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The Bureau of Land Management, in an act of generosity rarely seen outside of a poker table in a boomtown saloon, is offering a princely sum of $1,500 to any citizen whose sense of justice outweighs their sense of neighborly discretion. This reward is for information leading to the apprehension of the artistic scoundrels who recently defaced petroglyph panels at the Volcanic Tableland, just north of Bishop, Calif.

It takes a particular breed of ignoramus to lay waste to relics carved by hands long turned to dust, but it appears that such a breed yet walks among us. These miscreants set about vandalizing three separate locations, proving once again that the good Lord’s gift of opposable thumbs is no guarantee of wisdom.

The site, mind you, is not some back-alley fence post but a place protected by the Archaeological Resources Protection Act and enshrined in the National Register of Historic Places—a distinction that, in finer company, might discourage one from taking a chisel to it.

Speaking with the air of a woman unimpressed by such shenanigans, declared Bishop Field Manager Sherri Lisius, “Those responsible have destroyed an irreplaceable part of our national cultural heritage.”

The BLM states that vandalism of these sites is a felony—a word that ought to make the average rapscallion’s ears burn.

First-time offenders may grow $20,000 lighter, enjoying up to two years of government-sponsored accommodations. Repeat offenders, however, will find their fortunes growing considerably dimmer, with fines climbing to $100,000 and a potential five-year sabbatical from society.

Those with a mind to swap secrets for silver are encouraged to dial WeTip at 1-800-78-CRIME or file a report online. As for the vandals themselves, they would do well to recall that history has a long memory, and justice, though sometimes slow, is mighty fond of settling accounts.

Now, dear reader, let me introduce you to a tale so full of sorrow and forewarning that even the most lead-headed among us might feel compelled to listen. Michelle Afshar carries a picture not for vanity, not for nostalgia, but as a testament to a loss that should not have been.

The face in that picture belongs to her best friend, Alessandra Barlas, who, in the year of our Lord 2015, met a most untimely and tragic end at the hands of one Hugo Castro—a fellow who, if justice had worked as it ought, might never have had the opportunity. Like many before her, Alessandra saw the signs but trusted against them.

Friends and family, those sages of the everyday world, noticed the shadows creeping around Castro and gave their cautions. “We had some feelings that something wasn’t right,” says Michelle.

And a finer epitaph of hindsight is not known.

If you are of a mind to believe in second chances, let’s darken your optimism. Before Castro laid hands on Alessandra, he had already exercised his villainy in Washoe County.

Back in 2009, he had put a knife to the flesh in an act of betrayal against another woman, Katrina Esparza. She had the misfortune of believing a tale about his father’s failing heart, only to embrace a dagger instead of a grieving man.

Katrina lived but lived to see history repeat itself. Years later, she stumbled upon Alessandra’s fate on that most modern of town criers, social media, and resolved to do something about it.

She and Michelle stand before the Assembly Judiciary Committee, urging them to pass AB 162—Alessandra’s Law—a measure that would lay bare the records of those with a habit of beating and butchering their partners. The bill proposes a public record of those convicted twice of domestic violence, a small measure of forewarning for those who might otherwise embrace a dagger of their own.

Yet, as with all things sensible, opposition arose. Some protested that such a registry might hinder a convicted man’s ability to find work or housing—as though a roof and a wage were finer entitlements than a woman’s life.

It is, of course, a law late for Alessandra. No piece of legislation, no database, or committee meeting can call back a lost soul. But Katrina and Michelle believe it might save another.

And perhaps, dear reader, the next woman who sees the signs and feels that something isn’t quite right might have a place to turn—before her face is only a picture and her name spoken in mourning.

A Horse of a Different Bureau

Though the operation may unfold just beyond the borders of Nevada, the Bureau of Land Management will conduct a grand gather of free-range horses near Mono Lake, Calif. Now, one might argue that drawing a line in the dust to separate these fine equines from the Silver State is a fool’s errand, as horses and Nevada are about as inseparable as a man and his shadow at high noon.

Having taken a liking to the rolling terrain outside Montgomery Pass near Benton, the excess Mustangs will soon receive government-sponsored relocation efforts. The operation will extend into the Mono Basin, along U.S. Highway 6 and State Route 120, where the horses have been accused of various transgressions, including disturbing delicate wildlife habitats, loitering in riparian areas, and trampling upon geological formations with a reckless disregard for their aesthetic and scientific value. Motorists, too, have expressed concerns about these free-roaming creatures, as have private landowners who are unamused by their uninvited equestrian guests.

BLM Bishop Field Manager Sherri Lisius assures the public that this grand equine exodus, slated to begin in the summer of 2025, is all in the name of good stewardship. The area, ideally home to a modest 138 to 230 horses, currently boasts a population of 699, according to a 2024 aerial survey—an impressive figure, considering the horses themselves had no say in the matter.

Under the government’s plan, between 300 and 500 of these wayward beasts will be rounded up and whisked away to Forest Service off-range corrals, where they will be examined by veterinarians and prepared for adoption and sale. Thus, the wild spirit of the West will once again be subjected to the tempering hand of civilization, proving that while the frontier may be long gone, the bureaucracy that follows in its wake is alive and well.

Some enterprising mischief-maker, perhaps feeling mighty put out about the state of the world or just harboring a peculiar distaste for electric vehicles, saw fit to set several cars ablaze at a Tesla service center in the dark and lonesome hours of Tuesday morning.

The Metro police say the conflagration sparked around 2:45 a.m., drawing the swift attention of law enforcement, firefighters, and—because no good trouble happens these days without a federal presence—the FBI. The scene of this latest episode of automotive arson lies near Jones Boulevard and Badura Avenue, an area now sealed off tighter than a cheapskate’s purse while authorities puzzle over the crime.

According to the legacy media, authorities are trying to figure out if today’s firestorm has any connection to the recent rash of Tesla-targeted vandalism across the nation remains a mystery according to legacy media. Across the country, some folks with strong feelings about Mr. Elon Musk and his political dalliances have been expressing their sentiments through the fine art of destruction.

The timing sure raises an eyebrow or two.

President Donald Trump seized the moment last week during a White House Tesla event to issue a stern warning.

“You do it to Tesla and you do it to any company, we’re going to catch you and you’re going to go through hell,” Trump said.

One can only presume that hell involves more than a scorching in a parking lot.

Meanwhile, Metro and the FBI are hard at work sorting out what kind of firebug they’re dealing with. A briefing, where authorities will stand before the press, clear their throats, and remind everyone that crime doesn’t pay–unless it’s money coming from George Soro’s pocket–is expected at 10:30 a.m.

Here’s a hard pill that sticks in the throat going down.
I don’t belong anywhere.
Not in the town that raised me.
Not in the jobs that used me up.
Not in the place where I dump my keys at night.
There is no tribe, no pack, nor a drunken chorus singing me home.
Everyone else seems to fit like they got stamped out of the right mold.
But when you look—past the laughs, past the easy smiles—you see the wires, the cracks, the cheap glue holding them together.
They’re all faking it, and the worst part?
They don’t even know it.
That’s why I don’t belong.
Because I see the game for what it is.
Lonely?
Sure.
But sadness is for people still hoping for a cure.

If there’s one thing Nevada’s legislators have gotten good at, it’s stretching the Constitution like an old pair of suspenders until it fits whatever shape suits ‘em. The latest victim of their tailorin’ efforts is the Second Amendment, which they’ve been wringing out like a prospector squeezing the last drop from his canteen.

The so-called “red flag” law—where the government can ride up and snatch a citizen’s firearms based on accusations rather than actual crime—has been gaining steam in Nevada faster than a locomotive headed downhill. There were just five of these extreme risk protection orders in 2021. Last year? Twenty-seven. This year? Sixty-one. And if the Attorney General’s office has its way, that will climb higher than a gambler’s debts.

Nevada’s lawmakers, bless their regulation-lovin’ hearts, even shelled out $400,000 in taxpayer dollars to train officers on how to use this law more often, with plans to educate the public on why they, too, should be delighted to strip a neighbor’s rights without so much as a trial. But don’t worry—it’s all for your safety.

Governor Joe Lombardo once campaigned on repealing this law, promising to toss it out like a bad hand at the poker table. But it was hot air as he knew the Democrats were holding the reins in the Legislature, so that promise is sittin’ in the dust. His office now claims that no repeal legislation has even crossed his desk, proving once again that campaign pledges are often worth about as much as a prospector’s empty pan.

And what do the firearm advocacy folks have to say? Well, they’re none too pleased. The NRA argues that Nevada’s law throws due process into the outhouse, allowing the government to snatch guns based on “mere accusations” rather than proof of wrongdoing. Meanwhile, gun control groups think the law doesn’t go far enough—they want teachers, doctors, and mental health professionals added to the list of folks who can initiate these confiscations.

Some studies claim red flag laws save lives, while others say the evidence is shakier than a jackrabbit in a windstorm. But the real question is whether Nevadans are ready to let their rights get governed by guesswork and gut feelings.

One thing’s for sure: the Second Amendment doesn’t mean much if lawmakers keep treatin’ it like an optional guideline rather than the law of the land.

How the Lawmakers Struck It Rich

Now, I reckon no soul alive would be startled to hear that Nevada politicians have a powerful affinity for money, but in the 2024 election cycle, they went at it like prospectors with a brand-new claim. In a record-breaking spree of financial affection, donors heaped a staggering $17.3 million upon the state’s legislators, with the gaming industry sitting comfortably at the top of the contributor heap.

One might think the politicians had struck silver on the Comstock again, but it was just good, old-fashioned influence peddling.

The Democrats, who control the Legislature as a man might control a stubborn mule—with some difficulty and a great deal of persistence—hauled in more than two-thirds of the plunder. Yet, curiously, when the dust settled, the median Republican legislator waddled away with a slightly fatter sack of coin than his Democratic counterpart.

Perhaps it was that peculiar law of nature where a fellow with less always seems to end up with more–if only to keep things entertaining.

This avalanche of lucre buried the prior record of $13.1 million set in the 2022 midterms, which was a humbler time, back before everyone got it into their heads that a two-thirds supermajority would be a fine thing to have for shoving laws past the governor without so much as a “by your leave.” As it turned out, that effort didn’t quite pan out, and so we remain blessed with at least a little bit of political disagreement, which is more than can be said for some other places.

The gaming industry, always a stalwart friend to those needing campaign assistance, accounted for nearly 14 percent of the total haul, with real estate barons and labor unions nipping at its heels like a couple of hungry coyotes. And while Nevada law politely insists that no one donor may bestow more than $10,000 upon a single candidate, corporations, being clever creatures, have devised a charming workaround known as “bundling.”

It is a process whereby money—like water in a sieve—somehow finds its way through several separate but eerily similar contributors, all belonging to the same fine folks.

Indeed, half of the entire $17.3 million came from a mere 76 donors. It, of course, is the sort of democracy where every man has a voice, provided that man also has a well-stocked vault and a willingness to spend.

Among the most successful fundraisers were the leaders of the political herd: Senate Majority Leader Nicole Cannizzaro, who coaxed $1.3 million into her coffers, and Assembly Speaker Steve Yeager, who wrangled a tidy $970,000. Over on the Republican side, Assemblyman P.K. O’Neill brought in over $700,000, proving that even those in safe seats see no harm in fortifying their castles.

As for the industries spreading the wealth, unions were particularly generous to Democrats, while gaming and real estate showered favor on both parties, with a distinct inclination toward those with enough influence to matter. The marijuana industry, once an outcast from polite society, doubled its generosity to Democrats and nearly decupled its gifts to Republicans, proving that political friendships, like good whiskey, tend to mellow with time.

And so, the grand game of influence in Nevada rolls on, much like the roulette wheel—random to the uninformed but with outcomes as predictable as sunrise to those who understand the odds. In the meantime, keep your wallets close, your wits closer, and your expectations—well, best keep them modest.

There is, no doubt, a kind of genius at work in the machinery of government—whether it be of a divine or infernal nature is open to debate. In the grand arithmetic of justice, one might reasonably expect that the names appearing on an official ledger of persons under investigation would, at the very least, correspond with the number of heartbeats among the accused.

But such expectations would be misplaced in this age of enlightenment, where the wheels of inquiry neither halt for common sense nor distinguish between the quick and the dead. The University of Nevada, Las Vegas, found itself in the curious position of explaining that one of the three professors named in a federal investigation into Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs had been quite dead for more than a year.

Professor Patricia Navarro Velez, who departed this world—felled by a gunman on the very campus she once called home—was nonetheless summoned, posthumously, into the great tribunal of bureaucracy. A spokesperson for UNLV, who must have delivered the statement with the wearied expression of one explaining arithmetic to a brick wall, confirmed that Navarro Velez had been one of three professors named in the Department of Education’s probe.

The other two, while maintaining a more conventional claim to life, were also no longer affiliated with the university. Whether the investigators knew that their quarry had long since gone beyond the reach of subpoenas and cross-examinations was left unsaid.

The investigation, part of President Donald Trump’s broader efforts to excise DEI initiatives from educational institutions and government agencies, targeted the professors for their involvement in the PhD Project—a DEI program dedicated to increasing diversity in business academia. Founded on the belief that the presence of minority faculty members in business schools would create a more inclusive environment, the PhD Project has spent decades recruiting and mentoring individuals from underrepresented backgrounds, guiding them toward doctoral degrees and careers in academia.

Perhaps fearing further scrutiny from an authority untroubled by such trivialities as the passage of time, UNLV affirmed its commitment to equality while declining to comment further on the investigation. Upon being confronted with the spectacle of one of its late members getting held to account, The PhD Project issued a statement reaffirming its mission of mentorship, inclusion, and broadening talent pipelines—though it is unlikely they anticipated having to defend the reputations of those who had long since left earthly matters behind.

Whether the federal investigation will trouble itself with the inconvenience of mortality remains to be seen. One might suggest a séance, should the investigators be so determined to have Navarro Velez answer for her supposed transgressions.

But perhaps, in time, common sense will make a quiet return, slipping past the sentinels of red tape and whispered bureaucracy, reminding all involved that the dead rarely answer letters of inquiry—no matter how determined the government is to correspond.

Nothing quite stirs the blood like a bit of excitement in a gambling house, and the good people at Circus Circus in Las Vegas had more than they bargained for Saturday evening when a fight broke out and was promptly inflated into a full-scale gunfight by way of a panicked phone call. The Las Vegas Metro Police, ever eager to keep things lively, arrived in force only to discover that no bullets had flown, though plenty of people had bolted for the exits, making a great commotion. Not a single injury, aside from wounded dignity and trampled egos, was reported.

Meanwhile, in the Northern reaches, folks at the Nugget Cas

ino in Sparks had a more sincere bit of trouble. At the most ungodly hour of 5 a.m. Sunday morning—when men are either winning big, losing everything, or finding some other way to ruin their lives—a pair of armed gentlemen found themselves in a violent disagreement.

Multiple gunshots rang out in the hotel lobby, sending one fellow, aged 35, into the hands of the hospital staff, who did their best to patch him up, but to no avail. His mortal account was closed not long after.

The other participant, a sprightly 19-year-old, fared better, arriving at the hospital under his power with less grievous wounds. Investigators surmise that the two were engaged in what the law might call an “altercation,” which, when translated from legalese, means that they both thought themselves the better shot and set about proving it.

The outcome suggests that, at best, only one was correct.

Authorities assure the public that this was an “isolated incident,” which, in these parts, generally means that no respectable citizens were involved and that everyone else may continue their revelries undisturbed. Nevertheless, anyone who witnessed the shootout or knows something the police ought to know is encouraged to contact the Sparks Police Detective division or leave an anonymous tip with Secret Witness—assuming they are not otherwise engaged in dubious dealings.

Pahrump’s Misused 9-1-1

The good people of Nye County have taken a newfound fancy, dialing 9-1-1 for purposes as varied as social calls and imaginary home invasions, much to the chagrin of Sheriff Joe McGill and his band of long-suffering deputies. In a modern marvel of miscommunication, the emergency dispatch lines have been ringing off the hook with requests that range from bewildering to the outright absurd.

“This month alone, we’ve had no fewer than half a dozen emergency calls where the only emergency was our deputies’ blood pressure rising upon arrival,” Sheriff McGill lamented.

The sheriff, a man of patience but not infinite supply, explained that while his department is happy to assist in genuine distress, routine misuse of 9-1-1 has become a rather irksome drain on resources. In the grand spirit of generosity, callers get four or five free warnings before they receive the dubious privilege of a stay in the county jail.

“We don’t want to discourage folks from calling when they actually need help,” McGill said. “But when we receive six calls from the same house about imaginary intruders, we have to draw the line somewhere. Unfortunately, some of these cases involve mental health issues or a bit too much of the local moonshine.”

One especially enterprising fellow is in the habit of calling dispatch repeatedly just to bid them a cheerful “hello,” a practice which, while perhaps demonstrating good manners, is still grounds for an arrest. Another citizen, whose commitment to wasting taxpayer dollars was admirable, dialed 9-1-1 while standing in the presence of two uniformed deputies already addressing his loud music complaint.

For those who feel compelled to summon law enforcement over matters that fail to meet the threshold of an actual emergency, the sheriff’s office kindly suggests using their non-emergency line at 775-751-7000. Should one persist in ringing 9-1-1 with imaginary crises or late-night pleasantries, they may face a gross misdemeanor charge, which, in simple terms, means up to a year in jail and $2,000 lighter in the wallet.

The lesson here, dear citizens, is that while the fine people of Nye County law enforcement will always be ready to answer a call for help, they prefer that such calls contain at least some semblance of reality.