Being sick, having a fever and suffering a continual headache for a week can leave some people desperate. I once heard of a woman driving a four-inch nail into her head to find relief from a migraine. That’s desperate and supposedly, it worked. Personally, I cannot see myself being that hard-up to pound a spike of any size into my face, but then I recently proved I’d do other stupid stuff to get rid of the constant pain.

Laying in bed, I decided that I needed to do a neti-pot. Instead of giving me the relief I needed, I spent 10 minutes on my hands-and-knees wiping up the mess I’d made on the floor. Afterwards, my wife suggested that I should do it in the shower next time. She also suggested going to the store to look at nasal irrigate machines, but I figured I could design a functioning system out of supplies I already have lying around the house.

Simply put, I have a length of old-fashioned medical rubber hose that I used to use as a tourniquet while drawing blood. My plan included attaching one end of the hose to our kitchen sink’s faucet and jamming the other end up my nose, turn the water on and let the flushing commence. All was fine until the water came out way too fast and a bit too warm. Once I get some sleep, I plan to go to the store as my wife suggested in the first place.

After all, while being discharged, the emergency room doctor warned, “I wouldn’t try it again though — I’m not sure you’d survive a second drowning attempt.”

In his 1906 short story, ‘Man About Town,’ O. Henry takes the reader on a small adventure about New York City, searching for the illusive man about town. The story isn’t simply about a curious man’s hunt for another.

It’s more of a journey towards self-awareness. This is a lacking that you and I don’t often recognize in ourselves unless it’s pointed out.

Likewise, it isn’t until reading a newspaper article that the searcher learns he’s the ‘man about town’ in his quest. Throughout much of our lives, we’re both the person we need and are searching for without know it.

In forensic science, Locard’s Exchange Principle says that the bad guy will unintentionally bring something physical into a crime scene and leave the same with something from it.

If you take this a bit further, and outside the realm of criminal investigation, it stands to reason that we can leave behind in our daily wake, emotional imprints on our environments and the people we know. Likewise, we take bits and pieces of the people and our environments with us when we come and go.

The difference is that with emotions, we have a choice between leaving negative energy or positive.

She calmly propped the now-empty shotgun against the door frame and walked out to her waiting horse. Once in the saddle, she rode south-west, towards Gold Hill, Nevada, name-unknown and directly out of the historical archives of the state.

Rattlesnake Dick’s big claim to fame was that he was a two-bit hustler and a thief. In fact, John Richard Darling had even stolen the nickname “Rattlesnake Dick,” from another contemporary and more successful outlaw of the time.

His name appears constantly in the local newspapers all throughout 1863. On May 16, while riding the Austin Stage, Dick managed to ‘soak’ a lady out of her watch and money.

With the proceeds in hand he set out on a drunken bender. By the end of that evening he was not only charged with being ‘drunk and disorderly,’ but he was also charged in the bilking of the female stage passenger.

Once he sobered up,  they released him, the ‘D & D’ charges having been dismissed and the petty larceny tossed because there was lack of evidence in the case. But this didn’t stop Dick from finding trouble of his own doing once again.

Shortly afterwards, he got word that a well-known town drunk from the Carson River area had been temporarily left in charge of a saloon. Not one to miss an opportunity. Dick sneaked in the establishment and way-laid the intoxicated man.

This time law enforcement didn’t have to go very far to find their man. After nearly killing the man and robbing his till, Dick went upstairs to his room and passed out.

And even though they found the drunk man’s wallet in Dick’s room, there wasn’t enough evidence to levy charges against the criminal. So, once again, they dismissed Dick’s case.

In August, Dick found himself ‘shanghaied’ into the First Battalion, Nevada Territorial Volunteers stationed at Fort Churchill, as the War Department was actively recruiting men for battle in the eastern U.S. When he told his wife, she grew enraged and a fight broke out between the pair and she ended up badly beaten.

Once recovered from her beating, she moved to a ranch along the Carson River near the fort. Having heard of her arrival, Dick rode out to see her.

As he walked up the steps, she lowered a double-barrel shotgun at his chest and pulled both triggers. And though gravely wounded, Dick managed to stagger back to the roadway, where he found a ride waiting, who took him back to the fort for treatment.

While Dick survived that day, he wouldn’t survive threatening the life of ex-convict James Warren, better known as Jimmy Fresh, who in August 1883, shot Dick in the face and twice more as he lay on the ground dead. Thus began the job of chroniclers as many would spend a life-time trying to unwind the real crimes committed by John Richard Darling and those he purposely confused with his so-called namesake, the other “Rattlesnake Dick.”

People watching isn’t limited to the mall. While at the Department of Motor Vehicle, I got to watching a boy of about seven and his younger brother.

The pair were playing at the feet of their father. When dad was called to the counter, the older boy leaned into his younger sibling and stated as a matter of fact that their father was in trouble.

The younger lad asked, “How do you know?”

His older brother responded, “That lady used his full name – like mom does when we do something wrong.”

At least she didn’t say it through clinched teeth.

Sam Smith. That’s the name he’d been going by for the last 150-plus years and it suited him fine, like the 21st Century and it’s clothing styles, which he thought of as he adjusted his tie, making certain that the double-Windsor knot was as small and tight as possible.

He enjoyed looking impeccable for the job, which no matter how much he worked at it never received decent PR. That had always been a problem with his line of work – death.

Time after time, he’d hear how death came for someone who’d had an accident, or murdered or who committed suicide. It wasn’t up to Sam Smith to take someone as much as it was his duty to escort the person towards the afterlife.

In fact, in last the 997 years, he’d only used force once and that was on a Viking Heathen Wolf. There was no reasoning with the man and by the time the confrontation was over, Sam Smith had lost his right arm to mad-man’s sword.

It was embarrassing to have to go to the office the following day to file an on-the-job injury report and then over to the clinic to have the arm reattached. That was also the last time he’d transfigured himself from human form to what people called the ‘Grim Reaper.’

“Do it one time and they think you do it every time,” he’d complain to co-workers.

Finesse, it was the best way to hand anyone whose time it was to go. “Look, it’s going to happen one way or another,” he’d tell the targets putting up a fuss, “Make it easy on yourself.”

His day was nearly complete and he had only one target remaining on his list. But the 86-year old man was proving difficult to find as the man’s inner spirit had gone extremely quiet, something Sam had never encountered before.

For his part, Yoshio Watanabe knew his time was at hand and he had made all the preparations for his passing. The old World War II vet had also promised that when death came to take him, he’d put up one last fight.

Yoshio Watanabe sat quietly in the clearing amid the trees on the outskirts of Tokyo. He had dressed traditionally, a silken kimono, wooden geta’s on his feet, and both a Katana and Wakizashi tucked into the sash tied about his waist.

Sam Smith finally found Yoshio Watanabe. He instantly knew he was going to have a problem with the old man.

“Come on, Mr. Watanabe,” he spoke in perfect Japanese. “Let’s not make this any worse than it already is.”

“I knew you’d come for me one day,” the old man said as got to his feet. “But I will not go quietly.”

Sam Smith stood quietly, waiting for the target to move on him. But the old man stood stock-still as if he were assessing his future opponent’s skill level.

“The old man’s cheese has slipped off his cracker,” Sam Smith decided. “Might as well get it done and over.”

Sam Smith stepped to his left. This caused Yoshio Watanabe to respond by moving to his right and withdrawing only six-inches of his Katana from it’s scabbard.

It was easy to recognize a person who possessed fighting skills and even easier to recognize someone who understood how to handle a sword. Within a second, Sam Smith found himself defending against an 86-year old man flashing two swords around as if he were in his twenties.

Yoshio Watanabe wasn’t the least bit surprised when the man who stood before him changed into a Chokuto-wielding Shinigami, the eastern counterpart to the Grim Reaper. Sam Smith knew that he had to conform to the man’s belief system as he battled with the old man.

The two fought back and forth for nearly a half hour, with neither giving way to the other. It was clear to Sam Smith that he was going have to take Yoshio Watanabe’s head before the old man would be completely satisfied.

Sam Smith stepped to the right and to the inside of Yoshio Watanabe. That’s when he dislodged the Katana from the old man’s hand then wheel about to remove his head in a single stroke.

As Sam Smith’s blade drew through the old man’s neck, Yoshio Watanabe, never one to surrender, drove his Wakizashi through the Shinigami’s sternum with enough force that the tip of the sword became lodged in Sam Smith’s sixth thoracic vertebrae.

With the battle concluded, Sam Smith looked at the old man’s lifeless form on the ground. He knew it wasn’t real, but the sight left him feeling empty.

In the distance he could see Yoshio Watanabe still peacefully seated as he had been when he’d first found him. He could tell that the man had passed and that now his real work was to begin.

Sam Smith walked over to the severed head and picked it up. Next he pulled the headless body of Yoshio Watanabe into a seated position, then handed him his head before helping him to his feet.

Together they walked to the nearby ‘Sorting Ground.’ Once there, he left Yoshio Watanabe in the Sorters hands.

On his way home, he tried to pull the blade from his body, but it was good and stuck. All he wanted to do now was kick his feet up with a beer and watch the nightly news to see if any of his handy work had made it across the editorial desk.

“What happened to you?” Mrs. Smith asked.

“Long story,” Sam Smith said. “I had to duke it out with a guy who believed he was Samurai or something.”

“What do you think the Boss will have to say?”

“No idea, hopefully I won’t have to explain. Just go to the doctor, get it removed and return to work. But I still gotta fill out a work injury report.”

“So, how’d it happen?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. I went in to remove his head and next thing I know as I’m doing that, he ramming this stupid thing through me.”

Sam Smith flipped on the TV and headed into the kitchen to grab a brew from the refrigerator. He returned to the living room, kicked off his shoes, sitting down in his new recliner chair, the couple had purchased two days ago.

As he began to watch the news, Mrs. Smith walked into the room, “What have you done?”

Sam Smith looked up at her, a case of puzzlement showing on his face. He clearly had no idea what he’d done – but he was certain Mrs. Smith would tell him.

“That’s a brand new recliner and now you’ve ruined it by poking a hole in it!”

“I forgot…” he began to say, but she didn’t let him finish.

“You can be so thoughtless sometimes!”

She turn and stomped down the hallway to their bedroom, where she slammed the door behind her and when she did that, Sam Smith knew instantly where he was sleeping tonight. He’d have to let her calm down before they could talk about it, so there was nothing more he could do other than leaned back in the chair and enjoys what measure of comfort it brought him at the moment.

“What a perfect way to end the day,” he sighed as he lifted the beer bottle to his lips.

Poor Thomas’ Almanac for January 30: In 1835, Andrew Jackson survived the first attempt against the life of a U.S. president. Time’s are  changing as the media is openly calling for the assassination of President Donald Trump.

There’s a Cherokee tale called ‘White Wolf and Black Wolf’ and I’m about to purposely screw it up.

Last night, I allowed Black Wolf to control me. In my darkness, Black Wolf bit down on my head like a vice-grip, shook me violently and kicked away at my innards.

Fortunately, I made it to the bathroom before exploding from both ends. Because it was solely my choice, White Wolf could do nothing but watch, knowing I made the decision to allow Black Wolf to toy with me.

Happily, White Wolf is forgiving and wants me to return to His pack.

Misplaced feelings (happy, sad, glad, mad) are common as I learned following the death of a good friend. All the night of her passing I whined about how sad I was that she’d beat cancer, only to be taken because of an infection.

To this end, I got blitzed, hoping to numb the pain brought on by my proclaimed mood. A the light of the next day, as I lay in the frosted grass, wrapped in a pony-blanket, freezing cold, it dawned on me, I was never sad.

No – I was beyond mad – I was angry. So add another feeling.