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The good folks of Storey County can rest a little easier—or at least drive a little straighter—thanks to a generous donation from local business owners Thomas and Deborah Hayward. In an act of goodwill that would put a Sunday preacher to shame, the couple handed over the keys to an all-wheel-drive Dodge Challenger that will bring a little muscle to the Sheriff’s Office’s ongoing battle against reckless driving.

Deputy David Ranson, head of the department’s STEER Unit (Safe Traffic Education and Enforcement Response), accepted the donation with the kind of enthusiasm one reserves for Christmas morning.

“The Dodge Challenger SXT was a wish list item for our traffic enforcement team,” Ranson said, suppressing a grin at the thought of patrolling the streets in a machine built for speed and safety. “Its all-wheel-drive capability and excellent safety ratings make it a critical tool for addressing traffic infractions and improving road safety in all weather conditions.”

The STEER Unit, dedicated to keeping Storey County’s roads as safe as a church picnic, will outfit the vehicle like a patrol car and use it for traffic enforcement, education, and community outreach events. In other words, lead-footed drivers will soon find themselves face to face with the long arm of the law—now backed by a powerful engine.

Deborah Hayward, speaking on behalf of the generous duo, explained their motives in plain terms: “We believe in giving back to the community that supports us, and we are honored to donate this vehicle as a token of our gratitude for the dedication and sacrifice of our first responders. We hope this contribution helps them continue their vital work.”

With this addition to its fleet, the STEER Unit plans to curb reckless driving and create goodwill between law enforcement and the community. The Sheriff’s Office has long been grappling with traffic-related incidents, and this new tool might just put a dent in those statistics.

Of course, the ultimate goal remains the grandest of all–zero fatalities. It’s a lofty ambition, to be sure, but one the department holds fast to.

And if nothing else, seeing a Dodge Challenger in the rearview mirror might just be enough to make even the most reckless driver think twice before pressing their luck.

Jedidiah Smoothwater had gone to his reward if he was to have one, which I reckoned was doubtful. He had played his part in this grand comedy with such middling skill that spectators, if any, must have been snoring through his final act.

Now, he lay, decked out in a mahogany coffin, glass over his face like a lid on a jar of preserves, looking as if he was enjoying his first and last peace. The undertaker had done a fine job, I must say, turning Jedidiah into a silent partner in the business of death.

At two o’clock sharp, his so-called friends gathered, their mourning as sincere as a politician’s promise. They stood around, trying to look as if they’d lost something more than a drinking buddy. Jedidiah’s kin took turns sobbing over him.

The widow made her grand entrance, weeping copiously in the practiced manner of one who had rehearsed for such an event. She threw herself upon the casket, pressed her face to the cold glass, and, having thereby chilled her emotions, allowed herself to be seated near her daughter.

The minister soon appeared, making all others seem like mere shadows. His eulogy was beautiful if you’re fond of gloom. The minister’s voice wavered like a flag in a storm, driving everyone deeper into despair until even the heavens joined in with a sprinkle of rain as if to say, “I too have felt this man’s absence.”

The service ended, the mourners sang with the cheerlessness of a dirge, and the pallbearers stepped up, ready to remove Jedidiah into whatever eternity awaited him. But the widow, not to be outdone by the proceedings, made a final, grand gesture of sorrow, collapsing in a faint so theatrical it might have been the climax of a melodrama.

Everyone rushed to her aid. One poor soul bumped the coffin, sending it to the ground with a crash that shattered the glass into a thousand sparkles.

From the wreckage and with a furtive, nervous scamper, scurried a rat. It paused momentarily, whiskers twitching as if in some dark amusement before darting away.

The clock struck three.

Rascals of Tahoe and a Case of Leniency

Now, dear reader, let us turn our attention to a tale of crime, justice, and a rather curious brand of leniency that has settled upon the shores of Lake Tahoe like an unwelcome fog. The principal character in this drama is one Edgar Ivan Trejo-Mendoza, a man with a knack for bad company and worse decisions, who now finds himself convicted and awaiting deportation after a grand multi-agency operation charmingly dubbed “Operation Bear Trap.”

Trejo-Mendoza’s luck ran out on February 8, when authorities plucked him from his roguish pursuits in Cool, Calif.—though one might argue a more fitting name for his hideaway would have been “Not-So-Cleverly-Disguised.” His arrest was the result of a multi-year investigation that sought to untangle the web of violent crime, illicit drug peddling, and gun-running in the Tahoe region.

Authorities wasted little time in compiling an impressive list of charges against him, including possession of a firearm while being legally barred from doing so, courtesy of a domestic violence restraining order, the unlawful sale of an assault weapon to a felon, illegal entry into the United States, and the ever-fashionable title of fugitive from justice.

Yet, dear reader, if you were expecting a tale of swift and resolute justice, you may wish to temper your expectations. On February 18, Trejo-Mendoza pleaded guilty to a single felony count—unlawful transfer of a firearm—in El Dorado County Superior Court. His punishment? Time served–a total of 17 days in the county jail–and a probationary pat on the head. No sooner had he stepped back into the fresh air of freedom than he found himself whisked away by the diligent hands of the FBI and ICE, who promptly set about the business of initiating deportation proceedings.

Now, lest you assume Trejo-Mendoza was a lone wolf in his misdeeds, allow me to introduce some of his charming compatriots—men whose dealings in machine guns, narcotics, and other unsavory enterprises have earned them sentences so light they might float away on the Tahoe breeze.

Among them is Carlos Alfredo Perez Guerra, convicted of possessing Child Sexual Abuse Material and a firearm, despite his felonious status, originally sentenced to four years but now enjoying the comforts of probation after a mere two. Oscar Arreola Nunez, a man with sixteen felony convictions under his belt, including selling machine guns and narcotics across from South Tahoe Middle School—presumably an effort in early career development. He received a seven-year sentence, though four got graciously suspended, and after serving a measly year and a half, he, too, waltzed into probation.

Then there’s Jose Medina Vazquez, a collector of felonies in the double digits, himself convicted of crimes including possession of a machine gun, felon in possession of a firearm, and narcotics distribution. His seven-year sentence should, by current trends, land him back in circulation by spring 2026. Bryan Antunez Gonzalez, convicted of carjacking and robbery, at least earned himself a six-year stint in prison before the promise of deportation upon release.

And let us not forget the four federal defendants swept up in Operation Bear Trap back in 2022, who are still awaiting trial for methamphetamine trafficking—presumably because justice must first take its afternoon tea.

In the face of such an impressive collection of lawbreakers, one might expect the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office to throw its hands up in despair.

Yet they assure us they remain steadfast in their mission to combat illegal firearm trafficking, gang activities, and violent crime. They have promised continued collaboration with federal agencies, including the FBI and ICE, to apprehend, prosecute, and, when necessary, deport those with a penchant for lawlessness.

Norm Clarke

Norm Clarke had the instincts of a bloodhound, the nerves of a riverboat gambler, and, lest we forget, the unmistakable eye patch that made him look as though he had just stepped off a pirate ship and straight into a press room. It was not merely an accessory; it was the badge of a man who had seen much, lost much, and yet never stopped looking for the next great story.

Departing this world at 82, Clarke spent his days chasing the big tales—from the crack of the bat in Cincinnati to the neon glow of Las Vegas, where he reigned as the scribe of sin and spectacle. He was a man of ink and hustle, trained by the hard edges of life before finding his true calling among the stars and scoundrels of the Strip.

His “Vegas Confidential” column was not so much a gossip rag as a chronicle of the absurd, a running diary of the high-heeled, high-rolling, and often high-flying antics of the rich and reckless. He was the first to report on Britney Spears’ 55-hour marriage, which lasted about as long as a Las Vegas sunrise, the return of Michael Jackson to Sin City, and the moment Elton John turned his temper into a projectile, sending a stool and a glass of water into the audience.

If a celebrity was being bad, Clarke had the scoop before the ink was dry on the arrest report. But make no mistake—Clarke was no mere peddler of idle chatter.

He was a reporter first, last, and always, a fact he made clear to anyone who dared call him a gossip columnist. His work was legendary.

When a fire devoured the Beverly Hills Supper Club in Kentucky, Clarke ran a mile through gridlocked traffic to be the first reporter on the scene. When the MGM Grand went up in flames, Clarke’s words served as a witness to the event.

He covered the Big Red Machine of the Cincinnati Reds, tangled with Pete Rose over contract disputes, and took a slap to the face when he dared list baseball’s all-time hits leader among Vegas’ worst tippers. If there was a fight, Clarke didn’t just cover it—he was in it.

Even away from the newsroom, Clarke had a taste for adventure. He ran with the bulls in Pamplona twice, which suggests he was either immensely brave or had a loose definition of self-preservation. His luck ran out in Tecate, Mexico, where a bull got the better of him, but a good reporter knows that sometimes you take the hit and get back up.

Born in Terry, Mont., Clarke’s life was one of resilience. He lost his father to cancer at ten and his right eye not long after, but none of it slowed him down.

His first break in journalism came for the princely sum of five dollars, covering a basketball tournament that ended with a buzzer-beating half-court shot. He became hooked from that moment on.

Writing wasn’t just a job—it was salvation.

His memoir, Power of the Patch, was published this month, and he wanted it placed in schools and libraries where the next generation of ink-stained dreamers might find it. He understood, perhaps better than most, that words have power and the right words at the right time can change the course of a life.

And so we bid farewell to Norm Clarke—newsman, storyteller, and, as Forbes once called him, the sheriff of Sin City’s wildest beat. He leaves behind a legacy of ink and intrigue, a trail of scoops and stories that stretch from the dugouts of Cincinnati to the casinos of Las Vegas.

He saw it all, and what’s more, he made sure we saw it too.

A Tale of Fraud, Fines, and Foolishness

Some men will climb the highest mountain, ford the deepest river, and perjure themselves on a stack of Bibles to bag a mule deer that isn’t legally theirs. Such was the case in the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest, where two enterprising individuals got snared by the long arm of the law after cooking up a hunting scheme that was equal parts ambition and absurdity.

In December 2022, the Utah Division of Natural Resources got wind of a Panguitch, Utah resident who had galloped across the Nevada border, fraudulent hunting tag in hand, and laid claim to a sizeable 5×4 mule deer. The Nevada Department of Wildlife (NDOW) quickly confirmed that the hunter had been a Utah resident for three years, rendering them about as eligible for a Nevada resident hunting tag as a coyote in a henhouse.

“Residency fraud is becoming a real problem,” lamented Game Warden Lieutenant John Anderson, as he no doubt pondered the sheer effort some folks will exert to avoid paying out-of-state fees. “Our game wardens are spending quite a bit of time investigating residency fraud, and that’s valuable time they could be using to actually protect the state’s wildlife.”

As the investigation unfolded, it became clear that the grand scheme was a family affair. The hunter’s spouse, who fancied herself something of a backwoods bureaucrat, handled the fraudulent paperwork and tag purchases, filling out applications under untrue pretenses and securing licenses with the finesse of a small-time con artist.

Search warrants, financial records, and digital evidence all told the same tale—this was a crime of paperwork and poor judgment. The price for this ill-gotten mule deer?

The primary suspect took a plea deal, admitting to aiding and abetting unlawful possession—a gross misdemeanor. In exchange for the trophy, he received a five-year suspension of hunting privileges, a suspended 60-day jail sentence, a year of probation, and a devastating loss of 36 hunting bonus points, which, for an avid hunter, is about as cruel a fate as being exiled from the campfire. The financial reckoning came in the form of a shared civil penalty of $4,999.99, a precise sum that suggests the judge wanted to extract every last penny.

Meanwhile, the spouse, the unseen hand behind this grand deception, was convicted of a misdemeanor violation, losing her hunting license and coughing up more than $600 in fines—plus their share of the nearly $5,000 penalty.

Under the Interstate Wildlife Violator Compact, the five-year suspension means neither can legally hunt in 49 states, leaving Alaska as their only option—assuming they fancy a trek to the tundra to try their luck on moose instead.

While residency fraud may not rank much among crimes of history, it remains a persistent pest, gnawing away at conservation funding and robbing lawful hunters of opportunities. Lieutenant Anderson stressed that the case was a shining example of interagency cooperation, proving that, while some folks may think they can outsmart the system, the law will catch up—especially when you leave a paper trail as wide as the Grand Canyon.

And so ends another mule deer caper, a tale of fraud, folly, and the undeniable fact that some hunters will go to remarkable lengths to take a shortcut—only to find themselves on a much longer road than they ever intended.

Lombardo Wants Firefighters for Lithium Infernos

If there’s one thing folks can count on in Nevada besides a casino taking their last dollar, it’s a fire hotter than the hinges of Hades whenever something with lithium catches aflame. A man with a firm handshake and an even firmer grasp on the obvious, Governor Joe Lombardo, has made a startling realization—perhaps firefighters include a team meant to handle such fires.

The good governor made this revelation at the February gathering of Nevada’s Department of Transportation board, where he imparted this wisdom: “If you were talking about the lithium fires, I think it would be conducive to have fire there.”

A sentiment as profound as it is self-evident, proving once again that government meetings are where common sense goes to take a long nap. The newfound enlightenment stems from last summer’s debacle when a truck carrying lithium flipped on I-15 near Baker, Calif., creating a conflagration so spectacular that it left traffic paralyzed for nearly two days.

The event came with a rather inconvenient truth—many emergency responders are about as prepared to handle lithium fires as a gambler is to walk away from the roulette table after one win. To remedy this, NDOT has rustled up some $20,000 in federal funds to host a peer exchange in Las Vegas in April, assembling emergency responders from Utah, California, Arizona, and Nevada. The grand confab, charmingly dubbed the I-15/I-11 Emergency Operations Peer Exchange, will presumably feature discussions on how best to wrangle these fires before they turn every freeway incident into an impromptu fireworks display.

Ever vigilant, Lombardo has also directed emergency management teams to “do some comprehensive training and/or awareness on how we respond to lithium fires.” This initiative comes in the wake of a Homeland Security Commission meeting, where Clark County’s freshly minted fire chief, Billy Samuels, provided an update on their readiness—or lack thereof—to handle such situations.

In an ironic twist, the meeting also included talk of a New Year’s Day Cybertruck explosion outside the Las Vegas Trump International Hotel, set off by a former Green Beret from Colorado. Though not a lithium fire, the incident prompted the governor to remark that fire crews were still “feeling their way on how the hell we deal with these lithium fires,” which is not exactly the kind of confidence-building statement one hopes to hear from the people tasked with preventing mass immolation.

Samuels, newly seated in his role after his predecessor traded firefighting for lawmaking, has yet to respond to inquiries. Whether this silence signals deep contemplation or bureaucratic inertia remains to be seen.

With lithium-powered vehicles and devices multiplying like rabbits in a carrot patch, the state had best sort out how to keep these fires in check. Otherwise, every highway crash may resemble an Old West gunpowder mishap, leaving drivers stranded, firefighters scratching their heads, and state officials scrambling to throw more money at the problem.

A Fight for Justice in Care Homes

Now, friends, we all know the world is brimming with fine speeches and noble intentions, but when it comes to our most vulnerable—our elders and those in need of care—it seems some folks operate with all the compassion of a hungry coyote.

Many well-meaning family have entrusted their loved ones to care facilities, expecting dignified treatment. Instead, they find themselves up against a system that regards human decency as an optional extra. Abuse, neglect, and outright cruelty have been the order of the day, hidden behind closed doors and sterile hallways.

Now, a picture, they say, is worth a thousand words, but when it reveals sores, open wounds, and people abandoned in their filth, it is worth much more—it is worth justice. Enter Henry’s Law, born of tragedy and hard fought by one determined sister who refused to let her brother’s suffering go unforgotten.

Theresa Bigay sounded the alarm in 2020 when her brother, Henry Owens, was left to waste away in Life Care Nursing Home. The name, it’s reckoned, was more of a jest than a promise.

Photos and videos showed neglect so vile it would make a man’s stomach turn. Sores left to fester, days spent in his waste, and a toe lost to sheer disregard—this was the fate of Henry Owens before he passed in 2021 at the age of 61.

But Theresa, God bless her, would not let his suffering be for nothing. She fought, hollered, and made enough ruckus to get Henry’s Law passed in 2023. Now, families could install cameras in care facilities, an extra set of eyes where before there were only blind corners and shrugged shoulders.

But laws, my friends, are much like fences—only as strong as the men and women willing to mend them. Henry’s Law, for all its promise, had no teeth. And what good is a watchdog if it’s got no bite?

Assemblyman Max Carter of Clark County is leading the charge, promising amendments to ensure that when cameras reveal wrongdoing, action is swift, and the public knows which facilities to avoid. Assembly Bill 368 would extend camera access beyond nursing homes to any assisted living or care facility. More importantly, it would slap consequences on those who flouted the rules—revoked licenses, civil penalties, and even criminal charges.

One heart-wrenching testimony came from Peggy Stephenson, whose 92-year-old mother endured rough handling, cold showers, and abandonment in a care facility while suffering dementia. Thanks to cameras, Peggy could see the bruises on her mother’s arms, the forceful dragging, and the indignities forced upon her.

And when she dared to raise her voice? The facility retaliated, banning cameras altogether and hiking fees, as if punishment were their right and justice their enemy.

Her husband, Michael—a retired military colonel—spoke plain truth: “Caregivers are often untrained, underpaid, and suddenly in charge of whether a person eats, bathes, or suffers.” A reality, yet one many lawmakers have been all too willing to ignore.

Then there was Andre Collins, a 29-year-old man with cerebral palsy, who, in his own words, expressed how much he loved living independently. Upon requesting cameras for protection, he learned he could not have them because his caregivers had a right to privacy.

The logic, dear reader, was as twisted as a crooked poker hand. In a world where you can watch your dog frolic in a daycare livestream or check in on your children at school, why should our most vulnerable be left in the shadows?

Nevada’s Next Great Boom and Bust

If the ghosts of Nevada’s silver miners were still rattling around the canyons, they’d be scratching their spectral heads, wondering what all the fuss is about a metal you can’t even use for a belt buckle. Yet here we are, in the throes of another grand mineral scramble, this time for lithium, the lightest metal on Earth, the very lifeblood of our electric future.

Nature, in her infinite wisdom, spent millions of years tucking away a fortune in lithium beneath Nevada’s arid basins, waiting for the day when the world would suddenly realize that what was once about as useful as a paper umbrella in a thunderstorm is now worth its weight in, well, lithium. When the electric carriage came into fashion and the lords of commerce demanded batteries by the ton, Nevada found itself richer than a cardsharp in a saloon full of greenhorns.

“Lithium got hot in the late teens, early 2020s, and people started looking for it more. When you look for something harder, you generally find more of it,” observed Sean McKenna, a man who has spent enough time studying hydrology to know what lurks beneath the desert floor.

And sure enough, with some scratching and digging, lithium deposits turned up in every dried-up lakebed and forgotten valley from Esmeralda County to the Oregon border.

In those fevered years, lithium’s price soared like a politician’s promises before an election. In 2023, it hit an all-time high of $80,000 per ton—a number so staggering it might have convinced an old prospector to trade in his mule for a geologist’s degree.

Electric vehicles were rolling off assembly lines, and the world’s thirst for battery storage seemed unquenchable. But if history has taught Nevada anything, the higher a boom goes, the more spectacular the bust.

By early 2024, the lithium market had plummeted faster than a one-legged gambler at a rigged poker table. Prices dropped 86 percent, forcing mine closures worldwide and leaving many an investor clutching his head in despair.

But like the grizzled old prospectors of yesteryear, the lithium barons of today remain undeterred. Albemarle keeps digging at Silver Peak, the nation’s only operational lithium mine, with plans to expand even if the market doesn’t.

Meanwhile, up at Thacker Pass—home to the largest known lithium deposit in the world—earthmovers are busy because when you sit on a mountain of wealth, you don’t get up just because the price tag wobbles.

And then there’s Rhyolite Ridge, where Australian company Ioneer has figured out a way to hedge its bets with boron, that other great unsung hero of the periodic table. When lithium prices tumble, they’ll peddle boron for glass, detergents, and whatever else the world suddenly remembers it needs.

It is, as always, a game of speculation, high hopes, and crushed dreams. The Trump administration wants to bolster domestic mineral production, which means Nevada’s lithium fortunes may come through policy rather than the whims of the market. The men and women chasing lithium today are no different than the ones who came before, pickaxe in hand, sure they were digging their way to paradise.

Time will tell whether Nevada’s lithium rush will prove a mother lode or another fool’s errand. But for now, the miners keep digging, the speculators keep betting, and the desert, indifferent as ever, watches and waits.

It appears that another one of the infernal metal slabs has planted itself right in the middle of Nevada, like a misplaced tombstone for common sense. The latest offender, a 12-foot contraption, sprang up overnight at Seven Magic Mountains, confounding respectable folk and alarming the Nevada Museum of Art, who had no more say than a preacher at a poker game.

The museum, understandably perturbed, has declared they neither commissioned nor condone this unsolicited yard ornament and are presently engaged in the time-honored civic tradition of figuring out how to get rid of it. Who put it there? No one knows. Who will take it down? That much is certain—whoever has the misfortune of being put on that particular errand.

Like so many of its kin, the monolith is not merely a mute hunk of metal standing idly by, contemplating the desert. This one has taken it upon itself to bear a QR code—a cryptic stamp of the digital age—rumored to lead the unwary straight into the treacherous, snake-infested gulch of cryptocurrency.

What Arthur C. Clarke, he of celestial musings, would have said about this is unknown, but one might suspect he’d have lamented the fall from cosmic grandeur to commercial hucksterism. Monoliths once heralded the dawn of intelligence, but now they hawk dubious investments.

It is not the first time such an object has seen fit to loiter in the Las Vegas Valley. Another appeared last June near Gass Peak, doubtless confusing the local coyotes and frustrating the Bureau of Land Management. Whether these structures are the work of alien intelligence, rogue artists, or a marketing department with more enthusiasm than ethics, the result remains the same—an ever-growing pile of paperwork and exasperated sighs from those charged with their removal.

And so, the desert plays host once more to the strange and the inexplicable, as it has for ages. But whether installed by cosmic forces or some rascal with a welding torch, the monolith, like all things in Nevada, is bound to meet the same fate–dismantled, hauled away, and promptly forgotten until the next one appears.