Blog

North Las Vegas bore witness to a spectacle of speed and misfortune Sunday afternoon, the likes of which would make even the most devil-may-care daredevil pause for reflection. At precisely half past noon, the Nevada State Police Highway Patrol responded to a calamity involving two Nissan Altimas, whose fateful meeting upon the Cheyenne Avenue overpass above Interstate 15 was sudden, violent, and most inconvenient for all involved.

A red Nissan, possessed of a reckless spirit and no evident regard for the laws of physics, came tearing southward down I-15 before executing what can only be described as an ill-advised maneuver—crossing all westbound lanes of Cheyenne Avenue at what one can assume was an ungodly speed. It met its first adversary in the form of the center median curb, but rather than being satisfied with this collision, it promptly sought out and struck a silver Nissan Altima for good measure.

The result was a balletic display of unintended motion. The red Nissan, now stripped of dignity and direction, spun counterclockwise before finding another curb to tangle with. The silver Nissan, not wishing to be outdone, spun in the same manner before embracing a concrete light pole with all the force one might expect from a high-speed automobile.

The driver of the red Nissan, a woman whose luck had run dry, was declared deceased at the scene. The driver of the silver Nissan, also a woman, was whisked away to a hospital, where she remains in critical condition, presumably wondering how an otherwise ordinary Sunday had betrayed her so cruelly.

Cheyenne Avenue, meanwhile, took the brunt of this disruption, being closed in both directions for several hours. In their wisdom, officials advised drivers to find alternate routes, which, in Las Vegas traffic, is much like advising a drowning man to find a different means of breathing.

Elsewhere in the city, Death, apparently unsatisfied with his Sunday spoils, made a Tuesday morning call in the central Las Vegas valley. At approximately 4:15 a.m., Las Vegas police received word that an exchange of words between two men in a business parking lot had taken a most unfortunate turn, as one of the gentlemen produced a firearm and saw fit to settle the matter with a bullet.

The shooter, demonstrating both decisiveness and a profound disinterest in lingering at the scene, promptly climbed into his vehicle and sped north on Jones Boulevard, leaving the victim to his fate. Metro homicide Lieutenant Robert Price assured the public that this was an “isolated incident,” meaning, one assumes, that the shooter was not in the habit of performing such acts as a matter of routine.

Authorities, ever hopeful, have asked the good people of Las Vegas to assist in identifying the culprit, should any among them possess knowledge. Those with information are encouraged to call CrimeStoppers, a fine institution dedicated to justice—or at least the collection of anonymous tips leading in that direction.

Just in Case Anyone Forgot

In an act of legislative déjà vu, the Nye County Commission once again took to the grand stage of local government to remind the world—or at least the fine citizens of Nye County—that it has no intention of rolling out the welcome mat for illegal aliens. Resolution No. 2025-08, retrieved from the dusty archives of 2017 with nothing but the date changed, was put forth at the request of Commission Chair Ron Boskovich, who feared the populace had grown forgetful of the matter.

As if to prove that no good resolution goes unchallenged, the February 19 meeting also featured a lively debate over the Forensic Assessment Services Triage Team and Mobile Outreach Safety Team (FASTT/MOST) program, an initiative aimed at preventing folks from making the jailhouse their permanent residence, either by easing reentry into society or diverting arrests when a stay behind bars isn’t strictly necessary. Ordinarily, the funding for this program slides through smoother than a greased pig at a county fair. But it sparked concerns that it might allow an illegal alien to slip through the cracks.

Ever vigilant against such potential slippages, Commissioner Ian Bayne pressed the matter, demanding to know what would happen if someone admitted to being in the country illegally during one of these diversionary encounters. Sheriff Joe McGill assured the board that nothing like that would happen under his watch. He explained that the FASTT/MOST team wouldn’t be gallivanting around, and law enforcement would know everyone involved.

Despite the discussion, the funding measure passed by a narrow 3-2 vote, though not without igniting a fresh round of social media speculation that Nye County was sliding down the slippery slope toward sanctuary status. It was the sort of talk prompting Boskovich to bring back the non-sanctuary resolution, ensuring that no one could accuse the county of backsliding into leniency.

The commission passed the reaffirmation unanimously, sealing the matter. Boskovich then took to the written word, sending out a declaration to constituents assuring them of his unwavering commitment to law, order, and the firm yet affectionate appreciation of legal immigration.

And thus, Nye County remains—officially, loudly, and repeatedly—not a sanctuary.

Virginia City’s softball squad will defend their home diamond for the first time this season when they take on the Wells Leopards at 10:00 a.m. on Saturday. If history indicates, spectators should prepare for a slugfest that will keep the scorekeeper’s pencil busy.

The Muckers enter the contest smarting from a 23-13 defeat at the hands of a non-varsity opponent last Saturday, marking their first loss of the season. Despite the setback, their bats were alive and well, as the team posted a blistering .500 batting average.

The ever-reliable Nanna Lopez went 2-for-3 with two stolen bases and a pair of runs. She’s been swiping bases with the consistency of a riverboat gambler, having recorded at least one steal in her last eight games. Tesla Turley also made her presence known, going 3-for-4 while crossing home plate twice and snatching two bags.

Meanwhile, Wells arrives in town fresh off a 15-0 drubbing of Carlin, a victory that ended a nine-game losing skid against the Railroaders on their home turf. The Leopards found their ace in Aryanna Rodriguez, who shut down Carlin’s offense with three innings of one-hit ball.

Rodriguez flexed her speed on the basepaths, swiping two bags and scoring a run in her 1-for-2 outing. Wells’ offense got a turbocharge from Adriana Aguilar, who turned in a perfect 3-for-3 day at the plate, including a home run, two stolen bases, and five RBIs. Jitzel Rivas joined in the fun, crossing home three times while going 2-for-2.

While Wells hopes to continue their winning ways, Virginia City seeks a measure of redemption. The Muckers fell to the Leopards 18-7 in their last meeting in May, but perhaps the familiar dirt of their home field will yield a different fate this time.

In other action, Wooster will attempt to shake off a lingering losing streak when they host Fernley at 10:00 a.m. Saturday. The Colts have been on the receiving end of eight straight defeats, their latest coming in an 18-1 loss to Elko.

The Vaqueros, on the other hand, are riding high after a 20-0 shutout over Sparks, their third straight win. Ximena Rodriguez played ringmaster in the rout, reaching base in all four plate appearances and scoring three times. Taylor Tollestrup added a 2-for-2 effort with a run scored.

Fernley’s bats have been sizzling, and their pitching staff has been stingy, allowing just one run per game over their last three outings. Meanwhile, Wooster is still searching for the key to unlocking victory. Whether the Colts can find their footing or Fernley continues its stampede remains to be seen—but come Saturday, the diamond will decide.

The desert was in his blood–the kind of man who didn’t just walk the land but belonged to it. Kenny Veach had a love for the Mojave that most men would never understand.

Where others saw miles of empty sand and scrub brush, he saw a living, breathing world, alive with movement and history, where the wind whispered secrets and the rocks held stories older than any man. He spent his life chasing those stories, whether they were the kind written or whispered about in the shadows of campfires and late-night radio shows.

The Mojave was as much home to Kenny as his house in Las Vegas ever was, maybe more. He was an extreme hiker who didn’t follow trails but carved his own.

If a place was too dangerous for most men to walk–Kenny saw it as an invitation. But he had another passion, too—one that took root in the part of his mind that sought mystery as fiercely as his legs sought the open range.

Drawn to tales of UFOs and hidden government experiments, Kenny looked for things beyond understanding. It was an old story, the kind men have told for as long as wandering the desert and searching for things not meant for finding and doors that should have stayed closed.

One day, deep in his wanderings, Kenny stumbled across a cave unlike any he had seen before, its entrance shaped like the letter M, low to the ground and dark.

But it wasn’t the sight of it that unsettled him—it was the way it made him feel. He described it later as a vibration in his bones, a deep, unnatural hum that grew stronger the closer he got.

He had never been a man to spook easily, but this was different. It was like standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, but Kenny had to turn back.

He should have left it at that.

But he made the mistake of sharing his story online. The internet latched onto it, hungry for a mystery. Strangers from all over demanded proof. Trolls mocked him. Others whispered warnings—some cryptic, others blunt. Do not go back there. If you do, you won’t get out.

Kenny wasn’t the kind of man to walk away from a challenge. He packed his gear and returned to the desert, camera in hand, determined to prove the cave was real. He documented his journey, confident he could retrace his steps.

But the desert doesn’t give up its secrets easily. Kenny searched, but the M cave eluded him. Disappointed, he returned home and vowed to try again.

He wouldn’t get a third chance.

On November 10, 2014, Kenny set out alone for a three-day hike. He was planning to cover 40 miles deeper into the desert than before. He never came back.

Search teams found his car parked right where it should be. But there was no sign of Kenny. Not a campsite or supplies, and no footprints out in the sands.

The only clue came on November 22, when they found his cell phone near an old mine shaft. It looked as if someone had placed it there deliberately.

They sent cameras down into the shaft, but there was nothing. Not a body. Not a piece of clothing. Not a single sign that Kenny Veach had ever been there.

The desert had swallowed him whole.

A man doesn’t just disappear without leaving something behind, but Kenny did. Theories took root like a Joshua Tree in the sand. Some thought he had wandered into the wrong place, at the wrong time—stumbled across something not meant to be seen.

The government owns most of the land in Nevada, and the Mojave is home to more than just rattlesnakes and old mining towns. Not far from where Kenny vanished is Nellis Air Force Range, home to Area 51.

If you get too close, the warnings come quickly. Black helicopters in the sky. White pickup trucks on the ridgelines, watching and waiting. Cross the line, and the welcome gets a whole lot less friendly.

Some believed Kenny had crossed it.

In the years that followed, hikers and explorers took up the search, determined to find the M cave to prove it was real. Some claimed they had.

A YouTuber, tipped off by a military friend, set out toward restricted land and found a cave entrance eerily similar to Kenny’s description. Its entrance rocked over—unnatural, deliberate.

Nearby, an old, rusted sign lay half-buried in the sand. It read: Area 51 – Restricted Area – No Trespassing – Use of Deadly Force Authorized.

Then, almost as if the government had been watching, a new sign was installed at the site. It wasn’t just any warning sign–it marked the entrance, sealing it off from anyone who might come looking.

Others found similar formations—rock-filled gaps where an opening should have been, seams in the stone too straight, too perfect. Had the government closed it off?

There were darker theories, too. Kenny had spoken of the strange feeling near the cave, the vibrations that had driven him away. Some pointed to military technology—heat rays, infrasound weapons, the kind designed to make a man sick, to scramble his senses, to turn his own body against him. Others thought he had found something more unnatural—a portal, a hidden base, a place where the desert and the unknown met.

Then there was the strangest theory of all– Kenny Veach wasn’t missing. That he had staged his disappearance, slipped away into the wilderness to start a new life, or taken.

But if that were true, why was there nothing? No sign sighting, no whispered rumor of a man who had walked away from his old life?

Kenny Veach’s story lingers. The Mojave took men before—prospectors, wanderers, men who thought they knew her and paid the price for their arrogance.

But Kenny was no fool. He knew her ways.

He had walked the paths before and had always come back. This time, he didn’t.

We may never know whether he found the M cave or not, whether he met his fate at the hands of men or something stranger. The desert doesn’t give up its dead, not easily. And it doesn’t give up its mysteries at all.

A helicopter, perhaps suffering from an excess of enthusiasm or a deficiency of common sense, attempted to perch upon an unsuspecting automobile at the North Las Vegas Airport on Sunday night, resulting in what the authorities are delicately referring to as a “crash.”

The Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), ever diligent in its post-mortems of mechanical misadventures, informs us that three souls were aboard the ambitious contraption when it made its ill-advised descent around the hour of nine. North Las Vegas police, in an earlier statement, claimed the mishap occurred during takeoff—a suggestion since overruled by the FAA, which insists the event was a landing gone wrong.

One must admire the audacity of the machine to fail in such a way as to baffle the very officials meant to explain it.

At least one crew member sustained serious injuries, though the extent of the misfortune remains unspecified. News cameras recorded a gathering of emergency vehicles outside a hangar, suggesting that the incident caused a commotion of some significance.

Further details are, at present, as elusive as a coyote on the prairie, but rest assured, if this flying contraption takes another stab at land-based travel, the authorities will no doubt be on hand to witness the spectacle.

Congresswoman Lee Rides to the Rescue

It has long been observed that Nevada is a land of great expanses and small mercies, and nowhere is this more evident than in its physician supply, where a man is more likely to meet a coyote on the road than a doctor in an office. Congresswoman Susie Lee, taking pity upon the afflicted and the soon-to-be, has introduced a bipartisan bill to correct this scarcity of sawbones before the state must resort to witch doctors and snake charmers.

Speaking at the University Medical Center, flanked by grave-faced representatives of the healthcare industry—who, one suspects, were there to ensure no one mistook this for a charity endeavor—Lee expounded upon Nevada’s ignoble ranking of 45th in the nation for its physician-to-resident ratio. With only 218 doctors per 100,000 souls, one can understand why the good people of the Silver State have developed such stout constitutions and a talent for home remedies.

While physicians are known to come in all shapes and sizes, the ones in Nevada are particularly short—on numbers, that is—owing to the state’s designation as a healthcare shortage area from Washoe to Clark and all points in between. The Congresswoman, ever hopeful that a call to reason might penetrate even the thickest of political skulls, urged Governor Joe Lombardo to persuade his Republican colleagues to oppose proposed Medicaid cuts for fear that reducing the already meager scraps would send the state’s remaining physicians fleeing for fairer pastures.

“It’s real simple,” Lee declared, though simplicity has never been the currency of Washington, “it’s up to Republicans… Senate and the White House.”

What is up to them was left to interpretation, but one might surmise it had something to do with ensuring that the good people of Nevada are not left to extract their teeth and set their bones.

Whether this bill will succeed in luring more doctors to Nevada remains to be seen. But if history is any guide, one might wager that by the time Congress acts, the citizens of this fair state will have long since learned to practice medicine on themselves, with whiskey for anesthetic and a good horse to oversee the operation.

It is a melancholy truth that the world of rogues, and now and then, one sees fit to trouble the good people of Dayton. Such was the case on the afternoon of March 10, when a young boy, minding his affairs near Sutro Elementary, was approached by a scoundrel in a most dubious conveyance.

The miscreant in question, a heavy-set, freshly shaven bald man clad in the regrettable choice of a tie-dyed jacket, rolled up in a sun-worn blue van—one of those panel types that makes honest folks uneasy. The vehicle exuded an air of lawlessness, lacking even the dignity of a license plate, and its driver did little to improve matters by inviting the boy to accompany him on a “tour” of the Sutro Tunnel.

To the eternal credit of the young lad, he declined the unsolicited proposition with all due haste, retreating at once to the safety of his home while the blue van rumbled off toward Highway 50. The Lyon County Sheriff’s Office took up the matter with vigor upon hearing tell of this sordid attempt and is now endeavoring to secure any surveillance footage that might assist in apprehending the rogue.

Let it serve as a cautionary tale: if ever a fellow looks as though he has not seen an honest day’s work in years, is dressed like a walking hallucination, and attempts to lure a child into a vehicle, one would do well to report him at once—before he gets it into his head to try again.

A Collision Most Inhospitable

The Clark County Coroner’s Office has since affixed names to the departed, identifying them as Angel Estrada-Esquibia, aged 30, and Jose Rodriguez Estrada, aged 70. The precise particulars of their untimely exit remain under deliberation, but one can hazard a guess that velocity and physics played no small role.

The calamity commenced at precisely 10:12 ante meridiem, or thereabouts, when the Infiniti, making westward haste, surrendered itself to the forces of chaos, forsook its rightful lane, and plunged headlong into an approaching Republic Services garbage truck—an encounter as one-sided as a duel between a thunderbolt and a corn stalk. As if to punctuate the disaster, the impact summoned flames, reducing both vehicles to a smoldering testament of mechanized miscalculation.

A surveillance device, ever the impartial chronicler of tragedy, captured the garbage truck’s driver making a valiant yet doomed attempt to quell the blaze with an extinguisher—an effort akin to pacifying a cyclone with a hand fan. The two occupants of the Infiniti, their fates sealed upon impact, were declared beyond the reach of earthly remedy.

Authorities, in their infinite wisdom, suspect that speed contributed to this catastrophe, though whether the specter of intoxication had a hand in events remains to be seen. The coroner’s office will conduct its examinations, but remember, when man wagers against the laws of motion, the house always wins.

Late Monday night, under the moon that makes a man reflect on his choices—assuming he has time for such reflection—a lone pedestrian made the unfortunate decision to engage in a contest of wills with a locomotive near the corner of Wyoming and Industrial.

The train, being what it is—large and impatient, and utterly indifferent to mortal concerns—proceeded untroubled, while the pedestrian, being what he was—small, fragile, and woefully unprepared for the encounter—was decisively removed from further participation in the affairs of the world.

Authorities from the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department arrived posthaste–though there was little left to be done aside from acknowledging that the laws of physics had, once again, triumphed over human optimism. The unfortunate soul was pronounced deceased on the scene, his final thoughts forever a mystery—though one suspects they were brief and not altogether cheerful.

The bus hummed like a caged animal, sniffing along the rain-slicked road, headlights licking the blacktop. A young woman clutched the rail near the front, swaying with the mechanical pulse of the beast beneath her feet.

“One return,” she said, her voice slicing through the lull of rubber on wet asphalt.

I glanced at her—twenty-something, bright-eyed but spent. The look you get when life has knocked you around early and left you standing in the rain with nowhere to go.

She wanted the next stop—the end of the world as far as this route was concerned. A fifteen-minute uphill hike through a land of indifference. A place that once held something—houses, shops, the bones of an old civilization—but was now just trees and government-mandated serenity.

But people still went up there. They always had.

The city spread below like a neon fever dream, a mirage of warmth and purpose. Lovers thought it was romantic.

The drunks saw it as a place to piss without consequence. I just saw another damn shift grinding its way to the finish line.

I had once been a man with prospects. I met Annie at the county office when I still believed in things.

She had red hair, a riot of color in an otherwise gray world. We traded smiles, love notes on Post-Its, and stolen moments in the breakroom.

Then the job, my position, dried up.

The job driving a bus came next. Annie said I looked good in the uniform. She was wrong.

The company stripped the job to its skeleton. No change. No small kindnesses. Cameras in the cab, eyes in the walls, the sterile tyranny of policy. Annie saw it happen—saw me become something smaller.

Then I came home one night and found her with another man. I pretended I didn’t. It seemed easier. And she stayed, but only in the way a ghost haunts.

Years passed. Then that girl.

She had no money. No change. Rules were rules. I shut the door on her.

They found her hours later. Tortured, beaten, unmade by hands I didn’t see and don’t want to imagine. They never caught the bastard. But people need someone to blame. The bus driver who left her in the dark was good enough.

I kept driving. Kept watching.

Then another girl, on this night. She counted her change and came up short.

She smiled that same helpless smile.

“Get on,” I said, handing her the ticket. The doors hissed shut like an exhausted sigh.