a close watch on him. The records suggest that the Soviets concluded his erratic personality made him difficult, if not impossible, to direct or manage.

Oswald, the lone gunman firing from the Texas School Book Depository—crumbles under a truth too deliberate to ignore–there are no coincidences. Recently released documents, paired with historical records, expose a chilling pattern–the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) didn’t just watch Oswald—it armed him with a rifle and full metal jacket (FMJ) bullets unavailable to the public, through a fronted gun store, as part of a design stretching back to America’s earliest aid agencies. The Warren Commission missed or buried it, but the dots connect themselves.

Oswald’s weapon—a 6.5mm Mannlicher-Carcano rifle, serial number C2766—entered his hands via a mail-order purchase from Klein’s Sporting Goods in Chicago, placed March 27, 1963, under the alias “A. Hidell.” The Warren Commission (Exhibit CE 773) tracked it from Klein’s to Oswald’s Dallas P.O. Box 2915, sourced from Crescent Firearms, Inc., a New York surplus dealer.

A clean transaction, they said—until you peel the layers. Klein’s wasn’t just a retailer. Crescent was part of the shadowy arms trade, a world the CIA swam in during the Cold War.

Think Interarmco, a known agency-linked dealer arming Bay of Pigs exiles in 1961—the same year Kennedy clashed with the CIA over that fiasco. Klein was a cutout, a front for funneling weapons to operatives or patsies.

Oswald’s rifle arriving via Klein’s wasn’t chance. The CIA had decades of using fronts to mask operations. The Mutual Security Agency (MSA), operating from 1951–1953, blended economic and military aid—$7.5 billion in 1952 alone—into anti-Soviet ops, per National Archives Record Group 469.

A 1953–1954 World Bank folder shows MSA correspondence with murky “special projects,” echoing CIA coups like Guatemala’s in 1954. When the MSA folded, the International Cooperation Administration (ICA) took over in 1955, doling out aid to Laos and Jordan—places a 1957 New York Times report ties to CIA stability efforts.

Kennedy axed the ICA in 1961, replacing it with USAID, but the pattern held–the Church Committee (1975) caught CIA officers in USAID running Vietnam “pacification” funds to militias.

But it’s the bullets that tell the real story. Oswald fired FMJ 6.5x52mm Carcano rounds—lead core, copper-jacketed—confirmed by ballistics in CE 399, the “magic bullet.”

FMJ penetrates clean, unlike soft lead rounds that deform. The Warren Report claims surplus Carcano ammo—two million rounds—flooded the U.S. market post-WWII, sold by Klein’s and others.

But here’s the catch–that flood was soft lead, not FMJ.

Surplus ads in American Rifleman (1962–1963) list Carcano ammo at 7–10 cents a round—cheap, mixed lots, often unjacketed or soft-point, per dealers like Samco. FMJ existed—Western Cartridge made millions for the Greek military—but none for civilian use.

Oswald’s FMJ rounds–recovered from Kennedy’s limo and Connally’s stretcher, were pristine military-grade, not the surplus slush. If soft lead dominated the market, where’d he get FMJ?

Not Dallas shops—FBI checks found no Carcano FMJ sales to him. Klein’s order doesn’t itemize ammo type, yet he had it by November 22.

Enter the CIA. The Church Committee exposed agency ammo caches for covert ops—Operation Mongoose against Castro used restricted lots.

A 1963 FBI memo (HSCA files) notes Carcano ammo in Greece, a CIA hub; they bought an FMJ batch there, keeping it off public shelves. The Kennedy files mention of a Mexican president informant (1970s) shows CIA reach in ammo-rich regions—USAID was there too, laundering funds per a 1971 Washington Post scoop.

Oswald’s FMJ had to come from the CIA or Klein’s as their front because the public couldn’t touch it. No coincidence–the agency that watched him in Mexico City armed him, too.

It wasn’t random—it was deliberate. The CIA’s playbook, honed through MSA, ICA, and USAID, used fronts to hide intent. MSA’s “special projects” blurred aid and ops.

The ICA’s Jordan aid masked CIA moves. USAID’s Vietnam and Laos fronts perfected it. Klein’s, supplying Oswald’s rifle and FMJ ammo, is the follow-up link—a gun store echoing decades of agency craft.

Kennedy’s friction with the CIA seals it. Post-Bay of Pigs (1961), he ousted Director Allen Dulles, swapped ICA for USAID, and eyed agency reform—a 1961 memo (Kennedy files) warned of CIA autonomy. His push threatened their shadow empire—aid fronts, arms deals, all of it.

Oswald, a known quantity–the KGB watched him, deeming him erratic–gets a CIA-sourced rifle and FMJ bullets via Klein’s. He fires—or takes the fall—while the agency’s tracks vanish in pre-1992 document purges.

The Warren Commission, fed “almost nothing” by the CIA, buys the lone-gunman tale, ignoring Klein’s ties and ammo oddity. The 1979 HSCA saw conspiracy but missed this—too late, too scrubbed.

But bullets don’t lie: soft lead flooded markets, FMJ stayed with the CIA. Oswald’s stash points to Klein’s, and Klein’s points to Langley.

The Kennedy files hint, but don’t confess. Yet the pattern holds–MSA to ICA to USAID to Klein’s–a thread of control Kennedy tried to cut.

One question lingers–who pulled the trigger? The Warren Commission crowned Oswald the lone gunman, firing three shots from the Texas School Book Depository.

Yet, beneath this tidy tale lies a truth too orchestrated for chance—there are no coincidences. The documents and historical records reveal a Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) design so intricate that the triggerman—or triggermen—remains a shadow, lost to destroyed files and official silence. The evidence points to a conspiracy, but the shooter’s identity stays maddeningly out of reach.

The official narrative begins with Oswald’s 6.5mm Mannlicher-Carcano rifle, serial number #C2766, ordered from Klein’s Sporting Goods in Chicago under the alias “A. Hidell.” The Warren Report traces it–shipped via Crescent Firearms to Oswald’s Dallas P.O. Box 2915, found on the Depository’s sixth-floor post-assassination.

Three shots—missed, the “magic bullet” through Kennedy and Connally, and a fatal headshot—seal him as the killer. But the rifle’s origin cracks the story open.

Tied to Crescent’s Firearms, Klein’s was a CIA front like Interarmco, which armed Bay of Pigs exiles in 1961—the year Kennedy clashed with the agency.

Oswald’s ammo—full metal jacket (FMJ) 6.5x52mm rounds—deepens the plot. The Warren Report claims surplus Carcano ammo flooded markets, yet that flood was soft lead, not FMJ.

Military-grade FMJ, per ballistics, stayed scarce—hoarded by the CIA for ops like Mongoose, per the 1975 Church Committee. If Klein’s supplied Oswald’s FMJ, he’s no lone buyer—he’s a piece in a CIA game.

The Warren Commission’s lone-gunman script falters under scrutiny. The 1979 House Select Committee on Assassinations (HSCA) found a “high probability” of a fourth shot—from the grassy knoll—based on acoustic evidence.

Witnesses saw smoke, Zapruder’s film hints at a frontal hit, and Kennedy’s head snaps back, defying a solo Depository shooter. Oswald’s poor marksmanship, noted by a KGB official in the Kennedy files, and the rifle’s bolt-action pace—three shots in 6–8 seconds—stretch belief.

If a second gunman fired, who was he?

The files offer no name. CIA counterintelligence chief James Angleton looms large, shaping the agency’s response, but he’s no triggerman.

The agency’s Mexican president informant shows their reach, yet no shooter emerges. The Warren Commission got “almost nothing” from the CIA, and pre-1992 record purges—thousands destroyed before the JFK Records Act—hide the trail.

Oswald screams patsy, tracked in Mexico City, armed via Klein’s, and is left to take the fall. A second shooter, grassy knoll or elsewhere, fits a design—but the face stays blank.

This triggerman void isn’t random—it’s deliberate, echoing the CIA’s front playbook. The Mutual Security Agency (MSA), 1951–1953, blended $7.5 billion in aid with “special projects,” per National Archives Record Group 469.

A 1953–1954 World Bank folder hints at covert ties, like the CIA’s 1954 Guatemala coup. The International Cooperation Administration (ICA), 1955–1961, funneled aid to Jordan—tied to CIA stability ops in a 1957 New York Times report—until Kennedy swapped it for USAID in 1961.

USAID, meant to be clean, became a CIA tool: the Church Committee caught operatives funding Vietnam militias, and a 1971 Washington Post scoop revealed Laos arms deals.

Kennedy’s push to curb CIA power—post-Bay of Pigs, ICA’s end, a 1961 reform memo—threatened this machine. His death, with no clear triggerman, protected it.

Coincidence? Not a chance.

So where’s the shooter? Oswald’s role wavers—shooter, patsy, or both.

His CIA-sourced FMJ–not surplus soft lead–and agency surveillance in Mexico suggest orchestration. The grassy knoll’s fourth shot points to a team—CIA operative, Cuban exile, Mafia hitman?—but no file names them.

Angleton’s crew, anti-Castro factions, or a hired gun could’ve fired, vanishing post-hit as records burned. The Warren Commission, rushed by LBJ and starved by CIA silence, pinned it on Oswald, ignoring Klein’s ties and ammo oddity.

No lot numbers tie Oswald’s FMJ to a CIA cache, and memos don’t name the killer. The design’s genius lies in its gaps–Oswald framed, the factual shooter—or shooters—erased, the CIA untouchable.

Another figure emerging in the aftermath was Gary Underhill, a former intelligence operative with ties to the CIA. Underhill became convinced that the CIA was behind Kennedy’s assassination. He abruptly left Washington, shared his suspicions with close confidants, and then died just months later in 1964 from a gunshot wound officially deemed self-inflicted.

The CIA’s operations during the Kennedy era extended far beyond the assassination. The agency sometimes disguised its operatives as State Department employees for secret missions abroad.

One document identifies Manuel Machado Losas, a treasurer of the Mexican revolutionary movement and a known associate of Cuban leader Fidel Castro, as a CIA asset. The files also reveal that the agency’s primary informant in Mexico from the mid-to-late 1970s was the Mexican president—a remarkably high-placed source.

These operations highlight the CIA’s extraordinary power and minimal oversight during the early 1960s, operating almost as a government unto itself. Key figures like James Angleton, a name well-known to assassination scholars, played a significant role in shaping the agency’s response to the event.

Nearly three decades later, in 1992, under President George H.W. Bush, the JFK Assassination Records Act was created in response to public demand spurred by Oliver Stone’s film JFK. The act defined assassination-related records expansively, encompassing not only the event itself but also U.S. covert actions abroad that might involve assassination plots. Evidence suggests the intentional destruction of some documents in the intervening years between the assassination and the passage of this legislation.

Fast-forward to a massive release of information under a directive from President Donald Trump, carried out by the National Archives and totaling 63,000 pages collected from various government agencies. This release, which includes files on operations in Vietnam, Indonesia, and various African nations, builds on the 1992 act.

While some documents contained redactions that obscured key details, most previously withheld content has been unredacted. Among the operational details uncovered are the identities of foreign nationals, Americans, businesses, and even newspapers that collaborated with the CIA.

However, certain government entities, particularly the CIA, have historically resisted efforts to disclose sensitive portions of these records.

Last week, the Trump administration released a trove of documents that some claim dismantled the narrative of Oswald as a lone gunman, exposing the CIA as the orchestrator of Kennedy’s death. These files weave a thread of intelligence overreach, political vendettas, and calculated deception, with some drawing parallels to the July 13, 2024, attempt on former President Donald Trump’s life in Butler, Pennsylvania.

In that incident, Trump was grazed in the ear by a bullet from Thomas Matthew Crooks during a rally, an attempt now tied to the CIA through encrypted accounts and a building housing an FBI office. Whether these twin assaults on American leaders, separated by decades, are definitively connected remains a matter of intense debate–but the dots are there.

Despite the scale of this release, the process of unveiling the truth about the Kennedy assassination remains fraught with challenges. The documents paint a picture of a CIA with vast influence, operating in a world of covert actions and paramilitary warfare—an unchecked force that Kennedy once sought to rein in.

Finally, there is a thread linking America’s foreign aid agencies to the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), a deliberate design and one that spans decades and implicates the deaths of a president.

The documents, combined with archived records, reveal a chilling pattern–the CIA has systematically exploited the Mutual Security Agency (MSA), the International Cooperation Administration (ICA), and the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) as fronts for laundering money and advancing covert agendas, from the Cold War’s dawn to today.

The story begins with the Mutual Security Agency (MSA), established in 1951 under President Harry S. Truman, to funnel economic and military aid to anti-Soviet allies. Held in the National Archives Record Group 469, the MSA’s files—some digitized, like a 1953–1954 correspondence folder from the World Bank—detail billions disbursed to nations like Korea and Greece. But beneath the surface, whispers persist.

The CIA, under Allen Dulles’ rising influence, had a knack for turning aid into weapons. In Guatemala, just as the MSA wound down in 1953, the agency orchestrated a coup using economic aid as cover—a playbook hinting at MSA funds greasing covert wheels. Papers from W. Averell Harriman, MSA Director and a Truman confidant, housed at the Truman Library, mention “special projects” with State and intelligence officials.

Coincidence? Hardly. The MSA’s abolition in 1953—replaced by the Foreign Operations Administration—came as Dulles took the CIA’s helm, suggesting a shift to tighter control over aid’s darker uses.

Enter the International Cooperation Administration (ICA), launched in 1955 under Eisenhower. Tasked with economic and technical assistance, the ICA picked up where the MSA left off, channeling aid to Cold War hotspots like Laos and Iran.

The 63,000 pages don’t name the ICA explicitly but paint a CIA unbound—disguising operatives as State Department staff and recruiting assets like Manuel Machado Losas, a Castro ally. A 1957 New York Times report ties ICA aid to Jordan with CIA-backed stability efforts—another dot in the pattern.

President John F. Kennedy, burned by the CIA’s Bay of Pigs fiasco in 1961, grew wary of such entanglements. That year, he axed the ICA, replacing it with USAID via the Foreign Assistance Act.

Was he cutting off a CIA lifeline? The timing—and his assassination two years later—suggests no accident.

Starting November 3, 1961, the USAID era was to be a fresh beginning—development over espionage. Yet the CIA adapted seamlessly.

The Church Committee’s 1975 report (Volume 1, page 147) exposes CIA officers posing as USAID staff in Vietnam, funneling “Rural Development” funds to militias and propaganda. A 1971 Washington Post scoop revealed USAID aid in Laos arming CIA-backed Hmong fighters.

The Kennedy files add a twist: by the mid-1970s, the Mexican president was a CIA informant, coinciding with USAID’s Latin American footprint. A 2014 Associated Press story even caught USAID running a Cuban social media scheme—ZunZuneo—as CIA cover. Kennedy’s dream of a clean agency died with him; USAID became the CIA’s new laundering hub.

It isn’t random chance—it’s a continuum. The MSA laid the groundwork, blending military and economic aid into CIA ops.

The ICA refined it, blurring lines Kennedy tried to erase. USAID perfected it, outlasting its founder’s vision.

The Kennedy files hint at destroyed records pre-1992, shielding the complete truth, but the pattern screams intent, aid as a Trojan horse for intelligence overreach.

Did Kennedy’s push to dismantle this machine—starting with the ICA—seal his fate in Dallas? Sixty-two years later, the dots connect themselves.

I rolled in from the graveyard shift just as the sun was rising over the horizon. My bones ached, my eyes burned, and I wanted to collapse into bed and let the world spin on without me.

But there it was, sitting on my doorstep like it’d been waiting all night: a package. It was small, no bigger than a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper that looked older than it had any right to be, and the label faded to a smear of ink under the gray dawn light.

I squinted at it, half-dead on my feet, and saw the name wasn’t mine. The address wasn’t mine either—it belonged to someone three houses up. So I sighed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and shuffled up the street, the package tucked under my arm.

Knocking three times on the door, a woman answered. She looked at me, then at the package, and the color bled out of her face, leaving her gray.

“That should’ve been here ten years ago,” she said.

As her shaky hands reached out, the paper crinkled under her fingers, dry as dead leaves, and then—Christ Almighty—something inside moved–a slow, sliding lurch.

Her fingers tightened, knuckles white, as she yanked the package to her chest like she was afraid it’d get away. The door slammed shut before I could blink.

The Churchill County Sheriff’s Office is requesting the public’s assistance in locating Jayson Daniel for a welfare check at the request of his family.

Daniel was last known to be in the Reno/Sparks area near the Peppermill Casino. Authorities report that Daniel may be driving a charcoal gray 2021 Ford Ranger with Nevada license plate 70H-911. He’s believed to be in the company of Nancy Griffiths, whose also missing.

The sheriff’s office urges anyone with information about their whereabouts to contact Sergeant Brad Kufalk at (775) 423-3116.

The fine people of Beatty sighed in relief when Beatty Disposal, under the grand and illustrious empire of C and S Waste Solutions, gifted them with garbage dumpsters. It put a swift and merciful end to a longstanding skirmish with the town’s real governing body—the free-range burros.

Before these modern marvels of refuse containment, folks employed every manner of barrel, can, and tub to hold their trash, only to wake up and find that the burros had executed yet another successful raid. The four-legged bandits would knock over the barrels, spread the garbage enthusiastically, and leave a mess that neither man nor God could fully reckon with. No matter how tight-fitting, lids served as little more than a brief delay in the burros’ pursuit of fine dining.

For those fortunate enough to have one of the original dumpsters, with their sturdy, battle-ready metal lids, it was problem solved. But those cursed with newer models, sporting flimsy plastic lids, soon learned that these burros had not just survived in the Nevada desert but thrived through sheer ingenuity.

It turns out that burros, like outlaws, can adapt to new security measures. The plastic lids were no match for their clever muzzles and tenacious spirits.

To aid the besieged residents, the disposal company generously offers a security bar for a mere $243.96—because nothing says “customer service” like charging folks extra to keep the varmints out. Some residents have taken matters into their own hands, rigging up homemade contraptions, including angle iron barricades, to thwart the nightly dumpster divers.

The burro-driven garbage redistribution program doesn’t just affect the immediate surroundings of the dumpsters. No, sir. The desert wind ensures that any refuse strewn about makes it far and wide, turning the whole town into a treasure hunt for airborne sandwich wrappers and mysterious, wind-blown receipts.

Upon hearing the outcry from beleaguered townsfolk, Tina Rieger of C and S Disposal assured all concerned that a long-term solution was in the works.

“I’m happy to share,” she announced, “that my team has developed a long-term solution and has found a source for metal dumpster lids.”

The company has placed an order for these superior lids, and upon arrival, the town can begin swapping out the flimsy fortifications for proper ones, prioritizing the hardest-hit areas. Meanwhile, the Bureau of Land Management (BLM), the official keepers of Beatty’s rogue burro battalion, is planning another round-up to thin the herd.

Past efforts have removed hundreds of burros, but their numbers remain as robust as ever. The latest census counted 1,015 of them in the Bullfrog Management Area, which sounds like a scientific way of saying “a whole lot more than we planned for.”

At its March 10 meeting, the Beatty Town Advisory Board weighed in on the matter, supporting population control measures, provided they didn’t involve terrifying helicopters swooping down like mechanical vultures. They prefer the bait-and-trap method, which, as one resident pointed out, could be simplified by simply waiting around while tourists roll down their windows.

Indeed, there may be no surer way to corral these critters than a kindly out-of-towner with a handful of snacks. If only the solution to the dumpster dilemma were as simple.

A Lawmaker’s Guide to Infringement

The Nevada Legislature, in its infinite wisdom, has decided once more to whittle away at that little phrase “shall not be infringed,” as though it were a mere suggestion rather than the unambiguous command of the Constitution.

First up on the chopping block is Assembly Bill 105, a noble effort to protect voters from the unspeakable horror of seeing a firearm within 100 feet of an election site. In its graciousness, the bill allows a gun to still exist in the home or vehicle, provided it is sufficiently cowed and lacks any intention of use. Violation shall result in a gross misdemeanor—unless the offender knowingly violates it, in which case the full force of the law shall descend upon them in the form of a category D felony.

Next, we have AB245, which proposes that any citizen under the age of 21 is too feeble of mind to be trusted with a semiautomatic rifle or shotgun. It further ensures that should any adult permit such a wayward youth to possess one–they’ll be guilty of a misdemeanor, or worse, a felony, should the young miscreant dare to commit violence. The punishments, naturally, escalate with repeated offenses, as all good and righteous prohibitions do.

Rounding out the parade of prudence, Senate Bill 89 extends firearm restrictions for those convicted of hate crimes—because those who have already demonstrated a disregard for the law will find deterrence in more regulation. However, those damned in the Court of Law before the bill’s passage may breathe easy, for their past sins are, for now, overlooked.

Meanwhile, in the hallowed halls of the Supreme Court, the justices have upheld a regulation on those devilish specters known as “ghost guns”—firearms so nefarious that they require neither serial number nor registry to exist. In a remarkable display of logic, Justice Gorsuch noted that while “some home hobbyists enjoy assembling them,” criminals, in their boundless ingenuity, also find them appealing. The Court has decreed that these ghostly weapons must now bear serial numbers, and their buyers must get scrutinized, lest they exercise their right to self-defense without proper government oversight.

The number of ghost guns recovered at crime scenes has skyrocketed, say the experts, from a paltry 1,700 in 2017 to a positively apocalyptic 27,000 in 2023. One must wonder if criminals, ever known for their fastidious obedience to gun laws, will now simply abandon their wicked ways in the face of this latest bureaucratic decree.

And so, dear reader, the work continues. The law-abiding citizen must get corralled, scrutinized, and deprived of their rights piecemeal, while those who ignore the laws shall continue to do so with impunity. The grand tradition of legislative folly marches on, each bill another proud brick in the road to well-intentioned tyranny.

It appears the good people of Las Vegas have finally caught themselves a genuine villain, a man of mischief and malice, who took it upon himself to set fire to automobiles in the dead of night as if he were some outlaw poet raging against the modern world.

Paul Hyon Kim, aged 36, was hauled in by the law on Wednesday, charged with arson, destruction of property, and possessing an explosive device—which, in basic terms, means he made a real mess of things.

The whole debacle unfolded at an establishment devoted to mending and tending to Tesla automobiles, located on West Badura Avenue, where the blaze broke out on March 18 at an ungodly hour. Authorities claim Mr. Kim did not content himself with merely igniting the place.

He saw fit to pelt vehicles with what police delicately refer to as “incendiary devices,” which is a highfalutin way of saying Molotov cocktails—and then proceeded to introduce them to the business end of a firearm for good measure. Five vehicles were damaged, with two utterly consumed by the flames, as if perdition had come calling.

Now, in the way of all men who wish to lend an air of nobility to their vandalism, Mr. Kim saw fit to scrawl the word “RESIST” on the front doors of the establishment, no doubt believing himself a revolutionary of some grand cause. Authorities did not share his romantic notion and promptly carted him off to a holding cell to contemplate his life choices.

Even before an arrest, none other than Tesla overlord Elon Musk pronounced the attack an act of “terrorism,” setting off a hullabaloo of political speculation, with some suggesting the nefarious hand of the “woke left” was at work. According to Clark County records, Mr. Kim holds no particular allegiance to any political tribe, being a registered nonpartisan—meaning he likely vexes all sides equally.

Meanwhile, the Tesla brand appears to be suffering a rash of incendiary enthusiasm, with similar mischief occurring in Austin, Texas, and Kansas City, Missouri, where another Tesla facility met with an impromptu bonfire. Insurance folks have taken notice, of course, for whenever calamity strikes, you can rest assured that actuarial minds are at work tallying the cost.

Despite all this, Tesla owners in Reno remain largely unperturbed, secure in knowing that their vehicles, ever-watchful with their built-in recording cameras, stand ready to bear witness should any scoundrel take a fancy to mischief.

Law officers, ever the voice of reason, advise vigilance but not hysteria—an outlook which, one might argue, would do many a person some good in these peculiar times.

And so, dear reader, we conclude this tale of fire and folly.

Mr. Kim awaits his day in court, Teslas remains both beloved and bedeviled, and the world, as ever, continues to spin in its mad and mysterious way.

Just Drink Whiskey Instead

A boil water notice was issued for the fine and upstanding–if occasionally parched, citizens of South Q Street in Virginia City because some contrary-minded water pipes decided to spring a leak. The unexpected bit of aquatic rebellion has left residents in the unenviable position of choosing between boiling their drinking water or embracing the time-honored Nevada tradition of drinking whiskey.

Storey County Public Works, who no doubt have better things to do than chase runaway water, are on the case and working to set things right. Until then, those seeking further enlightenment on the situation—perhaps in search of assurance that the morning coffee won’t get brewed with something akin to ghost town runoff—are encouraged to call 775-847-0950.

In the meantime, locals may take comfort in the wisdom of their forebears–if you must wait for water to boil, you might as well pour yourself a dram and let nature take its course.

A Fine Mess of Progress and Preservation

Congressman Mark Amodei has once again set his sights on rearranging Northern Nevada’s landscape by reintroducing the Northern Nevada Economic Development and Conservation Act, a scheme that aims to shuffle federal lands about like a deck of well-worn playing cards. If it finds favor in the halls of Congress, the bill would allow the conveyance and disposal of federal lands in various counties and cities across Nevada, presumably in the interest of progress, profit, and perhaps a little bit of common good.

At the same time, it designates roughly 148,000 acres of wilderness in Pershing and Douglas counties, ensuring that at least some portion of Nevada remains untouched by the eager hand of development. Not content with merely shifting land ownership, Amodei has also introduced the Ruby Mountains Protection Act, barring oil and gas leasing in over 300,000 acres of the Ruby Mountains.

It seems even Congress, for all its fondness for industry, has decided that some mountains are better left unspoiled.

“The Northern Nevada Economic Development and Conservation Act showcases the continuous effort to unlocking the potential of Nevada,” Amodei declared, no doubt with a straight face, as he balanced the promise of economic expansion with the need for conservation.

He extended his thanks to community members and tribal leaders, who have, in his words, “worked diligently” to ensure their voices get heard. Whether those voices sing in harmony remains to be seen.

Amodei admits that getting such a grand and complex land package through Congress has been no small task, likening it to an “uphill battle”—and anyone familiar with the workings of government would be hard-pressed to disagree. He remains determined, nevertheless, convinced that Nevada will see a victory in this session of Congress.

The legislative shuffle has been tried before in Congress. With the latest version, the bill restores provisions for wilderness and conservation in Douglas and Pershing counties, securing the approval of local elected officials.

The bill is nothing if not ambitious. In Douglas County alone, it transfers land for state parks, flood management, and public use while also allowing for the sale of thousands of acres. Incline Village gets a little slice, securing 14 acres for public use. Meanwhile, in Carson City, the bill moves over 200 acres into public hands for flood management, economic development, and removal of restrictions on previously held parcels.

Pershing County will get a “Checkerboard Resolution Area,” a term that sounds as though it ought to come with a long-winded explanation—and indeed, it does. Some 356,100 acres are subject to a streamlined sale or exchange process, while mining interests get granted the opportunity to purchase land at fair market value.

Elko County, ever eager for expansion, is set to receive nearly 4,000 acres for housing development and town expansion, with a shooting range thrown in for good measure. The City of Fernley will be allowed to purchase over 12,000 acres for economic development, while Sparks will see land granted for a cemetery and public parks. Even the Jean Prison site is in the mix, with its 480 acres poised for repurposing.

If nothing else, the bill demonstrates that land, much like politics, is a game of constant negotiation.

Ellie Grayson had always felt the pull of the wild places, the kind of deep, bone-level yearning that made her ache for the open sky and the smell of pine over the pavement. She’d grown up with dirt under her nails, chasing fireflies in the Ozarks, and even now, at thirty-two, she couldn’t shake that love for the outdoors.

But lately, the news had been a jagged splinter in her mind—floods, fires, shortages, the world unraveling like an old sweater. She’d scroll X late at night, hunched over her phone in their cramped Reno apartment, reading about supply chains snapping and people moving in droves, a slow exodus to nowhere.

It made her chest tight, but she couldn’t look away.

Jake Russo, her husband of six years, didn’t care about any of it. “The world’s been ending since the first caveman stubbed his toe,” he’d say, flashing that lopsided grin that still made her knees weak.

He didn’t read the news or listen to the radio’s grim chatter. “Live now, Ellie. Tomorrow’s a ghost story we ain’t gotta tell yet.”

She envied that about him, the way he could shrug off the weight of everything and just be. This trip—the van, the road, Nevada’s endless sprawl—was his idea, a middle finger to the chaos closing in. She’d agreed because she loved him and because maybe, just maybe, he was right.

They’d been planning it forever, talking about it over cheap beer and late-night diner fries, but in February, it finally happened. The van was an old Ford Econoline, rust-pocked and temperamental, but it was theirs.

Ellie had painted wildflowers on the side, a burst of color against the peeling beige, and Jake had rigged up a mattress in the back with a patchwork quilt his mom had made.

“Our castle,” he said with a wink as he tossed her the keys.

No more apartment walls, no more outside world breathing down their necks—just them, the road, and the desert’s quiet promise.

They’d been driving for three days, chasing the sun across Nevada’s backroads. The night was cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your marrow, and they’d pulled off Route 50 near Austin, a nowhere town with a gas station and a shuttered diner.

The van’s headlights cut through the dark, illuminating scrub brush and the glint of a jackrabbit’s eyes before it darted away. Ellie was outside, stretching her legs and breathing in the sharp, sage-scented air, while Jake fiddled with the portable stove, cursing under his breath as it sputtered.

She glanced up at the sky—stars sharp as broken glass—and felt a flicker of peace. For once, she wasn’t thinking about the news.

Then she heard a low, guttural sound, like a goat choking on its tongue. It came from the shadows beyond the van, where the desert stretched out black and endless. Ellie froze, her breath clouding in front of her.

“Jake?” she whispered, turning toward him.

He looked up, frowning, the stove’s blue flame flickering in his hazel eyes.

“You hear that?” she asked.

He tilted his head, listening, then shrugged. “Probably just a coyote. Relax, babe.”

But it wasn’t a coyote. The sound came again, closer now, and with it, a shape emerged from the dark—a man, tall and broad, moving with a predator’s grace.

He wore a mask, crude and horrifying: a ram’s skull, its curling horns stained with something dark, its empty eye sockets staring through them. He gripped a machete in one hand, its blade catching the moonlight like a wicked smile.

Ellie’s scream caught in her throat as Jake dropped the stove, the flame snuffed out in the dirt.

“Get in the van!” he yelled, lunging for her, but the figure was faster.

It charged, silent except for that awful, guttural bleat, and swung the machete in a wide arc. Jake ducked, shoving Ellie toward the driver’s side door. She scrambled in, heart slamming against her ribs, and yanked the keys from her pocket with shaking hands.

The engine sputtered once, twice, as the thing in the ram’s skull mask reached Jake. He threw a wild punch, connecting with the mask’s jaw, but it barely flinched.

The machete came down, grazing Jake’s arm, and he roared in pain, blood blooming dark against his flannel shirt. Ellie slammed the key into the ignition again, praying to whatever god might still be listening, and the van coughed to life.

She threw open the passenger door and shouted, “Jake, get in!”

He stumbled toward it, clutching his arm, and the masked figure lunged again. Ellie didn’t think—she floored the gas, the van lurching forward just as Jake hauled himself inside.

The rear bumper clipped the killer, sending it sprawling into the dust, and for a moment, she thought they’d made it. But as they peeled down the empty road, tires spitting gravel, she saw it in the side mirror: the figure rising, slow and deliberate, the ram’s skull tilting as if watching them go.

Jake slumped against the seat, panting, blood dripping onto the quilt.

“What the hell was that?” he rasped.

Ellie didn’t answer. Her hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white, her mind racing back to the news she’d tried so hard to ignore—the shortages, the desperation, the way people changed when the world fell apart. Out in the desert’s black heart, something had been waiting. Something that wore a ram’s grin and hunted under a sky full of broken stars.

They drove on, the van’s engine growling like a wounded beast, and Ellie knew one thing for sure: this trip wasn’t about enjoying themselves anymore. It was about surviving the night.

The van roared down Route 50, a wounded animal fleeing into the night, its engine whining like it might give up the ghost any second. Ellie kept her foot mashed on the gas, the desert blurring past in streaks of shadow and silver moonlight.

Her hands trembled on the wheel, sweat stinging her eyes, but she didn’t dare slow down. In the passenger seat, Jake pressed his wadded-up flannel against the gash on his arm, hissing through clenched teeth. Blood soaked the fabric, dark and glistening, dripping onto the quilt bunched around his lap.

“You okay?” Ellie asked, her voice tight, barely audible over the engine’s growl.

Jake managed a weak laugh, more grimace than a grin. “Oh, yeah, just peachy. Got a lunatic in a goat mask tryin’ to carve me up, but I’m livin’ the dream, babe.”

“Ram,” she corrected absently, eyes flicking to the side mirror.

Nothing but empty road stared back, the dust they’d kicked up settling like a shroud. There was no sign of that thing.

Yet, her gut twisted a cold knot that wouldn’t loosen. “It was a ram’s skull.”

“Great. Real helpful, Ellie.” He shifted, wincing, and peered out the cracked window into the blackness. “What the hell was it doing out there? Some kinda desert psycho?”

She didn’t answer. Her mind churned, replaying the news snippets she’d devoured back in Reno—riots in the cities, folks vanishing from small towns, whispers on X about people “going feral” as the shortages bit deeper.

She’d thought it was just panic–the kind that breeds rumors like flies on a corpse. Now, she wasn’t so sure. That thing back there hadn’t moved like a man strung out or desperate. It had moved like a hunter.

The van hit a pothole, jolting them both, and Jake swore. “We gotta stop soon. This ain’t clotting worth a damn.”

“No,” Ellie snapped, sharper than she meant. “Not yet. Not till we’re sure it’s gone.”

“Gone? You clipped it with the van, El. Probably broke its damn legs. It’s not jogging after us.”

She didn’t argue, but her eyes darted to the mirror again. The road stayed empty, the night silent except for the van’s rattling breath.

Still, she couldn’t shake it. That guttural bleat, the way the ram’s skull had tilted–like it was sizing them up for later.

Twenty miles later, the fuel gauge’s needle kissed the red, and Ellie’s resolve cracked. They pulled into a turnout near a crumbling sign that read “Cold Springs – 12 mi.”

The van shuddered to a stop, where the silence that followed pressed against her ears, thick and unnatural. There were no crickets, no wind—just the faint tick of the cooling engine.

Jake groaned as he peeled the flannel off his arm. The cut was ugly, a jagged slash from elbow to wrist, but the bleeding had slowed to an ooze.

“Gonna need stitches,” he muttered. “You got that first aid kit?”

Ellie nodded, climbing into the back to dig through their gear. She found the kit under a pile of camping blankets–its plastic lid cracked from some forgotten drop. Inside, she grabbed gauze, tape, and a half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

“Hold still,” she said, kneeling beside him.

The sharp smell of antiseptic filled the van as she cleaned the wound, her hands steadier now, but her mind still racing.

Jake watched her, his face pale under the dome light’s weak glow. “You’re freaked out,” he said, soft but sure. “More than usual.”

She taped the gauze down, avoiding his eyes. “Aren’t you? That wasn’t normal, Jake. That wasn’t just some drunk asshole with a knife. It was… I don’t know. Wrong.”

He leaned back, exhaling. “World’s full of wrong lately. Doesn’t mean we stop livin’. We’re out here to get away from that shit, remember?”

“Yeah,” she said, but the word felt hollow.

She’d wanted this trip to be a balm, a way to breathe free of the news and the stress clawing at her. Now, it felt like they’d driven straight into something worse.

They didn’t sleep. Ellie kept watch, perched in the driver’s seat with a tire iron across her lap, while Jake dozed fitfully, his breathing shallow.

The desert outside stayed still, but every shadow seemed to twitch in the corner of her eye. She kept the radio off—unable to stomach the chance of static or some late-night preacher ranting about the end times.

Dawn crept up, painting the sky a bruised purple. Ellie’s neck ached, her fingers cramped around the tire iron, but relief washed over her as light spilled across the sand.

“Jake,” she whispered, shaking him. “We need to move. Find a town, get you patched up.”

He blinked awake, groggy but alive, and nodded. Ellie turned the key, and the van sputtered to life—barely. They rolled toward Cold Springs, the fuel light glowing accusingly, and Ellie prayed they’d make it before the tank ran dry.

Cold Springs was a ghost of a place–a gas station with one working pump, a diner with boarded windows, and a handful of trailers scattered like forgotten toys. The attendant, a wiry man with a face like cracked leather, barely glanced at Jake’s bandaged arm as he took their cash.

“Rough night?” he asked, voice raspy.

“You could say that,” Ellie said, forcing a smile. “You see many strangers out here?”

He shrugged, spitting tobacco into a tin can. “Folks pass through. Some don’t pass back out. Desert’s got a way of keepin’ what it wants.”

Her stomach dropped, but she didn’t press. They fueled up, bought a lukewarm coffee from a vending machine, and headed for the diner’s parking lot to plan their next move.

Jake sipped the coffee, wincing at the taste. “We could turn back,” he said. “Head home, call this a wash.”

Ellie stared at the horizon, the sun climbing higher–casting long shadows. “No,” she said finally. “We keep going. But we’re smarter about it. No more camping off the road. Towns only.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Thought you loved the wild stuff.”

“I do,” she said, voice low. “But something’s out there, Jake. And I don’t think it’s done with us.”

As they pulled out of Cold Springs, the rearview mirror caught a glint—something sharp and curved, half-hidden in the scrub a mile back. Ellie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t say a word. She just drove, the van’s tires humming, while the desert watched and waited.

The van limped along Highway 50, its engine coughing like a smoker on his last lung when the trap sprang. They’d made it thirty miles past Cold Springs, the sun a bloody smear on the horizon, when Ellie spotted it—a rusted chain stretched across the road, half-buried in the dust.

She slammed the brakes, tires screeching, but it was too late. The chain snapped taut, yanking the van’s front axle with a sickening crunch. Metal groaning, the dashboard lights flickering, and the engine dying with a final, shuddering wheeze.

“Shit,” Jake muttered, clutching his bandaged arm. “What now?”

Ellie’s heart pounded as she scanned the desert. The shadows were long now, pooling like ink, and the silence felt wrong—too heavy, too alive.

“We’re stuck,” she said, voice trembling. “We need to…”

The guttural bleat cut her off, low and wet, rolling out of the dusk.

Jake’s head whipped around, eyes wide. “No way. No goddamn way.”

It came from the left, a hulking shape lurching out of the scrub—taller than before, broader, the ram’s skull mask gleaming pale under the fading light. The machete hung loose in its grip, blade crusted with dried blood, and its steps were deliberate, unhurried.

It knew they weren’t going anywhere.

“Out!” Ellie yelled, shoving her door open.

Jake stumbled after her, tire iron in hand, his wounded arm slowing him down. They backed away from the van, the desert sand cold under their boots, but there was nowhere to run—just flat, open, nothing but sagebrush stretching to the horizon.

The thing in the ram’s mask didn’t speak. It didn’t hesitate. It charged faster than its bulk should’ve allowed, the machete slicing the air in a silver arc.

Ellie dove to the side, hitting the sand hard, grit stinging her palms. Jake swung the tire iron with a guttural yell, aiming for the skull, but the killer twisted, taking the blow on its shoulder.

The iron clanged uselessly, and the figure barely flinched. It drove its free hand into Jake’s chest, a fist like a sledgehammer, sending him sprawling backward into the van’s side with a hollow thud.

“Jake!” Ellie screamed, scrambling to her feet.

He coughed, blood flecking his lips, but he pushed himself up, tire iron still clutched tight. The killer loomed over him, raising the machete, its horned shadow stretching across the sand like some ancient, unholy thing.

“Get to the van!” Jake roared, lunging forward.

He didn’t swing the iron this time—he threw himself at the figure, wrapping his good arm around its waist, tackling it to the ground. They hit the dirt in a tangle of limbs, the machete skittering free, and Jake’s growl of pain mingled with that awful, bleating snarl.

Ellie froze, her breath hitching. “Jake, no—.”

“Go!” he shouted, pinning the killer beneath him, his face pale and slick with sweat.

The ram-masked thing thrashed, clawing at him with gloved hands, but Jake held on, buying her seconds. His eyes met hers, fierce and final, “Run, Ellie. Live.”

The killer bucked, driving a knee into Jake’s gut. He gasped, blood bubbling from his mouth, and the figure rolled him off like a rag doll.

The machete glinted a few feet away, half-buried in the sand, but the killer didn’t go for it—not yet. It rose, slow and deliberate, and turned toward Jake, who lay coughing, clutching his ribs.

Ellie didn’t run. Something snapped inside her—fear burned away by a white-hot rage she didn’t know she had.

She bolted for the van, yanking the driver’s door open and climbing in. The keys were still in the ignition, the engine dead, but maybe, just maybe, not gone.

She twisted the key, pumping the gas, her prayer a silent scream. The starter whined, sputtered—then caught, the van lurching awake with a guttural roar.

Outside, the killer raised a boot over Jake’s chest. He looked up, defiant even now, and spat blood into the sand.

“Do it, you freak,” he rasped.

The boot came down hard, and Ellie heard his ribs crack over the engine’s growl. Jake’s cry cut off, his body going still, and the killer straightened, turning its empty eye sockets toward her.

Ellie floored it. The van surged forward, tires spitting dust, aimed straight for the ram-masked bastard.

It didn’t move, did not flinch—just stood there, horns gleaming, as if daring her. The grille hit it square in the chest, a bone-jarring crunch vibrating through the steering wheel.

The figure flew back, tumbling across the sand, and Ellie didn’t stop. She swerved, circled, and gunned it again, catching it as it tried to rise. The front tire rolled over its legs with a wet snap, pinning it beneath the van’s weight.

She slammed the brakes, threw the door open, and stumbled out, her breath coming in ragged sobs. The killer writhed, still alive, that guttural bleat gurgling from beneath the mask.

The machete lay nearby, its blade catching the last light of the dying sun. Ellie grabbed it, the handle slick with Jake’s blood, and staggered toward the thing.

It clawed at the sand, dragging itself forward–the horns cracked from the impact. Ellie didn’t hesitate. She swung the machete down, two-handed, burying it in the killer’s shoulder.

It howled—a sound no human throat should make—and she yanked the blade free, blood spraying black against the dusk. Again, she swung, this time at the neck, the steel biting deep.

The head didn’t come off clean—not like in the movies. She hacked again, then again, sobbing and screaming, until the ram’s skull rolled free, the body twitching once before going still.

Ellie dropped the machete, her hands shaking, and fell to her knees beside Jake. His eyes were open, staring at the sky, that lopsided grin frozen on his face like he’d won some final, bitter joke.

She touched his cheek, cold already, and let out a wail that tore through the desert silence. The van idled behind her, its headlights cutting twin beams into the dark.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, cradling him, the killer’s blood pooling inches away. When she finally stood, the stars were out, sharp and indifferent, and the night felt emptier than she’d ever known.

She climbed back into the van, Jake’s quilt still bunched on the passenger seat, stained with his life. The machete stayed where it fell—she wouldn’t touch it again.

She drove east toward nothing, the ram’s skull grinning in her mind’s eye.

Jake had given her the road, the chance to live, and she’d take it. But the wild places she loved—they’d never feel the same.

The desert swallowed her taillights, and the silence closed in.

Minding the Monarchs

It has come to pass that in the great and sovereign state of Nevada, where men wager fortunes on the roll of a dice and the pull of a lever, the common butterfly is left to its own devices, unprotected by the law and unburdened by the bureaucracy that so diligently tends to every creature with a backbone. This oddity arises from the simple fact that, under Nevada’s statutes, wildlife is only wildlife if the law says it is and has so far taken no particular interest in the affairs of the winged and the many-legged.

However, a most persistent faction of naturalists and scientists have taken it upon themselves to remedy this omission. Assemblyman Howard Watts of Las Vegas, no doubt prompted by an acute sense of justice for the underappreciated, has proposed Assembly Bill 85, which seeks to extend Nevada’s official hospitality to certain imperiled insects—most notably, the monarch butterfly and the Morrison bumble bee. The legislative crusade is a revival of a similar attempt in 2023, which met its end in the unforgiving hands of a budget committee, proving that in matters of state, money trumps moths.

The argument for insect inclusivity is sound enough as far as scientific reasoning goes. Pollinators are essential to the survival of crops, flowers, and life itself. Without them, Nevada’s many deserts would become even more desolate, its orchards barren, and its meadows—should any exist—entirely theoretical. There is talk of billions of dollars lost, ecological catastrophe, and grim futures in which Nevada’s native bees and butterflies are but a memory.

The opposition, of course, does not come from a place of malice toward butterflies but from a practical fear of the state’s coffers running dry. The Nevada Department of Wildlife, already overburdened with the care of mammals, birds, and reptiles, is hesitant to take on the new responsibility of herding insects, especially with only thirteen biologists to manage nearly 700 species. They would require additional funding, and herein lies the rub—fiscal notes are anathema in a government determined to keep its purse strings tight.

Thus, the fate of Nevada’s insects hangs in the balance, subject to the whims of legislators who must decide whether the flutter of a butterfly’s wing is worth a line in the state budget. Without management, these creatures will vanish, taking pollination services with them. Others contend that the federal government is always happy to step in where states falter, and surely Washington can mind the bees if Nevada cannot.

In the meantime, the butterflies flit, the bees buzz, and the legislators deliberate. Whether AB85 will soar triumphantly or get swatted down remains to be seen. For the moment, Nevada’s insects remain blissfully unaware of their legal predicament.