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Nevada’s own Catherine Cortez Masto has gone and hollered “fire” in a theater again, only this time, the theater’s got plenty of empty seats. The esteemed Senator took to the electrified town square of X to bemoan the alleged wholesale dismissal of General Services Administration (GSA) employees in Nevada—courtesy, she claimed, of none other than Donald Trump.

Now, the trouble with this alarming pronouncement is that it is what scholars of the English language call “a fib.” In her breathless dispatch, the Senator lamented the supposed loss of GSA workers who keep federal buildings in working order, insisting that Trump was personally dismantling security systems and throwing courthouse janitors into the street like a Dickensian villain.

In reality, the firings came at the hands of Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), an agency so committed to belt-tightening that it practically runs on a diet of saltine crackers and good intentions. Rather than troubling herself with these particulars, the Senator opted for the well-worn political strategy of flinging words into the void and hoping some of them stuck.

To hear her tell it–Nevada’s courthouses are now in peril, U.S. Marshals are wandering the desert like Moses, and Army Corps engineers are fashioning tools out of cactus spines. That’s quite the spectacle, though the truth–if ever it mattered, is that DOGE’s move had about as much to do with Trump as the moon’s orbit does with a Nevada slot machine.

But such is the way of modern politics—why let a fact stand in the way of a good scare? The Senator’s tale is as sturdy as a Nevada tumbleweed, rolling along wherever the political winds may take it.

In a grand display of misplaced confidence, Mr. Luis Sencion-Gonzalez, a gentleman of the less-than-upstanding variety, found hisself on the losing end of a most unfortunate misunderstanding.

Mr. Sencion-Gonzalez, you see, believed he was engaging in correspondence with a tender youth of fifteen summers. Alas, the cruel hand of fate—or rather–the well-prepared fingers of the Human Exploitation and Recovery Operations (H.E.R.O.) team—had arranged otherwise.

As it turns out, the young soul on the other end of his sordid ambitions was none other than a lawman in disguise, armed not with innocence but with an arrest warrant and a keen sense of justice. Through a series of conversations that, in retrospect, Mr. Sencion-Gonzalez might wish he had avoided, he managed to provide the authorities with all the evidence they required—an act of self-incrimination so thorough that one must almost admire the efficiency.

Upon his apprehension, he got acquainted with the legal consequences of his misdeeds, which included such charmingly titled offenses as Attempted Statutory Sexual Seduction by a Person Over 21, Attempted Kidnapping of a Minor, and several other charges that would make even the most hardened scoundrel wince.

One suspects that Mr. Sencion-Gonzalez will have ample time to reflect upon his errors from the comfort of his well-secured accommodations.

Ladies and gentlemen, saddle up your sense of outrage or relief—whichever suits your constitution—for the Bureau of Land Management has thrown its lasso around the wild horses of eastern Nevada and aims to make a mighty gather.

The grand equestrian escapade dubbed the “Pancake Complex Wild Horse Gather”–which sounds like a breakfast-time rodeo but is, in fact, a government affair–is set to thin the ranks of free-roaming mustangs from a sprawling 1.2-million-acre stretch of the Silver State. The stretch of untamed paradise includes such poetic locales as Jakes Wash, Monte Cristo, Pancake, and Sand Springs West—places where the horses roam, the wind whispers through the sage, and, apparently, the BLM figures there are too many hooves pounding the ground for comfort.

Bristlecone Field Manager Melanie Peterson, speaking with the authority of one who has wrangled many a bureaucratic report, assures us that this action is in the noble pursuit of maintaining “a healthy wild horse population” at the “appropriate management level” of 336-638 wild steeds. Ain’t no word yet on how the horses feel about their arithmetic-based existence.

One also suspects they didn’t get consulted either.

Siletz, Ore. — A massive search operation is underway for 2-year-old Dane Paulsen, who was reported missing Saturday afternoon from his home in Siletz, Oregon, according to the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department.

At a news conference yesterday, authorities stated that efforts are now focused along the Siletz River, as evidence suggests the toddler was near the edge before his disappearance. Despite extensive efforts covering 682 acres and 341 miles, Paulsen remains missing.

“We know this is a difficult time for Dane’s family, and we are doing everything we can to bring him home,” Lincoln County Sheriff Adam Shanks said Tuesday evening.

Dane was playing in the front yard of his family’s home around 4:25 p.m. Saturday. Authorities have deployed divers, drones, canines, and specialized search teams to scour the river and surrounding areas. Search-and-rescue teams have involved 88 personnel, 40 investigators, and 140 community volunteers.

The FBI and the Lincoln County Major Crime Team are working on the investigation. Officials had previously sought a man in a station wagon seen in the area before the toddler’s disappearance, later determining neither the driver nor the vehicle was relevant to the case. Authorities state there is evidence of an abduction or criminal activity, so the case does not meet Amber Alert criteria.

Dane is described as friendly and fearless and loves vehicles and water, though he cannot swim. He has brown hair and green eyes. He wore a gray hoodie with ears, black pants, and blue-and-white shoes at the time of his disappearance.

Officials urge anyone with information to call 541-265-0669.

A massive search operation is underway for 2-year-old Dane Paulsen, who was reported missing Saturday afternoon from his home in Siletz, Oregon, according to the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department.

At a news conference yesterday, authorities stated that efforts are now focused along the Siletz River, as evidence suggests the toddler was near the edge before his disappearance. Despite extensive efforts covering 682 acres and 341 miles, Paulsen remains missing.

“We know this is a difficult time for Dane’s family, and we are doing everything we can to bring him home,” Lincoln County Sheriff Adam Shanks said Tuesday evening.

Dane was playing in the front yard of his family’s home around 4:25 p.m. Saturday. Authorities have deployed divers, drones, canines, and specialized search teams to scour the river and surrounding areas. Search-and-rescue teams have involved 88 personnel, 40 investigators, and 140 community volunteers.

The FBI and the Lincoln County Major Crime Team are working on the investigation. Officials had previously sought a man in a station wagon seen in the area before the toddler’s disappearance, later determining neither the driver nor the vehicle was relevant to the case. Authorities state there is evidence of an abduction or criminal activity, so the case does not meet Amber Alert criteria.

Dane is described as friendly and fearless and loves vehicles and water, though he cannot swim. He has brown hair and green eyes. He wore a gray hoodie with ears, black pants, and blue-and-white shoes at the time of his disappearance.

Officials urge anyone with information to call 541-265-0669.

The road stretched long and empty, a thin trail of dust curling in the wind. Sagebrush whispered across the desert flats, and the far-off humps of the mountains glowed red in the dying sun.

A lone figure trudged along, his boots far too delicate for the grit of Nevada, his coat tailored for a city’s chill rather than the raw honesty of the open land. His name, had he any claim to it, was Michael Rutherford.

He had been a man of books and parlors once, a gentleman of San Francisco, before the walls of that world had closed in on him, stifling and unyielding. There had been something missing, something stolen, though by whom or what, he could not say.

He had come eastward in search of it. Manhood and identity. Aspects that a man often fails to consider until they are lost.

The wind carried the scent of horse and sweat before the sound followed. Hooves drumming the hard-packed earth.

A rider came into view, the kind of man Michael had seen only in paintings and the fevered stories of dime novels. He rode easy–like the saddle was merely an extension of himself, his hat slanted against the sun.

Jack Tanner was young, lean, and sharp-eyed. He looked like a man who had never asked permission to live how he pleased. There was no pretension about him—he was the West, the kind of man that had built and shaped it and would still be here long after softer men had turned tail for comfort.

Jack reined in, regarding Michael with an amused squint.

“You lost?” he asked.

Michael hesitated. “No. But I imagine I look it.”

Jack’s grin was a quick thing, there and gone. “Can’t say you don’t. Road don’t see many men dressed like you.”

Michael smiled wryly. “And what kind does it see?”

Jack shrugged. “A man with a place to go and a reason to be there.”

The words stung, not for their bluntness but for their truth. Michael had neither.

Michael studied Jack in the fading light, the way he sat his horse, the quiet confidence in his posture. Here was a man who belonged to his world in a way Michael had never belonged to any.

Jack nudged his horse forward. “Town’s another five miles. If you’re set on walkin’, it’ll be a long haul. If you ain’t too proud, you can ride along.”

Pride. The word stuck. Michael nodded. “I’d be grateful.”

Jack swung a leg over and dropped lightly to the ground, offering the reins. “Good. Let’s see if you can ride.”

Michael took them, stiff fingers curling over leather. The horse was warm beneath his touch, alive from any beast he had known. Jack watched as he climbed awkwardly into the saddle, withholding comment but not humor.

“You grip that saddle like it’s fixin’ to throw you,” Jack remarked.

Michael let out a breath. “It might.”

Jack laughed. “Then it’s a fine place to start.”

The horse shifted beneath him, but Michael held on, the dust rising around them as they set off toward the horizon.

In an attempt to appear both for and against something at the same time—a remarkable feat of political acrobatics—Senator Catherine Cortez Masto has voted down the Protection of Women and Girls in Sports Act because it is too broad and might lead to young girls being subjected to the horror of sports physicals.

Now, one might assume a U.S. Senator would be aware that young boys across this great land already submit to such examinations before they can don a football helmet, step onto a wrestling mat, or swing a baseball bat. But in her wisdom, she has decided that such routine measures, which have existed since time immemorial, are somehow a monstrous overreach when applied to the fairer sex.

Meanwhile, she assures us she supports “fair play and safety,” though she defines these terms in a manner foreign to most. For all her talk of keeping politics out of local decisions, she seems to have overlooked the most glaringly obvious issue–if fairness and safety are indeed the priorities, then allowing biological males to compete against girls is about as sensible as inviting a cat to judge a mouse-catching contest.

The very purpose of the bill was to ensure that women’s sports remain for, well, women—a distinction that used to be so self-evident it needed no legislation. In short, the Senator has executed the rare trick of arguing against a measure by citing the problem it was to prevent.

A marvel indeed, though one suspects the young ladies forced to compete against stronger, faster opponents will find little amusement in it.

The Art of Passing the Buck

There was a time in the great state of Nevada when law officers, upon hearing of a crime, would saddle up, spit in the dust, and ride toward trouble without a second thought. But alas, we live in modern times, and modern times complicate things that ought to be simple.

After being accused of abandonment by Mineral County Sheriff Bill Ferguson, the Nevada State Police responded like all well-practiced officials—with a reply so polished that it gleams with the fine art of saying much while committing to nothing. According to their missive, they are in constant communication with their law enforcement brethren and stand ever-ready to assist—provided that said brethren know the proper bureaucratic dance steps.

They acknowledge that staffing shortages and resource constraints have made things difficult but assure the public that safety remains their highest priority. And while one might assume that responding to a shooting on a state highway would fall within their purview, it seems that such assumptions are wildly outdated.

The trouble began on Highway 6, near the California border, where a truck driver, minding his own business, found himself on the wrong end of a bullet. The wound was not fatal—one of the few mercies in this tale—but when Sheriff Ferguson called upon the Nevada Highway Patrol for assistance but met an astonishing response declaring it a county matter.

Let that soak in a moment, like a rainstorm in the desert. A shooting. On a state highway. And the very agency charged with patrolling those highways declined to get involved.

One can almost hear the echoes of Ferguson’s disbelief when he asks, “Are our state highways no longer the responsibility of the state?”

Not content with being stonewalled just once, Ferguson reached out to the Nevada Division of Investigation’s Major Crimes unit, specifically tasked with helping rural agencies with complex cases. They, too, had an answer—though not a helpful one.

They being short-staffed, said, and suggested that Ferguson’s deputies handle the evidence collection themselves. One imagines the sheriff rubbing his temples in exasperation at this point.

Now, having exhausted the usual channels, Ferguson is demanding answers—though history suggests he may be waiting a long while to get them. Why does the Governor’s Office remain silent? Why does the NHP refuse to respond to violent crimes on state highways? Why is the very agency designed to assist rural counties unable to help? And, perhaps most pressing, if the State of Nevada refuses to provide services, will it at least open its purse to compensate those left to do the job alone?

The Nevada State Police are clear they are “committed to prioritizing public safety.” One can only hope that, in time, such commitment comes with a little more action and a little less well-crafted evasion.

Senator Jacky Rosen has taken up her pen—a mighty weapon in these perilous times—to beseech the Trump administration to reconsider its latest foray into the noble art of taxation, which, in this case, manifests as tariffs upon our neighbors, Mexico and Canada.

The cause of her distress is not some abstract notion of international diplomacy but rather the very tangible matter of shelter—the four walls and a roof that citizens require to keep out the wind, the rain, and the tax collector. Rosen warns should the tariffs proceed unchecked, the cost of housing—already high enough to make a miser weep—will ascend to yet more dizzying heights.

“In Nevada and throughout the nation,” the senator wrote in a letter to President Trump, “exorbitant housing prices are putting a strain on already-tight household budgets.”

She described a dire state of affairs, wherein high interest rates, dwindling inventory, and the general mischief of economic forces have conspired to make home ownership a luxury rather than a right.

But alas, the woes of the common folk do not end there! Labor shortages, supply chain disruptions, and materials priced as though made of silver instead of wood have turned affordable housing into a grand and distant dream.

And now, with the administration’s intention to slap tariffs upon the very materials required to build said housing, that dream is in danger of being carted off to the junk heap of impractical ideas.

“Compounding our nation’s housing affordability crisis through the imposition of reckless tariffs would be devastating and must be reconsidered,” the senator continued.

She pleaded for the administration to show mercy upon such critical materials as lumber, arguing that national security would remain intact even if a few planks of Canadian wood were allowed to cross the border unmolested. It remains unknown whether the administration will heed her words or whether they will file her letter in that boundless repository of political correspondence—marked “To Be Ignored.”

In the meantime, the citizens of Nevada and beyond shall watch with bated breath, wondering whether their homes will be timber-made or wishful thinking.

There is a peculiar and rather persistent belief among a class of men that banks exist as charitable institutions designed to distribute money to those with the gall to take it. One such gentleman, Mr. Sterlyn Lee Smith Jr., has lately found this assumption sorely tested and ultimately refuted by the United States District Court.

Mr. Smith, aged 49, evidently unwilling to earn an honest living in those years, devised a scheme that was neither particularly novel nor excessively clever but did have the singular quality of lasting nearly six years before meeting its inevitable conclusion. The plan was simple enough: he and his associates would purchase money orders at post offices in California and Nevada, tamper with them until they bore an amount far exceeding their original modest sum, and then deposit these dubious instruments into bank accounts opened in the names of unwitting or willing accomplices. Having thus introduced fiction into the world of finance, they would promptly withdraw the ill-gotten gains before the banks could discern that their deposits were more ink than integrity.

The grand deception, conducted between July 2013 and February 2019, saw Mr. Smith and his compatriots attempt to deposit no fewer than 1,200 forged money orders, amounting to over $1.2 million. Unfortunately for Mr. Smith, the resilience of his scheme was not matched by its wisdom, and he found himself convicted on two counts of bank fraud—one for each financial institution he so boldly insulted.

For his trouble, he has been awarded a five-year sojourn in federal accommodations, where he will have ample time to reflect upon the finer points of banking that he so grievously misunderstood. Additionally, he is now indebted with $432,482.63 in restitution, which he will no doubt find hard to come by now that his days of conjuring money from thin air have come to an unceremonious end.

Upon his release, he will have three years of supervised freedom, a condition, considering his past ambitions, may feel as restrictive as his current confinement.