Devlin looked at his reflection in the mirror and straightened his shirt collar. It was Halloween Night and he was visiting the Crescent City for the first time in a while.

Instead of hailing a taxi, he chose to walk the few blocks to Bourbon Street, which was filled with revelers, young and old. Devlin wasn’t searching for anything in particular — he was simply there to enjoy the festive spirit of the city.

It was intoxicating, the different costumes of those dancing in the street and along the sidewalks. Two New Orleans police officers, astride their white horses, patrolled the area watching for partiers who may have had too much drink.

As Devlin stepped passed one of the horses, it spooked, bolting sideways into the horse next to it. He ducked and jumped up onto the sidewalk, worried he might be kicked by the skittish animal.

Soon he had forgotten the incident. Instead he was enjoying something the bartender had recommended and called a ‘Witch’s Brew.’

“Not very manly,” he chuckled, “But it tastes good.”

—

Looking for the right vibe, Devlin wandered down the block, visiting one establishment after another. He finally found a place that suited his mood and jus’ as quickly discovered someone who met his interest.

That someone was a woman, whose face was painted with a Mexican-style ‘Día de Muertos’ mask. The whiteness of her make up contrasted sharply with her darker skin tone and this drew Devlin’s attention.

He leaned up to the bar and shouted over the band, “Get her what ever she wants to drink,” he instructed as he pointed to the woman at the far end of the long counter.

Devlin returned to his beer, sipping it as he fought to keep from looking over at the woman he had jus’ sent a drink too. He didn’t want to seem like he was too eager for her company.

The strategy worked, as soon he was joined by the woman.

“Thank you,” she smiled.

He returned her smile, “You’re welcome.”

—

“Lily,” she stated out of the blue.

“Devlin,” he responded, adding “I love your costume. That’s quite the make-up job. It must’ve taken you a while to get it so perfect.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lily returned, changing the subject. “Wanna dance?”

Together the pair stepped out onto the near empty dance floor. They spun and twirled like they’d been partnered for years.

The band played a slow song and Devlin and Lily melted together as if one. He looked into he eyes, seeing her soul for the first time and knowing she was the one.

As if she were reading his mind, “Do you want to get out of here – go someplace more private?”

Without a word they left and started up Bourbon Street towards his motel room. They softly talked between themselves as the noise of the nightlife fell away behind them.

“As pretty as you are in that make-up,” Devlin said in a low tone, “I can’t wait to see you without it.”

Lily smiled coyly at the thought, “I’m not really all that much to look at. In fact I look pretty much like any girl out on the town tonight.”

“I doubt it,” Devlin argued.

Before they knew it, they were standing in front of his room. Devlin nervously fumbled with the key as he unlocked the door.

Once inside, they fell together on the queen sized bed. They pawed wildly at one another, pulling clothing from each others body until naked, except for Lily’s s face paint.

—

Excited as he was, Devlin asked, “Are you going to wipe that make up away?”

Lily slid down onto his manliness and giggled, “It’s not make up or paint, silly!”

Devlin froze momentarily, surprised as he watched the woman transform from a beauty into an old hag. The old woman bucked violently against his hips as she continued to change into something nearly unrecognizable from what she had been.

Instead of frightening Devlin as she intended, the man underneath her began to laugh menacingly. He then gripped her hips, pressing her down even further.

It was now her turn to be surprised as the handsome male figure grew scaly and rough. She tried to squirm loose but his massive claws held her firm as he erupted inside her.

Still laughing, “I told you that one day, Lilith — I’d have you again and that you’d come willingly,” Devlin growled as he revealed his real self.

Lucifer’s laughter drowned out her screams as the two twisted together in the throes of a deadly passion that only darkness could understand.

—

“I won’t know for sure, Chief,” the fire inspector answered, “until I get these samples analyzed. But for now lets jus’ call it suspicious.”

The two stood outside the door way of a fire-gutted motel room jus’ a few blocks from Bourbon Street. Nearly everything in the room was blackened from the smoke and flames.

Puzzled, the Battalion Chief shook his head, “I can’t explain the lack of burn marks in the bed. And no body or part of a body to be found – even though it sure looks the hell like one should be laying there.”

Even stranger yet, was the Day of the Dead mask, he held in a large plastic baggie, found by fire fighters amid the charred ruins of the room, untouched by either heat or smoke.

Oh, my god — the car the woman was driving — was really a GUN!

When a woman plowed her vehicle through a homecoming parade in Stillwater, Oklahoma, killing four and injuring 30, that was news. But when the Traverse City, Michigan Record-Eagle reported the incident, its headline gave it a whole new set of facts.

Nope, no agenda here.

A ‘Black Lives Matter’ protester took down the American flag at the site of the Police Chiefs’ Convention in Chicago and put up a flag that read “Unapologetically Black.” A Palestinian flag was also put up for display.

The demonstration’s theme was Stop the Cops. Dozens of the protesters were arrested — most for blocking the road during a sit-in.

These have to be Conservative member’s of the Tea-Party movement because Progressives never do anything that can be construed as anti-societal.

Grant stood at the foot of his driveway, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching as Kelli drove away. Once the tail lights of her SUV disappeared, he turned and headed for his front door.

“Romantic goodbyes only happen in Hollywood movies,” he muttered as he stood at the kitchen sink looking out the window at the backyard.

Certainly there had been plenty of kisses and hugs, the promise to write every week, to call every night and to text in between, but he still couldn’t help the awful ache he felt at her leaving. Grant’s voice echoed in his ears as he recalled telling her, “You can always come back if you change your mind.”

His plea fell on deaf ear’s as she tearfully started her car and backed out of the drive. He felt the sting of the hot tears as they rolled down his cheeks.

Suddenly, there was knock at the front door. Grant rushed to open it, knowing it was Kelli and that she had a change of heart.

She sheepishly smiled as she looked up at him, “I forgot my cell phone charger.”

The last couple of days I’ve seen this meme on Facebook – and it pisses me off…

Progressives are again on the march, hoping to obfuscate the truth, by confusing what the Benghazi hearings are about. While on the face of it the numbers are exacting, the message is wrong.

The four deaths in Benghazi are not about gun violence, rather about holding those who are or were in charge, responsible for their actions or lack thereof and about the truth. And those of us alive and old enough to recall the Monica Lewinsky scandal in 1998 have seen this tactic before.

Then President “B.J.” Clinton wagged his fat, meaty finger at the camera lens and lied to the American people and Congress, proclaiming his innocence: “I want you to listen to me. I’m going to say this again: I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.”

Immediately Clinton’s cohorts in the media and on Capitol Hill began spinning it from a case of ‘lying’ into a case of ‘extramarital sex.’ In the end it worked, as old B.J. got off a second time (pun intended) as Congress failed to impeach the scumbag for perjury, instead acquitting him of all charges, allowing the sexual-predator to stay in office.

Again – the Benghazi hearings aren’t about guns, gun control, or how many people killed by guns since the September 11, 2012 attack on the U.S. Consulate. Now, Hillary McCankle-Von Cackle’s cohorts in the media (including social media) and on Capitol Hill are spinning the Benghazi hearing from a case of her ‘lying’ into a case of ‘gun control.’

No, the hearings are about holding our federal leadership accountable for their willful and wanton dishonesty and the lack of responsibility that left four Americans to die when it was in their power to stop the attacks before they started. Shame on anyone willingly to believe otherwise.

Apparently, Health and Human Services is having a trouble convincing the 10.5 million people who are eligible for Obamacare to sign up. The initial HHS estimate for the number of people who would be signing up for coverage on the Obamacare exchanges next year was originally 20 million.

But that ain’t gonna happen. Instead the Obama Administration insists that the program is on “a much longer path toward equilibrium,” according to some faceless-nameless-brainless senior HHS official.

Meanwhile, penalties for Americans who lack health insurance will be rising dramatically in 2016 due to the individual mandate imposed by Obamacare. The penalty, or “tax,” as chief Justice John Roberts deemed it, will be rising to 2.5 percent of a household’s taxable income next year.

If you are an individual who doesn’t have health insurance, the penalty will be $625 for an adult and $347.50 for each child under the age of 18. The increase more than doubles the $325 fine imposed at present for lacking health coverage, and is six times the $95 that those lacking health insurance were forced to pay in 2014.

I tend to think that eventually even the most Progressive retard becomes a die-hard Conservative when you start effing with their money.

Hillary McCankle-Von Cackle’s (my new name for Hillary Rodham Clinton,) latest campaign video is nothing more than straight pander as she tries to build up her non-existent foreign policy experience. In it is a shot of her wearing a Hijab; an Islamic garment of submission.

Not only is the Hijab a source of Muslim violence against women, but its origins lie in an Islamic commandment distinguishing Muslim women, who are not to be raped, from non-Muslim women captured by Mohammed’s followers. Don’t believe me?

“O Prophet, tell your wives and your daughters and the women of the believers to bring down over themselves [part] of their outer garments. That is more suitable that they will be known and not be abused. And ever is Allah Forgiving and Merciful.” (Koran 33:59, Sahih International)

By wearing the Hijab, she’s declaring she’s the property of a man and “not to be abused.” Of course since Islamic law doesn’t recognize the rights of non-Muslim peoples it is at war with, it’s allowable for Jihadist’s to rape non-Muslim married women.

Of course, I don’t expect McCankle-Von Cackle to know this sort of stuff. Hell, she doesn’t even know that Marines stationed at U.S. embassies are there for security purposes.

She revealed her ignorance about the U.S. embassy security situation at Thursday’s House Benghazi Committee hearing, where she said that Marines stationed at Benghazi “were not there” to protect personnel.

“Certainly it was useful for our security professionals and our diplomats to be partnered in that way with the Defense Department. You know, historically the only presence at some of our facilities has been Marines. And as you know well, Marines were there not for the purpose of personnel protection; they were there to destroy classified material and equipment,” Clinton said.

Fortunately for those of us not heading up the State Department, the U.S. Marine Corps website explains rather well — in two easy to follow steps — what the mission is when it comes to U.S. embassies:

“The primary mission of the Marine Security Guard (MSG) is to provide internal security at designated U.S. diplomatic and consular facilities in order to prevent the compromise of classified material vital to the national security of the United States. The secondary mission of the MSG is to provide protection for U.S. citizens and U.S government property located within designated U.S. diplomatic and consular premises during exigent circumstances (urgent temporary circumstances which require immediate aid or action).”

In my opinion, Hillary McCankle-Von Cackle’s not even qualified to perform ‘shit-burning’ duty let alone be our next Commander-in-Chief.

It wasn’t jus’ flash flooding that shuttered U.S. 95 from Tonopah to the Pahrump exit – it was a fire at a nuclear waste dump in Beatty. Drivers on U.S. 95 can often see the company’s trucks driving in and out of the desert.

The Beatty Dump, as it is sometimes called, desolate stretch in the Amargosa Desert. It looks harmless from the highway with the appropriately named Bare Mountains in the distance.

But they’re carrying hazardous chemicals and materials largely from California to the facility, made up of storage tanks and lined holes in the desert that range in the size from a sandbox to a few football fields. Next to the nuclear storage site, the company also operates one of eight hazardous waste and treatment facilities in the state.

The state, which leases 80 acres to US Ecology, charges the company a fee for every shipment of waste to the facility. The Nevada Department of Conservation and Natural Resources says that over the last five years, fees have totaled more than $10 million.

US Ecology manages 22 low-level nuclear waste trenches in Nevada, which were filled from 1970 to 1992. An agreement is in the works that would increase the Beatty site by 400 acres and extend the facility’s lifespan by at least 20 years as the current site is nearly full.

Environmental Protection Agency documents from 2012 showed the company is allowed to store up to 87,400 gallons of chemicals in tanks and containers and treat 137,000 gallons of chemical waste every day. It also disposed of at least 808 million gallons of waste there.

Sunday’s fire reportedly did not emit above-average doses of radiation. The blaze was allowed to burn itself out because crews couldn’t use water on the potentially toxic material.

Results from aerial surveys by the Department of Energy were negative as was monitoring by four Nevada National Guard soldiers, who walked within six-feet of the burn center to detect if any heavier radioactive beta or alpha particles were carried by the smoke plume and fell to the ground. Items buried in the dump include contaminated laboratory gear, medical isotopes, used-nuclear-fuel assemblies, chemicals and electrical transformers tainted with cancer-causing PCBs.

These are the same kinds of waste that Nevada’s state and federal leaders have been trying to prevent from being shipped to Yucca Mountain for years, proving their fight is more political economics than environmental. It also proves that Progressive voters are nothing more than useful idiots.

Rhonda knew I was unraveling, and I wasn’t hiding it well on the air. The ten-year anniversary of the Beirut bombing was eating me alive, and I had mentioned it not once but twice, like some broken record stuck on repeat.

After the second time, she called. She must’ve known. “Are you alright?” she asked, her voice softer than usual, but there was an edge to it, a subtle tension.

I promised her I’d call when I got home. Hours later, I was drunk—completely fucking wasted off my ass. Christian Brothers brandy, the whole bottle sucked down before I even dialed.

The liquid fire had numbed me and dulled the sharp memories. But the second I heard that voice, something snapped. “Why now?” I slurred into the receiver, half-angry, half-desperate. “Why do you care now?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she shot back. “I’ve always cared.”

“Sure. Sure, you have,” I spat, my words dripping with bitterness. “But you weren’t there, were you? Ten years, and you weren’t fucking there. You don’t get it.”

“I’m not your punching bag,” she said, her voice hardening, a cold edge cutting through the static. “I called because I thought you needed someone. Clearly, I was wrong.”

But I couldn’t stop. It was like the floodgates had opened. “Needed someone? Needed someone?” I laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “You weren’t there in Beirut. You weren’t there when we pulled pieces of them out of the rubble. You don’t know what it’s like to smell burning flesh and know it’s your brothers. So don’t tell me you give a damn now.”

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, her voice low, shaken. “I’ve always been there for you. But you? You’ve pushed everyone away.”

I don’t remember the rest of it. I don’t recall what I said, what insults I threw, what bridges I burned. All I know is that by the time I hung up the phone, I felt like shit. The brandy had done its job, leaving me numb but hollow inside.

I knew I’d crossed a line, but I was too far gone to care. We didn’t talk for weeks after that. Rhonda didn’t call and didn’t leave messages. And I didn’t have the guts to reach out. I could feel the silence growing, heavy as a lead weight in my chest.

Three weeks passed before she finally called the station, and the second I heard her voice, I knew it would hit hard.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Her words cut through the static like a razor. I’d been waiting for this, dreading it, knowing it was coming like a slow-motion train wreck. “You don’t get to treat me like shit and then disappear for weeks. Who the hell do you think you are?”

I stumbled over my apology, trying to make sense of the mess I’d made. But it wasn’t enough, and we both knew it. The apology felt hollow, just words clinging to the air.

“You hurt me,” she said, her voice quieter now, but the anger had shifted to something worse—disappointment. That knife-in-the-gut kind of disappointment, simple and sharp. “I don’t know if I can trust you anymore. Not after that.”

And that was it. That was the moment everything crumbled. I hung up the phone, the weight of those words pressing down on me like a goddamn boulder. I knew I’d fucked up beyond repair. It wasn’t the alcohol that killed it; it was me. My bitterness, my anger—everything I’d shoved deep down came spilling out, and I’d destroyed the only friendship that had meant anything.

It wasn’t like Beirut, the kind of loss that you bury under blood and chaos. It was different. It was a slower, quieter kind of regret that putrefies. It was the memory of everything I wrecked, everything I pushed away. And there’s no undoing that kind of damage.

You sit with it, let it haunt you, carve out pieces of your soul that you’ll never get back. Every goddamn bottle you drown yourself in sinks you deeper.

Eighty-six percent of the Nevada is owned by the federal government. Now, private land owned by the Sheahan family since Abraham Lincoln was president, and overlooking the ‘secret base’ at ‘Area 51’ has officially been taken from them and given to the United States Air Force.

In the remote central Nevada desert, the Groom Mine has been an island of private property surrounded by a vast government buffer zone. The buffer zone’s patrolled by security troops to prevent people from getting a look at the so-called secret test base at Groom Lake.

Last month, the U.S. Air Force condemned the Groom Mine property when the Sheahan family who owns it rejected a $5.2 million government buyout. On September 16, federal Judge Miranda Du signed the order in the condemnation case giving possession of the Groom Mine property to the U.S. government.

The Sheahan’s have battled with the federal government for more than 60 years, first when radioactive fallout showered down on their property from atmospheric nuclear weapons tests at the nearby-Nevada Test Site in the early 1950s and later when the CIA and the Air Force developed an old airstrip along the Groom Dry Lake bed in 1955 to test the U-2 spy plane. The only part of the fight left for the family now is compensation and what will happen to the equipment, the buildings, and family members buried at there.

At least 20 family members have stakes in the joint 400 acres of property and mining claims. The family’s ancestors have mined for silver, lead, copper, zinc and gold during various times throughout the land’s known history.

The federal government made its final offer to the family after concluding the security and safety of defense testing in that area made private land ownership impossible. The feds valued the land at only $1.5 million, thus making their offer seem ‘more than generous.’

Nevada is slowly but surely becoming a colony of the federal government and our so-called state and federal leaders continue to do nothing about it.