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Speed, Spirits, and Sudden Stops

Folks who took their time getting out of bed Monday morning might have found their breakfast a good deal more peaceful than those who happened to be traveling U.S. 50 at the break of dawn. The Nevada State Police found themselves occupied with the business that keeps doctors employed and insurance agents up at night—a head-on collision near the Retail Road intersection.

According to the troopers, a Chevrolet Suburban, minding its westbound manners, suddenly found itself in a most disagreeable entanglement with a Honda Ridgeline, which, for reasons best known to the driver and his bottle of misjudgment, abandoned its rightful lane and galloped headlong into oncoming traffic. The Chevrolet’s driver, having been dealt the worse hand in this sorry exchange, was whisked away to a hospital with what medical professionals like to call “life-threatening injuries”—a term that, when translated from its original Latin, means “very bad indeed.”

As for the pilot of the runaway Honda, fortune smiled upon him in the form of minor injuries as the Nevada State Police saw fit to balance his luck by extending him an invitation to their overnight accommodations on the suspicion that he had been imbibing inspiration from sources stronger than coffee.

Meanwhile, over in Reno, the morning’s grim business continued. A motorcycle crash on North Virginia Street near Talus Way brought further misery to an already beleaguered Monday.

The Reno Police, the Fire Department, and REMSA responded to the scene, where they found that two individuals had made their final departure from this world, with speed as their likely accomplice. Their names, out of respect for family and good manners, remain under wraps until kinfolk can get informed.

The RPD Major Accident Investigation Team is now sorting through the wreckage, piecing together what went wrong. Should any well-informed citizen wish to contribute their knowledge to the authorities, they are encouraged to contact the RPD’s non-emergency line or submit an anonymous tip to Secret Witness.

And so, the highways have reopened, travelers press on, and somewhere, in some dim-lit saloon, they’re raising a glass to toast poor judgment—while a jail cell patiently awaits his return.

Law Insists Otherwise

It is peculiar that when a man finds himself in trouble, his first instinct is to remove himself from the vicinity of said trouble as hastily as possible. Such was the case with one Meccaion Fields, a gentleman of 26 whose penchant for unfortunate enterprises led him to the attention of the Stockton Police Department.

On the evening of December 20th, the peaceable quiet of East Bianchi Road was most impolitely disturbed by the discharge of a firearm, leaving one Tyree Jones III, aged 52, in a grievous state. The good officers of the law arrived posthaste, but despite the best efforts of medical science, Mr. Jones departed this world for realms unknown.

With a low tolerance for sudden declines in the local population, authorities set out to identify the responsible party and soon landed upon Mr. Fields as their suspect. Mr. Fields, possessing the keen instinct of self-preservation common to those of his trade, promptly vacated the state of California and took up residence in Nevada, no doubt hoping the desert air would improve his fortunes.

Alas, fate and the Washoe County deputies had other ideas. Mr. Fields’ holiday ended abruptly on February 1st when the law laid hands upon him, demonstrating that a man may run but cannot outdistance his misdeeds.

With all the ceremony due an occasion, he got extradited to San Joaquin County, where he now finds himself the guest of the local jailhouse on a charge of homicide. His next engagement shall be before a judge on Tuesday, where he may find that the wheels of justice, though slow, grind with particular enthusiasm when well-motivated.

In the wee hours of Tuesday morning, while most sensible folks were snug in their beds or snoring their way through another dream of untold riches, a more abrupt fate met one unfortunate soul in the parking lot of Dotty’s Casino.

According to Lt. Robert Price of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, the trouble started around 4:15 a.m. on West Charleston Boulevard, near Jones Boulevard. A man in his 30s, who likely thought he had a full day ahead of him, found himself engaged in a spirited exchange of ideas with an occupant of a sedan that had pulled into the lot.

Sadly, the sedan’s occupant offered the most persuasive argument known to man—a bullet. By the time officers arrived, the man was beyond the need for medical assistance, having permanently retired from life’s daily struggles.

The sedan, meanwhile, made a swift exit north on Jones Boulevard, taking with it any immediate clues about the identity of its occupants. Descriptions of the vehicle and the trigger-happy philosopher within remain elusive, but rest assured, the keen minds of the LVMPD are on the case.

Those feeling particularly civic-minded—or having a juicy tidbit—are encouraged to contact the LVMPD’s homicide section at (702) 828-3521. For those wanting to keep their names out of future woe, Crime Stoppers can be reached anonymously at (702) 385-5555.

How Not to Argue in Pahrump

It is a fact that some men, when faced with a simple disagreement, will resort to the fine art of persuasion, while others—less burdened by good sense—will opt instead for a bullet. Marshall Barker, 37, of Pahrump, appears to be of the latter persuasion, as he now finds himself a guest of the Nye County Detention Center following an unfortunate Tuesday afternoon debate conducted with a semi-automatic pistol.

According to Nye County Sheriff Joe McGill, the festivities began on March 4 along Donner Street, where deputies responded with admirable swiftness to reports of a shooting. Upon arrival, they found a gaggle of residents spilling out of the house, each eager to share their version of events—most notably, that the gunman and his unfortunate target were still inside.

Deputies then made their way in and discovered Barker standing over the wounded party, a 56-year-old man in a wheelchair and newly acquainted with the disadvantages of a gunshot wound to the thigh. The victim was promptly whisked away by Mercy Air to Las Vegas, where he is recovering—though one suspects he may carry a newfound appreciation for the pitfalls of housemate disagreements.

McGill recounted that once given his rights, Barker did not trouble himself with denials but took the opportunity to confess that he had indeed shot the man—albeit under the ever-popular justification of self-defense. His wheelchair-bound adversary, Barker claimed, had launched a savage attack with a knife, leaving him no choice but to put an end to the hostilities by way of gunfire.

Unfortunately for Barker, the witnesses— numerous and unimpressed with his storytelling—offered a different account. They insisted that the victim was unarmed and that the quarrel had scarcely escalated before Barker produced his firearm and demonstrated his position on the matter with powder and lead.

Further inquiry into the supposed knife-wielding revealed that the only knife in question belonged to Barker and had, quite inconveniently for his case, never been brandished by the victim. A routine background check revealed that Barker was already a wanted man, having neglected to appear in court for a traffic violation.

The authorities, deciding that a man inclined to shoot a fellow over an argument might also be the sort to disregard a court summons, wasted no time in upgrading his legal predicament. He now stands accused of attempted murder and unlawful possession of a firearm.

Thus, Marshall Barker, who began his day as a free man of Pahrump, has ended it in less favorable accommodations—his attempt at self-defense proving about as successful as his attempt at evasion.

Late last month, a stretch of Highway 160 bore witness to a spectacle of such bewildering absurdity that it almost got mistaken for a traveling circus had the performers not been so intent on ramming, jostling, and menacing one another at considerable velocity.

According to Sheriff Joe McGill, a poor unfortunate fellow found hisself harassed and harried by not one but two minivans, each allegedly driven with a degree of enthusiasm usually reserved for stagecoach bandits. The distressed gentleman, who had his wife in the car and a considerable dose of misfortune, rang up the authorities to report that his vehicle, a Nissan Rogue, was being actively battered by the two minivans as he hurtled along the highway.

Deputy Sedrick Sweet, the first to arrive on the scene, found the Rogue looking less rogue-like and more like a mule that kicked on both sides. Damage, he noted, was evident on the front, back, and both flanks—altogether a sorry sight. To make matters worse, the minivans, piloted by one Seth Jenness and his matrimonial counterpart, Cyndal Jenness, contained two young children, no doubt receiving an impromptu education in the fine art of highway hooliganism.

The bewildered victim recounted a harrowing tale: the minivans, in a display of rare coordination, had boxed him in on the highway, refused to let him pass, then chased him down with high beams flashing and horns blaring like cavalry in a B-movie charge. Rightly fearing that his home address was the last thing he wished to share with his pursuers, he led them on a strategic detour until help arrived.

Cyndal Jenness, for her part, had a different tale to tell. She claimed that her dear husband, Seth, had merely been brake-checked—an act she seemed to believe justified a full-blown vehicular assault. Her argument became diminished by the dashcam footage, which showed, in rather indisputable detail, that she had taken to ramming the victim’s vehicle with the kind of determination one might apply to cracking a particularly stubborn walnut.

But if Cyndal’s actions seemed overenthusiastic, Seth’s were downright theatrical. The man, when questioned, readily admitted to discharging his firearm—a detail one might think best left unspoken. Deputies later retrieved three shell casings along the highway, proving that Seth had taken it upon himself to add a bit of gunplay to the evening’s misadventure.

When all was said and done, the law, having exercised its patient forbearance, decided enough was enough. Cyndal was arrested on two counts of battery with a deadly weapon—namely, her automobile—while Seth was detained for assault with a deadly weapon, discharging a firearm where he most assuredly should not have, and the rather unfortunate charge of child endangerment, as his offspring had been along for the perilous ride.

Bail was set at $20,000 for Cyndal and $21,000 for Seth to inspire some reflection on the merits of peaceful travel. Meanwhile, authorities called the Division of Child and Family Services, as even the most thickheaded observer would agree that involving one’s progeny in high-speed vehicular combat is poor parenting at best.

Thus concluded another day in Nye County, where the highways remain as wild as ever and where some folks, it seems, prefer to settle their disputes with a minivan and a sidearm rather than a polite word and a handshake.

The wind came hard out of the east, driving sand and loose gravel like buckshot from a scattergun. It stung the skin, rattled against the rocks, and hissed through the sagebrush, speaking in a dry, restless voice. A man caught out in it would pull his hat low, turn his collar up, and keep moving, knowing full well that the wind didn’t care if he lived or died.

After taking a drubbing from Damonte Ranch in their last outing, the Wooster Colts came out on Saturday with something to prove. And prove it they did, though they kept the crowd on edge until the final out, scraping past the Fernley Vaqueros with a narrow 4-3 victory.

It marks the fourth straight time the Colts have sent the Vaqueros packing, a streak that shows no signs of cooling. Seven Wooster bats got in on the action, with Cayden Corl leading the charge. The young slugger went 2-for-3, slapping a double in the process—his best showing at the plate since April 2024.

The hard-fought win evens Wooster’s record at 1-1, while Fernley’s woes continue as they stumble to 1-5-1 with four straight losses. If the Vaqueros were hoping for a shot at redemption, they didn’t have to wait long. Unfortunately, the Colts had more of the same ready, shutting them out 4-0 in the rematch later that day.

Virginia City’s Muckers took to the diamond Saturday with the grit and determination that would have made the old Comstock miners proud, walking away with a hard-fought 15-12 victory. The triumph marked a historic moment for the squad, as it was their first time toppling this particular opponent on enemy turf since the spring of 2024.

Leading the charge was the fleet-footed Nanna Lopez, who proved herself a terror on the basepaths. She crossed home plate four times and swiped three bases, reaching base in all four of her trips to the plate. If there’s a player more reliable for stealing bases, the record books haven’t found them yet—Lopez has filched at least one in each of her last seven outings, stretching back to the prior season. Not to be outdone, Ava Farrell going 2-for-3 with a triple, two runs, and a stolen base.

The Muckers’ bats were alive and well, racking up a .407 average on the day. That’s no fluke either, as they’ve now cleared a .316 mark in six straight contests. Their record stands at 2-0-1, though the celebration was short-lived—they hit the field again on the 8th and ran into a buzzsaw, dropping a 23-13 slugfest.

Over in the boys’ camp, Dayton was the beneficiary of an unusual victory, winning by forfeit over Hug on Saturday. The Dust Devils remain unblemished at 6-0, their offensive prowess carrying them through this dominant stretch with an average of 11.7 runs per game. As for Hug, misfortune continues, with a staggering 24-game losing streak leaving them winless at 0-4.

Both squads now turn their eyes to their upcoming challenges. Dayton will defend their home turf against South Tahoe on Wednesday at 3:30 p.m., riding the momentum of three consecutive home wins. Meanwhile, Hug faces an uphill battle, squaring off against Elko at 10:00 a.m. on Saturday, hoping to shake off their lingering woes.

But Not for You

It’s a curious thing how a politician’s mind works. One moment, they are as blind as a mole in daylight, and the next, they develop the keen eyesight of a hawk when a cause arises that suits their fancy. Such is the case with Senator Catherine Cortez Masto, who, with great fanfare, has thrown her support behind a bipartisan bill to prevent foreign adversaries from buying up American farmland near military installations.

Now, this all sounds like common sense, and one might even applaud—except for the nagging inconvenience of memory. Because while the senator is busy proclaiming her devotion to national security, one can’t help but recall her other votes—such as her refusal to end the government’s habit of dipping its hands into the pockets of hardworking waiters and waitresses by taxing their tips. Or her lack of concern for overtime workers who see their extra pay gobbled up before it reaches their wallets.

Then there’s the matter of fairness or the senator’s definition. She has had no qualms about allowing men to compete in women’s sports, though any farmhand from Reno to Rattlesnake Ridge could tell you that a rooster doesn’t belong in the henhouse.

Most telling of all, while she stands ready to protect farmland, she has little to say to the mothers who have lost their daughters to crimes committed by illegal aliens. Nor does she spare a word for the 13-year-old child battling cancer, whose plight she passes by as though it were no more than a tumbleweed in the wind.

But if you were to ask her about these things, you’d find she is as hard to catch as a jackrabbit in a sagebrush thicket. No, the senator prefers safe speeches and even safer crowds, where no one will trouble her with questions that she can’t answer with a well-rehearsed phrase and a smile.

And so, the farmland may be safe, but the average Nevadan? Well, they’d best look out for themselves.

A Tale of Lost Amateurs and Found Fortunes

It used to be that a young man—or an exceptionally hardy young woman—could lace up a pair of shoes, step onto a field, and compete for the sheer joy of proving that their legs were faster, arms stronger, and their lungs mightier than the next fellow’s. There was honor in it, and perhaps a ribbon or a medal, but that was about the extent of the reward.

The Amateur Athletics Union (AAU) presided over such contests like a proud but stingy uncle, ensuring that neither fortune nor profit sullied the purity of a sport. That dear reader is as extinct as a Dodo in a boxing ring.

Enter a legislative endeavor in Nevada that proposes to remove the last vestiges of amateurism from college athletics called Senate Bill 293. Spearheaded by Roberta Lange of Las Vegas, this bill would allow colleges and universities—UNR, UNLV, and their ilk—to directly compensate student-athletes for their name, image, and likeness.

In other words, the days of young men sweating for school pride alone are about as fashionable as a leather football helmet. It is all part of a grander scheme—House v. NCAA, a case that, if fully approved, will send cash cascading down upon student-athletes like a slot machine hitting the jackpot.

Schools that once pleaded poverty when asked for better dining hall meatloaf are now lining up to share revenue from media deals, ticket sales, and sponsorships. UNR and UNLV have already assured donors they’re in on the deal.

At present, the money flows through boosters, businesses, and shadowy collectives operating with all the transparency of a magician’s trick. But if SB 293 passes, the universities will take the wheel, steering their financial chariots to ensure their athletes get compensated. Whether this heralds the golden age of collegiate sports or the final nail in the coffin of its so-called purity remains to be seen.

But one thing is sure—the Amateur Athletics Union, which once ruled Nevada’s playing fields with an iron whistle, has been reduced to a relic of a bygone era, much like a gymnasium with wooden dumbbells or a basketball court without corporate sponsorship.