Terkerkue’ walked across the yard and peeked between the metal slats of the electrified fence, making certain not to touch it. Designed to keep things out and not in and it left her feeling restless.

She had reclaimed her ancestral name, the one meaning Quail, that her Grandfather had given her as a newborn. Terkerkue’ felt it was fitting, seeing as how she was facing a new beginning.

Furthermore, she wanted to hunt some fresh vegetables, not the canned and condensed stuff they shipped all over the galaxy – but the real, have to fix yourself kind. Because of this she had decided to take her house cat, Marauder, her shot-gun and stock her personal pantry.

“Beyond the fence is dangerous,” her eldest son warned, “I wish you’d let me go with you.”

“Marauder and Betsy, here,” she lifted the shotgun slightly, “are all I need.”

She walked to the large gate, waved to the far lookout tower and the heavy metal door began grinding open. Terkerkue’ didn’t allow it to open fully as she and Marauder slipped beyond the safe confines of their village.

The multi-dee-ni’ reservation, ‘Native American One,’ held the distinction of being one of the first territories the World Federation had annexed following a worm-hole jump of more than four-light years. Proxima B as the planet was officially known had few inhabitants as far as anyone could tell. In fact, researchers were fairly certain that the planet was moving through a late Cretaceous period, putting it about 77 million years behind planet Earth.

It pleased Terkerkue’ that there were so few people populating the blue-green orb. She wouldn’t have decided to help her country colonize the planet had there been people displaced and land stolen.

“It jus’ wouldn’t be right,” she told her daughter, “especially being Yurok.”

Quietly, she tread through the overgrown forest, trees, much like the one’s she grew up admiring as a child along the Lost Coast. She felt as if she belonged to this land, the new territory and all the creatures that dwelled here.

Suddenly,  Terkerkue’ found what she’d been looking for; wild articulated zucchini. Marauder paused and pointed his nose in the direction of what he felt was the best angle to shoot, knowing she had only the one chance and that if she missed they’d scatter in all directions and she’d have to spend another two-hours following their sign.

“Boom, boom!”

The two blasts, back to back dropped 18 of them as they broke for cover. Terkerkue’ smiled as she began the task of collecting and readying them for the transport drone, she had requested the evening before.

As she waited, she resupplied the old-fashioned weapon with two more shells to replace the one’s she had fired. She also picked up the two spent casing that she’d ejected a couple of minutes ago.

That’s when she noticed Marauder, his ears were laid back and his back hairs bristled. The usually diminutive house cat had caught sense of something moving slightly beyond the brush line.

Terkerkue’ slowly and as quietly as possible racked a shell into place and then stood still. There was no telling what sort of something was hiding jus’ out of sight and she instinctively new to be on her guard for the worst possible outcome.

Then – there it was – a new species of free-range dinosaur. They had only recently been discovered and not much was known about the chicken-sized, feather-covered reptile.

“Kinda cute,” Terkerkue’ stated to Marauder, whose tail was twitching back and forth in a natural rhythmic fashion. Then she added, as she raised her shotgun, “I bet they taste like chicken, too.”

She squeeze off a round, dropping the tiny lizard. But that’s when all Hell broke loose as nearly two dozen of the damned things swarmed out of the brush line, attacking ‘ Terkerkue’ with the belligerence of a T. Rex.

She eventually awakened after nearly three-weeks in a drug induced coma. Her head hurt as did her right arm and amid all the pain she found herself confused about her surroundings.

“You’re in hospital, dear,” a smiling latex-covered nurse, which looked more like a ‘70’s porn star than an artificially intelligent medical robot, stated.

Terkerkue’ looked at her right arm, the stitches and grafting visible, “Holy crap, that’s gonna leave a scar!”

Then she looked up and saw her reflection of the plasma flat screen on the wall at the foot of her bed. She had a series of staples holding the top and side of her nearly bald head together.

They ran down the side of her face as well, “Holy, shit! That’s gonna really leave friggin’ a scar!”

Terkerkue’ felt a lump well up in her throat and the strong wish to cry. Then she remembered something else, “And my car?” she asked, sounding more panicked than she liked.

“A what, dear?” the AI asked, not understanding.

“My car — what about my car?” she asked again.

The Automaton stopped what it was doing, becoming expressionless. It then looking at her, answered with a smile, “There is no car. A flock of Hesperonychus elizabethae attacked you. You barely survived, dear.”

Terkerkue’ looked around the sterile white room and attempted to sit up, “I must’ve been dreaming or something – I thought I had slammed into a Redwood tree.”

“A what, dear?” the AI asked.

“A Redwood…oh, never mind,” Terkerkue’ answered, miffed that something supposedly much smarter than she, could actually be so damned stupid.

Right then, Marauder jumped up onto the foot of her bed and mewed loudly. As Terkerkue’  looked at the compact little house cat, she thought for sure she’d seen him smile at her, then wink like the Cheshire Cat from ‘Alice in Wonderland.’

“Whoa – must be some really good drugs,” she mumbled, as she drifted to sleep.

Cindy dropped four quarters in the vending machine and pushed ‘F-7.’ The corresponding screw twisted clockwise and down fell a cellophane wrapped package of microwavable popcorn.

She unwrapped the package and checked the preparation instructions, flattening out the folded popcorn container, before slipping it in the ‘nuker.’ As she did this, her co-worker, Maria walked in to the office break room and headed towards the coffee maker.

“Hey, Maria,” Cindy chirped, “How was your weekend?”

Maria turned and smiled, “Great! We went to the lake on Saturday.”

“Was it crowded?” Cindy asked as the microwave continued to hum and popcorn kernels burst like rapid gunfire.

“Boy was it,” Maria answered as she measured the powdered creamer into her newly poured cup of coffee, “but we found a place to park and even got a nice patch of grass to have our picnic on. How ‘bout you?”

“I stayed home, did some laundry, cleaned my house and worked in the garden,” Cindy responded.

The bell dinged on the microwave and Cindy punched the door open. Instantly, the room filled with the warm aroma of freshly cooked popcorn.

Maria sipping her coffee, move next to Cindy with the hope of continuing their conversation. As for Cindy she was busy trying to open the now-ballooned bag without scalding her fingers from the heated content.

As the bag’s top parted, steam rolled out and as it did, the room shook with a loud explosion that shattered the glass face of the microwave and blew the two women half way across the floor. The blast jarred the building, alerting those working there to call 9-1-1 for help.

Once both women were in their way to the hospital, detectives arrived to investigate the incident. One was younger than the other, but both had seen more than their share of tragedy during their careers.

“Well, what did the first officer on the scene have to say?” the older cop asked the younger one.

The younger one, a stickler for procedure referred to his note pad as he answered, “When he arrived he saw the two women down, where we see the blood, the redhead appeared to have the greater injuries while the Hispanic woman wasn’t as badly hurt. He said, and I’m quoting, ‘They both looked like they been blasted by a scatter-gun.’”

“That doesn’t tell us much,” the older investigator replied, “But it gives us a starting point.”

He looked around, then squatted. He picked up a popcorn kernel between his rubber-gloved finger and thumb, rolling it around as he examined it.

“Have ‘Crime Scene,’ bag these,” he instructed as he showed the kernel to his partner, “Have’em get a half-dozen swabs from both blood trails, impound the microwave and get photos all around. I’ll start the canvassing.”

Suddenly the younger detectives cellphone rang, he answered it, “Yes? I see. Thanks.” He turned to his partner, “The redhead is D-O-A, the others in surgery. She’s expected to survive.”

As the older one turned to leave the break room for the main office floor, a small scrap of paper laying half under the nearby vending machine caught his attention, prompting him to ask the younger man, “What’s that?”

Seeing it to, the younger cop bend down and scooped it up, “Looks like a wrapper of some sort.”

“Yeah, the wrapper to microwavable popcorn,” the old one comment. He quickly reached through the shattered vending machine’s glass door and pulled out a package of unpopped corn and held the scrap and the package side-by-side.

“Identical,” the young cop stated.

Then the older one turned to him and said, “I think I know what happened here. Genetically modified popcorn – it’s known to be very unstable, especially when bombarded with intense energy.”

“Yup,” the other one responded in agreement, “Those G-M-O’s are known to be real killers.”

The gloves are off in Nevada as State Treasurer Dan Schwartz has made his gubernatorial bid known, and the GOP establishment came out swinging at him. Immediately following his announcement, a series of attack ads hit the radio waves and Internet calling him a shill for a Republican super PAC with ties to Republican mega-donors Joe Ricketts and Sheldon Adelson.

Elected as treasurer in 2014, Schwartz attacked so-called “pay for play” politics while making his announcement by claiming he’d be an independent voice in the governor’s mansion. Incidentally, Schwartz’s primary opponent, Adam Laxalt, received $55,000 in campaign donations from Adelson family during his successful 2014 bid for attorney general.

And finally, one of Laxalt’s top lawyers, Wes Duncan has exited the AG’s office setting himself up for a run at the office’s top spot in 2018. Duncan is a former GOP Assemblyman and is going to work for Hutchison & Steffen, a law firm headed by current Lt. Governor Mark Hutchison.

This is what political inbreeding looks like – and it seems to get uglier and stupider as time goes by.

And proving once more that politics isn’t simply for the professional politician – MGM Resorts International and Caesars Entertainment Corp. have attacked President Trump’s decision to end the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrival (DACA) program. The reason they are actually against DACA is because of state regulations which compel the Nevada Gaming Commission enforce whatever federal action emerges.

That means the state Gaming Control Board (GCB) which monitors licensees’ compliance with federal law would have to penalize them if they fail to uphold the law – whatever it might be. And finally, there’s the claim by Progressive think-tank ‘Center for American Progress’ calculating that Nevada will take a $585 million economic hit over the next decade should DACA come to an end.

It proves that in the end MGM and Caesars aren’t really looking out for their employees, but rather their bottom-lines.

Marsha watched as her brother got out of his car and removed the wrapped package from his back seat. She was expecting him since today was her son, Timmy’s tenth birthday.

“Your Uncle Bob is here,” she called out to the back of the house.

“Coming,” came Timmy’s response and then him seconds later.

He met his Uncle Bob at the door. For his part, Bob handled the package to the boy, saying “Happy birthday, Timmy!”

Immediately, the boy sat down and began tearing off the wrapping to see what his only Uncle had brought him. Timmy’s excitement was barely containable when he saw it was a set of Army toys — complete with a plastic green helmet, a real sounding toy machine gun, a canteen and a rubber knife with sheath.

“Thank you, Uncle Bob,” Timmy squealed in delight as he slipped the canteen and knife on his belt.

Donning his new helmet and picking up his machine gun, he turned to his mother and asked, “Can I please go outside and play? Please?”

Marsha sighed, “Oh, alright – but don’t leave the yard.”

With that Timmy disappeared through the kitchen and out the screen door into his backyard. The two adults could hear the chatter of the machine gun as Timmy pulled the trigger and made explosion sounds with his mouth.

“Bob,” Marsha lilted, “You know how I don’t approve of those things.”

“Oh, Sis,” he returned, “I know, but I talked with Bill and he and I agreed Timmy should be allowed to play like any other boy.”

“So William put you up to this, huh?” Marsha asked in an accusatory tone.

“No, I made the decision myself,” Bob retorted, “So don’t go picking a fight with your old man. It was only a conversation and he never asked me to do anything.”

“Well, you know,” Marsha said, changing the subject, “Toy’s like this invite violence and I don’t want Timmy learning that it’s okay to shoot and kill people, even if it is only make-believe.”

*****

Meanwhile, in a deep, underground bunker, hidden beneath the Pentagon, Colonel Powers was flipping though a massive binder, as he listened to University Professor Ludwig describe how a new technology he had developed could theoretically create super soldiers. The subject was of great interest not only to Powers but to the Department of Defense as a whole.

“Yes, yes, yes,”  Ludwig exclaimed, “With this unseen technology secretly embedded in the soldiers helmet, we will have the ability to tap into the brain’s neurons and affect the synaptic portion dealing with social and anti-social behaviors.”

Ludwig went on to explain that since soldiers were already being trained in the act of warfare, it would be best to experiment on civilians, since they don’t have combat experience or fighting skills. Powers nodded his head vigorously in the affirmative to the suggestion.

“I’m sold on it,” Powers said to  Ludwig, adding, “When do we begin the trials?

“Who says we haven’t already begun,” Ludwig responded. Powers studied the thin-framed, bespectacled man in the sweater-vest for any sign of humor in his face — and found none.

*****

“Come now, Marsha,” Bob responded, “You know that’s all hog-wash. Look at me, I had real guns when we were growing up. I’m not violent and I only shot anyone while fighting the Japs in the Pacific.”

Marsha smiled because she knew her older brother was right. She looked out backdoor screen and waved at Timmy who was waving at her. The birthday boy then adjusted the chin-strap on his new Army helmet and continued killing the imaginary enemy surrounding him.

Dad kept a collection of Zippo lighters, some with his name engraved on them, a few foreign coins, a number of used stamps, volksmarch pins and medallions, yellowing newspaper clippings, ink-less pens, business cards and old photographs locked in his side-dresser. Since I knew where he hid the key, I’d go in and rummage around to see if he added anything new – which wasn’t very often.

Over the years I came to know every item he had stowed away, though I had no idea what they meant to him or even why he kept them. One such item looked to be a piece of dried and withered leather housed in a small matchbox. For the life of me, I had no idea what it was or why in the world he’d be in possession of something that looked so creepy.

And of course, I couldn’t ask him about it because I wasn’t supposed to be snooping.

Not until my parents, separated and divorced did I have a chance to ask him about the items in his collection. And the one that I was most interested in, of course was the one he had in the matchbox. He pick it up the box, opened it and rolled the thing into my hand.

As he did this I asked, “So, what is it?”

Dad smiled, “Your foreskin.”

“Gross!” I screamed as I quickly handed it back and ran for the bathroom to scrub my hands until they were nearly raw.

If my math’s correct, something like two million Nevada acres have burned during 2017. So far, the state’s seen nearly 660 wildfires this season – if one can truly say there’s actually a ‘wildfire season’ anymore.

Early on, Nevada led the nation in most fires because of the Bureau of Land Management complex of wildfires blazing in and around the Elko County area. And wouldn’t you know it, 70 percent of that two million acres has ‘belonged’ to the BLM.

The last time Nevada had such a ‘hot’ season was 11 years ago, only 1.3 million acres burned that year. And again, the majority of those fires happened on land that the BLM manages, proving there’s a lot of truth to the snarky saying, “We’re from the government and we’re here to help.”

Meanwhile, Nevada’s preparing to go to war once again with the Department of Energy over the ‘Yucca Mountain Project.’ If licensing resumes the state plans to “fully adjudicate” about 250 separate challenges to the Energy Department’s license application for Yucca Mountain and the data underpinning it.

It’s been 30 years since Congress named Yucca Mountain as the nation’s sole site for a planned nuclear waste repository and environmentalist’s, guided by politicians like Harry Reid, have been battling the project claiming that a third of all Nevadans opposed it. It’s hard to believe that so many people oppose it when you consider that Nye County, where Yucca Mountain is actually located, is one of the nine counties (out of 17) that’s passed resolutions calling for the licensing to resume and the science to be heard.

In January, Senators Dean Heller and Catherine Cortez Masto introduced the “Nuclear Waste Informed Consent Act,” with the same legislation being filed in the House by Dina Titus, Ruben Kihuen and Jacky Rosen. The bills will force the DOE to get the consent of the governor, local governments and Native American tribal leaders before constructing a nuclear waste repository in any state.

However, the House recently moved ahead with a bill authorizing the use of $120 million in taxpayer monies for the DOE and another $30 million for the  Nuclear Regulatory Commission to start the process. However, the Senate — the federal legislative body farthest from the people they represent and there for the most out of touch – did not include repository funding in any of its appropriations bill.

We’re being forced to watch the state burn from federal neglect while so much money stands to be made (or lost) from nuclear waste. It’s much like watching someone run with knotted together shoe-strings.

Yesterday’s post went over like a fart in the wind — like so many of my posts.
Only 17 views and one comment.
But I’m so very thankful for that single comment.

There’s always been a part of me that’s been yelling, “Hey, over here! Look at me.”
When I was younger, it didn’t matter whether it was ‘negative’ or ‘positive’ attention – jus’ as long as you looked at me.
Yet, here I am, an old man, having passed from childhood to adulthood, and still I am begging you to look at me.

And while I want it to be all positive – I’m so hard-up to be noticed at times that I’m willing to act in a negative way to gain your attention.
Unfortunately, not even this is working anymore.
“Hey, over here! Look at me,” is but another catch-phrase in a world filled with people craving time in the spotlight.

Is the problem me — have I become what Takuan* warned against?
Perhaps my book of matches are used up, my candle burned out.
Then again, maybe you really don’t care.

*Takuan is a 17th century Buddhist monk who taught that an overbearing personality will frighten off both allies and enemies.

It’s possible that I ought not say these things, but I gotta get it off my chest…
As a one of the fastest kids in the county, I could never understand why I could dash from one end-zone to the other in a football game, outrunning opponents and remaining open the entire time and the quarterback would never throw the ball to me.
I would repeatedly shout, “I’m open! I’m open!” but to no avail.
It wasn’t until I was older that I realized that I had outrun the ability of the quarterback to throw the football that far.
The same can be said for my writing.
Having any kind of ability does no good if you and I can’t develop some sort of teamwork.
And in order for my writing to work, someone’s gotta be their to read it.
Unfortunately, I can’t tell if you are or not because of a lack of feedback.
And what’s even more frustrating are the junk emails — some complaining that I don’t have ‘fresh content.’
Still other’s always promising to help my blog to go viral or to monetize my site.
They’re nothing more than fake bullshit while I know you’re real, but yet you say nothing.
I’m here — where are you?
For crissake’s, my toilet gets more action in one day than this blog does.

Once, when I was a youngster, about 16 or so, I bragged to a neighbor-man that I could fix his chainsaw. I came to this conclusion after I couldn’t get it to start while bucking up some small logs to be used for that coming winters’ fire.

I mean, it’s a small engine, so how hard could it be?

He took me up on my offer and I promptly took the thing home and started ripping into it.  But, no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the damned thing to start and stay running, so I had to put it back to together, return it to him, admitting that I really had no idea what I was doing.

The neighbor-man laughed, pulled out a small can of gasoline and filled it up.

As I sat in my truck waiting for my son to finish his business, I quietly observed a young husband and his pregnant wife seated on a nearby parking lot bench. She was far enough along that she could barely see over her baby bump, he was so exhausted that he could not keep his eyes open.

From the bags and packages collected around them, I could see they were still shopping for the baby that was on the way.  She kicked off her sneakers to give her swollen feet and ankles a rest while allowing her husband to catch a few minutes of desperately needed sleep.

After a few minutes, she tried valiantly to put her shoes on by herself, which is not an easy task when you cannot see your own toes. Immediately, the husband, with his eyes still heavy in sleep and his mouth open with a lasting yawn, slid to the asphalt and began to help her.

When he was sure that she was nearly settled and could finish the task, he slipped back into his seat and shut his eyes, seconds from falling asleep. A few minutes later she exhaled loudly with frustration, struggling as she reached to finish the tying of the last shoe.

And though he appeared to be fast asleep, he heard it, knowing her sound. Without even opening his eyes or the slightest of hesitations, he calmly dropped down at her feet.

Once his knees touched the black-top, he opened his eyes ever so slightly. That’s when the sweetest smile danced across his face as he finished tying her shoe.

She giggled, he laughed, I cried.