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Last Friday, the Elko Indians squared off against the Fernley Vaqueros in a battle between two of the state’s top ballclubs. Elko emerged victorious by the slimmest of margins, a 6-5 win. For those who revel in minutiae, this marked Elko’s closest triumph since April 2024.

Elko’s bats came alive as eight different players recorded at least one hit, proving that teamwork is still the name of the game. Among them was Taylor Hunton, who went a perfect 2-for-2 at the plate, crossing home once in the process—his first hits of the season. The Indians racked up a .455 batting average, leaving the Vaqueros trailing in their dust with a mere .294.

With the long-awaited first win, Elko lifted its record to 1-3, while Fernley saw its unbeaten streak snapped, falling to 3-1.

Neither club had much time to dwell on the outcome—Elko took the field only to suffer a heartbreakingly close 1-0 loss against Lowry. Fernley, meanwhile, bounced back in their next matchup, trouncing Boulder City 7-2.

As the calendar flipped to a new day, the Vaqueros are preparing for another test—the Douglas Tigers at 3:00 p.m. this evening. Both squads keep runs at a premium, meaning the men on the mound may hold the key to victory.

Fernley rolls in fresh off a 16-0 drubbing at the hands of Southwest EC, who stood at No. 11 in their home state’s rankings. That loss, with their prior stumble, now saddles the Vaqueros with back-to-back defeats.

Douglas, by contrast, showed their mettle in Tuesday’s home opener, blanking Churchill County 2-0. That marked their sixth straight victory over the Greenwave.

The night belonged to Duncan Delange, who looked steady, allowing just one hit while striking out eight over four masterful innings—a personal best. Meanwhile, Aiden Tarlo went 1-for-2 with a stolen base and an RBI.

With their win, Douglas upped their record to 1-0, extending their home winning streak to four games dating back to last season. Fernley, now sitting at 1-3-1, has a score to settle—the Tigers handed them a 12-4 loss in their last meeting.

But this time, the Vaqueros have the home-field advantage. Will that be enough to turn the tide? The answer will unfold this evening.

Once upon a time, a man could open a grocery store, sell cabbages and bacon to his heart’s content, and let the people decide whether they wanted to buy his goods or subsist solely on jackrabbit stew and moonshine. But that was before the wise and benevolent hand of government invented the great evil of “food deserts”—a term which, by the way, ought to be reserved for a particularly lean spell in a prospector’s camp rather than the natural result of people choosing to live where they please.

The latest legislative scheme, Senate Bill 282, moves that Nevada is too barren of fruits, vegetables, and whole grains and that the Department of Health and Human Services must ride to the rescue, purse in hand, to shower certain grocery stores with money. These blessed merchants, in return, will presumably endow the land with an abundance of spinach and oat bran, ensuring that no Nevadan shall ever again have to subsist on the unspeakable horrors of canned chili and gas station burritos and sushi.

Of course, we must not forget that where there is one regulation, there must be another, lest some unfortunate soul escape the clutches of bureaucratic benevolence.

Assembly Bill 161, introduced by Rebecca Edgeworth, declares war upon “bad hospices,” for nothing strikes fear into the heart like the notion of an insufficiently regulated place of dying. The federal government has already placed Nevada in its crosshairs, claiming “hospice fraud, waste, and abuse” as their pretext. Now, state lawmakers have rolled up their sleeves to finish the job, ensuring that no hospice shall operate unless it submits to the full embrace of Medicare and all the splendid oversight that comes with it.

One might believe that with all this lawmaking, Nevada must be on the verge of collapse, clinging to life by a thread, with its citizens either starving for want of a state-sanctioned kumquat or perishing in unapproved hospices. But fear not, for the Legislature stands ready to ensure that every man, woman, and child is nourished, regulated, and ultimately laid to rest under the ever-watchful eye of the state.

And Did It Ever Exist at All?

Friends, gather ‘round and let me tell you a tale as old as dust—one that ought to be printed on parchment and sealed with the stamp of every government that ever was. In all its wisdom, Reno has found itself staring down the gaping maw of a $24 million budget deficit.

You heard that right—twenty-four million dollars, gone missing like a fox in the henhouse.

Meanwhile, over in the City of Sparks, wouldn’t you know it, they’re short $12 million like some grand and mysterious epidemic of missing arithmetic.

Now, the city’s finance wizard, a certain Ms. Vicki Van Buren, has taken to explaining the matter in terms of “stagnant consolidated tax revenues” and “declining consumer confidence,” which is polite society’s way of saying folks just ain’t spending like they used to, and the government is feeling it. Some 80 percent of this pot of money comes from sales taxes, meaning if the good people of Reno decide to hold onto their hard-earned dollars instead of frittering them away, well, the city coffers start looking mighty lonesome.

But do not fret, dear reader, for our city leaders have devised a plan.

Departments got to pinch pennies by a meager two percent this year and five percent next year.

And should that not suffice, they’ve got a trusty bag of “one-time funds” worth $16.4 million to plug the holes. Even after all that hocus-pocus, there’s still a $3.7 million gap, which they hope to solve by keeping job vacancies empty—something of a government tradition.

The people in charge have assured us that police and fire services won’t get touched.

Instead, other city services will “inevitably” feel the squeeze—meaning, if you were hoping for timely snow plows or a pothole-free existence, you may wish to temper those expectations. The show ain’t over yet; another budget meeting is coming this May.

Here is the eternal question that has plagued citizens since the first tax collector set up his little box by the road: What exactly do they do with our tax money?

Recipe for a Roadkill

Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford, a Democrat with his sights likely set on the governor’s mansion in 2026, took to the Assembly floor Wednesday with a grand notion: taming the wild stallion of supply and demand through legislation. His bill, aimed at price fixing on essential goods and services—food, medicine, and shelter—might sound noble at first blush, but if history’s any guide, we’d best start fine-tuning our recipes for squirrel stew and roadside jerky.

AB44, the latest addition to the state’s Unfair Trade Practices Act, strutted into the Assembly Committee on Commerce and Labor with all the pomp of a snake oil salesman promising eternal youth. It seeks to outlaw “fraudulent manipulation” that inflates prices beyond the “basic forces of supply and demand.”

A last-minute amendment tossed in clothing, internet access, telecommunications, and household utilities for good measure—because what’s a government overreach without a little extra reach? Of course, the response was about as warm as a Nevada summer.

Business groups, housing organizations, and telecommunications giants lined up to take their shots, warning that Ford’s proposal was little more than a rent cap in disguise. AT&T and T-Mobile, already under the thumb of federal regulators, saw no reason to invite more government meddling. The Vegas Chamber and Retail Association of Nevada raised their eyebrows at the vague language, pointing out that this could criminalize the function of a free market: setting prices based on supply, demand, and good old-fashioned competition.

Assemblywoman Melissa Hardy, a Republican from Henderson and a former sandwich shop owner, cut to the chase: “There are times when we have to increase prices.”

The simple truth of economics met with a lawyerly rebuttal from Ford, who insisted that “we want a specific statute that addresses price fixing in essential goods and services.” Because, as every good bureaucrat knows, the best way to fix a problem is to throw another law at it.

Assemblywoman Heidi Kasama of Las Vegas remained unconvinced that such a law was necessary. And Miranda Hoover, representing the Energy and Convenience Association of Nevada, warned that the bill would put everyday market activity under the microscope, making pricing decisions legally suspect.

Perhaps sensing that the room had turned against him, Ford waved away concerns, calling the opposition “a bit of hyperbole.” He assured everyone the bill wouldn’t cap prices unless raised “knowingly, fraudulently, or deceptively.”

Who gets to decide what counts as deception? Well, that would be up to the government, naturally.

But even Ford seemed to realize he’d bitten off more than he could chew. In a final attempt at compromise, he admitted he was open to amending the bill, even considering stripping out the provision that would let private citizens drag businesses into court over price hikes.

So, Ford wants to control the free market without calling it price control, regulate private industry without defining what counts as manipulation, and, when pressed, admits he might change the whole thing anyway. If this keeps up, Nevadans might want to start watching the roads a little closer—because “Food On Road, Dead” (F.O.R.D) might be the only thing left on the menu.

Senator Catherine Cortez Masto and her noble band of enlightened colleagues have set pen to paper, demanding the Trump Administration reconsider its audacious decision to levy tariffs on Canadian goods. Judging by the tone of their letter, one would think that our friendly neighbors to the north have long been the selfless benefactors of American commerce, piously refraining from imposing undue burdens on our humble exports.

Alas, reality tells a different tale—one of tariffs so steep they might make a man dizzy just from reading the numbers. For years, Canada has treated American goods as if they carried some dreadful contagion, slapping tariffs on our dairy products that would make a highway robber blush.

Milk, for instance, is met with a staggering 270 percent tariff, while cheese and butter face penalties of 245 percent and 298 percent, respectively. Even the innocent egg is taxed at an astonishing 163 percent as if it were a rare jewel rather than a staple of breakfast tables. Meanwhile, American-made cars, televisions, and consumer goods bear a 45 percent tariff, ensuring that the good people of Canada do not fall victim to the temptation of affordable American craftsmanship.

And yet, when the Trump Administration had the temerity to introduce a 25 percent tariff on Canadian imports, a fraction of what Canada has been imposing for years, Cortez Masto and her companions took up their quills in righteous indignation. With the solemnity of a preacher at a revival, they declare that such measures threaten America’s national security, undermine trade with an “essential partner,” and—most egregiously—might even cause inconvenience to industries that rely on Canadian minerals.

One must wonder where this concern was when American farmers, steelworkers, and manufacturers spent years laboring under the yoke of Canadian protectionism. Were the costs imposed upon the American people not a matter of economic security? Did the good Senators fail to notice that their beloved Canadian trade partner had been exacting a king’s ransom on American exports for decades? Or, perhaps, is it only a crisis when the tariffs flow in the other direction?

Ever eager to burnish her credentials as championing national security and supply chain resilience, Cortez Masto has previously fought against mining taxes and introduced legislation to reduce dependence on China. These are noble endeavors, to be sure.

But one cannot help but chuckle at the irony—that while she rails against tariffs that inconvenience some industries, she appears entirely indifferent to the decades-long tariff burdens hefted by her constituents. If free trade is the banner under which she rides, it would seem more convincing if she had raised her voice before Canadian tariffs on American goods had accumulated into a veritable mountain of economic obstruction.

There is an old saying that a man’s principles are best measured when they come at a cost to himself. By that measure, the good Senator’s devotion to fair trade appears as sturdy as a reed in the wind—firm only when it suits the direction of her political interests.

O wae’s me for the faithless few,
That smiled sae sweet, yet proved untrue.
In mirth they drank, in sport they sang,
But left me lorn when sorrow rang.

Fu’ oft I thought their hearts were mine,
Through Fortune’s light and Fortune’s tyne;
Yet when the fates did change my state,
They fled as winds that scorn debate.

The gloamin’ shade, my ae true mate,
Keeps pace wi’ me through toil and fate;
It daurna leave, nor turn away,
Yet bides wi’ me for lack o’ sway.

O trusted hands that held me dear,
Where are ye now in trials sere?
Ye took my aid, my heart, my name,
Yet left me naught but grief and shame.

Aye, I hae felt this wound before,
And still, it cuts me to the core;
For friendships false, when stripped and bare,
Are ghosts that whisper naught but air.

The road stretched flat and empty before me, a strip of cracked asphalt cutting through the vast and indifferent desert. I drove the twenty-two miles to Pyramid Lake because the walls had begun to close in, and the silence was too loud.

The air smelled of dust and old ghosts, and the lake shimmered like something that did not belong to this world as I pulled onto the shoulder and climbed out. The land beyond was rough, a scatter of rock and brush rising toward the hills. I hiked up, boots kicking loose stones down the slope behind me. The wind was sharp, carrying the scent of sage and pine.

That was when I heard it. A cry stretched and yearning. It was a mountain lion calling for a mate. Wrong season, I thought. But nature has its calendar. Had it been hunting, I would not have heard it at all. The thought did little to settle my nerves.

The second cry came closer, and something in the sound uncoiled a deep and ancient dread in my gut. I turned back toward my truck, stepping carefully over loose gravel. Then, against my better judgment, I veered toward an embankment. I wanted to see it, wanted to know.

I climbed, pressing my back against a wall of stone. The next cry split the air above me. I froze. The thing was close. I could hear movement along the ridge. I held my breath.

Then he came into view.

A man—naked, his skin smeared with mud, his body laced with scratches that oozed dark against his pale flesh. He turned his head and locked eyes with me. There was nothing in them, nothing that made sense, at least.

His mouth opened, and the sound came again. The cry of a cougar in heat, torn from a throat that had forgotten language. I did not stay to hear it a second time.

I leaped down from my rocky perch and ran, sliding down the hillside in a rush of loose rock and pounding heartbeats. I did not look back. I did not want to see if he followed.

Reaching my truck, I threw myself inside, the door slamming shut like a gunshot. I turned the key, and the engine roared to life.

On the drive back, I told myself I would not think of him again. But the mind, like the desert, has a way of holding onto things.

The Fernley Vaqueros did what they do best on Friday—win softball games. The latest victim in their path? The Palo Verde Valley Yellow Jackets–who found themselves on the wrong end of a 5-1 affair.

Emma Masters had the Yellow Jackets swatting air for six innings, surrendering just one earned run on five scattered hits while collecting six strikeouts. It was a career-best performance for the ace, and she left little doubt as to why Fernley puts their trust in her with the ball in her hand.

Offensively, the Vaqueros made sure this was a group effort. Six players notched at least one hit, with Sara Moffett making the biggest splash—a triple and an RBI in her 1-for-3 outing. Lauren Smith did her part, too, scoring twice while going 2-for-3.

With that, Fernley stayed perfect at 3-0, while Palo Verde Valley saw a six-game road winning streak, stretching back to last season, come to an unceremonious halt. The Yellow Jackets fell to 3-1.

But softball waits for no one. The Vaqueros were back at it the next game, finding themselves on the wrong end of a tight 6-5 contest against Elko. Meanwhile, Palo Verde Valley dusted themselves off and blanked Needles 2-0 in their next matchup.

Friday’s clash between Fernley and Elko was one for the books—a battle between two heavyweights of the diamond. This time, however, the Vaqueros’ luck ran dry, and they suffered their first loss of the season, a narrow 6-5 defeat to the Indians.

Taylor Tollestrup made certain her name was remembered despite the loss, reaching base twice, stealing a bag, and crossing the plate once while going 2-for-2. Ximena Rodriguez kept the pressure on Elko’s defense, scoring two runs and stealing a base while reaching safely in both of her plate appearances.

If Fernley was looking for a silver lining, they found one in their on-base percentage—a season-high .538. They made sure someone was always on base at all times.

With that, Fernley dropped to 3-1, while Elko clawed their way to 1-3, snapping a five-game skid. But there was no time for either team to dwell on past results.

The Vaqueros rebounded swiftly, bouncing back with a convincing 7-2 win over Boulder City. Elko, on the other hand, ran into a buzzsaw named Lowry and fell 1-0 in their next outing.

It is one thing to get evicted, but it is a riskier endeavor to stock said dwelling with enough contraband to make the sheriff’s office gasp. It’s a lesson Miss Carolyn Cerney of Fernley learned the hard way when her housing situation took a most unfortunate turn—right into the waiting arms of the Lyon County deputies.

Yesterday afternoon, deputies, in the fine and charitable spirit of public service, arrived at Blue Wing Court to assist in an eviction, a task they no doubt unpleasant. Instead, they happened upon a spectacle of the most illicit variety. In the course of their duties, they discovered what appeared to be methamphetamine within the residence, an item that, while highly prized among certain circles, does tend to draw the unwelcome attention of law enforcement.

Demonstrating a thoroughness most admirable in their profession, the deputies expanded their search to Miss Cerney’s automobile, which proved to be something of a treasure chest—though not of the sort one would wish to present in polite company. Within the vehicle, they unearthed 146 grams of methamphetamine, 12.805 ounces of marijuana, and 6 grams of psilocybin mushrooms, along with an assortment of packaging materials and a quantity of cash sufficient to suggest that Miss Cerney was not merely a collector of such substances, but rather an enthusiastic merchant.

For her enterprising, though legally ill-advised, activities, Miss Cerney was rewarded with accommodations at the Lyon County Jail, where she now faces an impressive list of charges, including trafficking and possession of controlled substances, as well as possession of drug paraphernalia. The county has affixed her bail at the princely sum of $106,140.

Thus, what began as a simple eviction blossomed into a most instructive tale—a cautionary fable for those inclined to conduct their affairs that invites the scrutiny of the law. Miss Cerney, no doubt, now contemplates the perils of keeping house with a stockpile of substances better suited to remain undiscovered.

Carson City Nabbed Him Good

If ever there was a fellow who mistook the United States for a revolving door, it was one Guillermo Verano-Cruz. The enterprising gentleman got deported not once, not twice, but thrice—only to come striding back in like a man unwilling to take a hint.

But on March 4, the fourth time was not the charm.

The U.S. Marshals Service, in league with ICE and the Nevada Violent Offender Task Force, put an abrupt end to his wayfaring ways. The tale begins back in February 2020, when Verano got charged with aggravated sexual assault in Mexico.

The charge came with a warrant. One that makes a man particularly unpopular with the law.

Tired of playing hide-and-seek, Mexican officials asked the U.S. Marshals to help fetch their fugitive. By the time 2025 rolled around, Verano had not only racked up a considerable criminal record, but he also had the distinction of an active ICE deportation warrant—a sort of frequent flier program for those who cannot stay gone.

His luck ran out on Highway 50 in Carson City, where his car was spotted. A fine collection of law officers, including the sheriff’s offices from Carson City and Douglas County, descended upon him, and just like that, Verano was in custody—no fuss, no bother.

Another individual in Verano’s car was also found to be violating U.S. immigration laws and was promptly taken into ICE’s care—because, as it turns out, bad company is a dangerous thing to keep. And so, Carson City chalks up another victory for the law while Guillermo Verano-Cruz finds himself contemplating his life choices from the wrong side of a locked door.