The Old Blog in the Desert

On a brisk Thursday, March 19, state lawmakers sat down to pick through this fiscal briar patch, and Democratic Assemblyman Howard Watts caught a thorn that didn’t sit right with him.

Now, the prison stores in Nevada ain’t no trifling matter. They’re projecting nigh on $15 million in sales this year, a sum that keeps the “Offenders’ Store Fund” plump as a Thanksgiving turkey.

The trick is, they slap a markup of 50 percent to 60 percent on the goods—everything from soap to socks—and the inmates, bless their shackled souls, ain’t got much else to spend their pennies on. Then there’s the vending machines, clinking and clanking their way to $200,000 last year.

With 10,800 souls penned in Nevada’s iron cages, that’s a tidy little commerce.

Now, a bit of cash trickles over to the inmate welfare account, a pot that dishes out necessaries to the poorest of the lot—free soap, socks, and, queerest of all, free burials when they shuffle off this mortal coil. The budget talk rolled on, and Watts perked up at the mention of NDOC asking for a weight bench, two stationary bicycles, and a shiny new scoreboard for the Lovelock prison.

“Recreational equipment, a scoreboard for the basketball court,” Watts mused aloud, scratching his chin. “Those are the sort of things that perk up an inmate’s welfare, I reckon.”

But then his brow furrowed like a plow hitting rock. “Frankly, I’m thunderstruck that the markup on commissary goods is paying for burials and cremations when these poor devils pass in our care.”

A fancy chart flashed up during the hearing, showing the markups plain as day, courtesy of the Nevada State Legislature. State budgets, you see, are tangled as a briar patch in a windstorm, shifting with every new governor and every pinched penny.

This year, they’re cutting loose four positions once paid from the store fund, and the phone commissions—once a golden egg—have dried up under federal orders. It’s a scramble to break even, and the result is a ledger queerer than a three-dollar bill.

The notion that the state might be fattening its coffers on the backs of these caged birds sticks in the craw of some lawmakers. Republican Minority Leader Senator Robin Titus, a sawbones by trade, demanded to know more about treating hepatitis C among the prison flock and whether the womenfolk behind bars were getting proper doctoring.

Meanwhile, Democratic Senators Rochelle Nguyen and Angie Taylor, alongside Assemblyman Natha Anderson, poked into the wages inmates earn from prison toil. The state skims 24.5 percent for room and board, five percent for victims’ funds, and caps the take at 50 percent, according to Bill Quenga, the fellow running NDOC’s industrial works.

And yes, even those wages help pay for a man’s pine box.

“There’s every reason to sit idle,” Nguyen remarked, sharp as a tack. “No wages, and your bed and bread come free.”

Welders can pull down as much as $14, while others scrape by on minimum wage—all voluntary in the state’s prison industry. Yet the state still dips its ladle into their thin soup.

It’s a curious business, this prison purse, and one that leaves a man wondering if the scales of justice ain’t just a mite out of plumb.

Now, gather ‘round for a yarn about the ruckus down in Mesquite, where the former chief of police, one MaQuade Chelsey, found himself in a pickle hotter than a steamboat’s boiler. The City of Mesquite, in all its municipal wisdom, let loose a report that’d make a catfish blush, and it’s a tale worth tellin’.

Accordin’ to the city manager—a fella who’d sooner wrestle a gator than mince words—Chief Chelsey was given his walkin’ papers on January 21, quicker than you can say “Huckleberry Finn.” Since then, Captain Tracy Fails, a stout soul, has been holdin’ the reins as interim while the town sets out to lasso a new chief.

But the devil’s in the details, and a news report stitched together from forty interviews runnin’ from November 4 last year clear to January 16. Forty souls, mind you, all singin’ like canaries ‘bout the chief’s doin’s.

The first exhibit—Lord, what a spectacle!—claims Chelsey took the city’s professionalism policy and stomped it into the mud. The chief was a regular gabber, jawin’ away on matters far from work, slingin’ remarks so offensive they’d curl a preacher’s collar, and tossin’ around profanity like it was confetti at a Fourth of July shindig.

Malicious gossip? Why, he was the town crier of it!

Threatenin’ language? He had it in spades.

And if that weren’t enough, he’s said to have subjected folks to conduct so unwelcome it’d make a skunk turn tail and run.

But hold your horses, for the plot thickens! The report—bless its inky heart—alleges Chelsey went so far as to chase criminal charges against some poor soul who dared file a complaint ‘gainst him.

A regular vendetta, it was, fit for a dime novel.

Then, in another twist, they say he fiddled with test scores like a crooked gambler shufflin’ a deck, all to boost his favored few for promotion. And when the complainin’ types piped up, he’d ferret out their names, swearin’ on a stack of Bibles he’d not retaliate—only to turn ‘round, come December 4, aim to demote ‘em both faster than a cat on a hot tin roof.

The police department became a house-divided—either you rode with Chelsey or agin’ him, no middle ground. They reckon morale took such a steep tumble over the last eighteen months that it made a skunk smell good.

They called it an “alarming decline,” leaving the good people of Mesquite wonderin’ if their lawmen were guardin’ the peace or stirrin’ the pot. So there you have it, a tale of power gone awry, of a chief who fancied himself king ‘til the kingdom cried foul.

Mesquite’s searchin’ for a new shepherd, and they’ll be hopin’ for one with a mite more grace and a heap less gall.

A Fire, A Fool, and a Fit of Lunacy in Las Vegas

In the annals of human folly, where the wise scratch their heads and the foolish light matches, there comes a tale from the neon-lit sands of Las Vegas—a yarn so peculiar it might’ve been dreamed up by a man who’d stared too long at the sun, or perhaps at the headlines. ‘Twas in the ghostly hour of 2:44 a.m. on a March morn in 2025, when the good folks of Clark County, snug in their beds or stumbling home from the gaming tables, were roused by a blaze that’d make Old Nick tip his hat.

At the Tesla Collision Center, nigh on Jones Boulevard and Badura Avenue, a figure clad in black—looking for all the world like a stage villain who’d misplaced his script—set about to teach Mr. Elon Musk’s electric contraptions a lesson in combustion. With Molotov cocktails, that crude invention of idle hands and emptier heads, this midnight philosopher put two Teslas to the torch, their sleek frames crackling like a Fourth of July gone rogue.

Three more of the horseless wonders caught the heat, scorched but unbowed, while the Clark County Fire Department—bless their weary souls—rolled in by 2:54 a.m. to douse the mess before the whole lot turned to cinders. Five vehicles in all bore the brunt, and inside one, the law later found an unlit cocktail, as if our arsonist had meant to leave a calling card but forgot his fuse.

Not content with flames alone, this chaos champion drew a pistol and popped three rounds into the silent Teslas, perhaps imagining they’d rear up and fight back like mules in a brawl. Then, with the flourish of a man who’d flunked spelling but aced indignation, he scrawled “RESIST” across the building’s front—a word so bold in intent, yet so wobbly in execution, you’d swear he’d penned it with a trembling hand and a bottle of rotgut for company.

Now, the Las Vegas Metro Police and the FBI–roused from their coffee and dreams of quieter days, took one look at this handiwork and declared it no accident.

Assistant Sheriff Dori Koren, a man who’d seen enough foolishness to fill a library, called it a “targeted attack,” while Special Agent Spencer Evans of the Bureau vowed to hunt the scoundrel down. “We’ll come after you, we’ll find you, and we’ll prosecute you to the fullest,” quoth he, in tones that promised a jail cell cozier than a coffin but not by much.

The Joint Terrorism Task Force joined the fray, sniffing for signs this wasn’t a lone lunatic but a chorus of crackpots, part of a queer crusade against Tesla showrooms that’s been popping up like weeds across the land.

Elon Musk, that tinkerer of the future who’d rather dance with stars than dodge Molotovs, took to his X pulpit and cried foul. “Insane and deeply wrong,” he called it, swearing Tesla had done naught to earn such wrath—though, as any student of history knows, innocence never stopped a fool from swinging an axe.

President Trump, never one to let a ruckus pass without a word, thundered from on high: “You do it to Tesla, you do it to any company, we’ll catch you and you’ll go through hell.”

A promise plain as day and twice as hot.

Even Attorney General Pam Bondi chimed in, dubbing it “domestic terrorism,” a phrase to make any firebug pause and ponder his life’s choices.

The locals, meanwhile, rubbed the sleep from their eyes and muttered for vigilance, though one Tesla owner, a stout fellow named King Liang, put it plain: “Enjoy jail, pal. Enjoy it.”

It’s a sentiment so pure it ought to get stitched on a sampler.

But let’s not rush past the meat of this madness, for here’s where the modern mind shows its colors—or its cracks. They call it Trump Derangement Syndrome and Musk Derangement Syndrome, afflictions that turn decent folk into howling zealots, convinced a ballot or a battery is the devil’s work.

Time was that a man who hated his neighbor just tipped his hat the other way and went about his day. Now, he grabs a torch and a gun, fancies himself a revolutionary, and sets out to smite the chariot of progress—never mind that it’s just a car, not a call to arms.

What Musk has wrought with his electric dreams, or Trump with his brassy tongue, to deserve such ire, no sane soul could say. Yet here we are, watching grown men treat a showroom like it’s Bunker Hill, and all for a cause scribbled in haste on a wall.

So the hunt’s on, the patrols thickened, and the good citizens of Las Vegas are left to wonder if their next ride might double as kindling. The villain skulks free, puffed up with pride or trembling in a hideout, while the law sharpens its spurs.

And me? I’ll sit here and marvel at an age where a man will burn a machine to spite its maker, then call it principle.

If that ain’t progress, I don’t know what is.

Three years and five trials after the gruesome discovery of I.N. Sharp’s dismembered body near the Rabbithole Sulphur mines, J.W. Rover was ceremoniously hanged in the Washoe County Courthouse yard on the chilly afternoon of February 19, 1878. It would become Reno’s first—and only—public execution that garnered no small amount of attention in the growing town.

Reno was still in its infancy at the time, not yet a decade old, but it managed to carry out the deed with surprising authority. Citizens took some pride in the fact that it was Washoe County’s first execution, though they seemed to agree, with a touch of complacency, that the whole affair was as creditable as it was regrettable.

The tragic tale began in the spring of 1875 when Rover and J.J. McWorthy discovered a Sulphur mine near Rabbithole Springs. The pair staked the claim, but McWorthy only took it out in his name, which upset Rover. Rankled, Rover agreed to stay on and was soon joined by Sharp.

When McWorthy briefly left the mine to buy supplies in Mill City, he returned to find Sharp missing, with Rover offering the rather unconvincing explanation that Sharp had gone off hunting for the outfit’s pack horse. Not satisfied, and after days of searching, McWorth learned from Mrs. Osborn, wife of a friend, that she had overheard Rover threatening Sharp’s life. A telegram from Mill City revealed Sharp hadn’t returned home to California, and McWorthy, suspicious and concerned, had Rover arrested.

Upon returning with Sheriff Nash, McWorthy and the sheriff discovered Sharp’s body, dismembered and buried in several different spots, each burial marked with the distinctive tracks of Rover’s new boots. Rover, of course, accused McWorthy of the murder, claiming he had witnessed the deed, but this didn’t convince the jury, which found him guilty. However, the Nevada Supreme Court, ever the stickler for process, granted a new trial.

The case dragged on, with a second trial yielding a guilty verdict in June 1877, though Rover seemed disturbingly unconcerned. He even managed a hearty breakfast before his second sentencing. For a moment, it seemed as though the case might drag on indefinitely—until the court finally decided, and on February 19, 1878, ordered Sheriff A.K. Lamb to carry out the execution.

Leading up to the hanging, Rover, once a brash figure, became eerily quiet. He had several visitors during his last days—curiosity seekers, well-wishers, and those eager to offer him salvation. One lady even asked if he had made peace with the Lord, to which Rover tersely replied that he had done so “many years ago.” Meanwhile, his defense attorneys tried in vain to save him, suggesting a “sheriff’s jury” be called to determine his sanity. This proposed jury, a curious and largely unheard-of procedure, could not reach a decision, and the hanging was to happen without further delay.

At the gallows, 200 hand-picked witnesses filled the courtyard, their heads craning for a glimpse of the condemned man, while the rest of Reno gathered outside the fence to peer through cracks. As the moment drew near, Rover addressed the crowd, speaking for fifty-two minutes, defending his innocence, accusing McWorthy of other murders, and making the customary confessions of faith expected from a condemned man. Finally, the trap was sprung, and Rover’s life ended.

Reno’s first public execution was over. The body was buried quietly in the Catholic cemetery, and the event seemed to pass into history as a grim footnote.

However, the story didn’t end there. In years to come, rumors swirled that Rover had been innocent. Some claimed McWorthy confessed to the crime on his deathbed in Arizona. An investigation revealed that McWorthy had lived out his days in California, and the so-called confession was likely a fanciful tale born of doubt and sympathy.

The case lingered in the public consciousness, fueling séances, ghost stories, and questions about Rover’s guilt. Miners near Rabbithole Springs even reported seeing his ghost working on the claim.

Despite the multiple trials, guilty verdicts, and official findings, the mystery of J.W. Rover’s fate continued to haunt both the town of Reno and the minds of those who dared to doubt the justice served.

And a Notable Absence

In a grand display of legal gumption, South Carolina Attorney General Alan Wilson, with a hearty contingent of fourteen fellow attorneys general from states far and wide—Georgia, West Virginia, Mississippi, Iowa, North Dakota, Florida, Oklahoma, Montana, Louisiana, Indiana, Missouri, Utah, South Dakota, and Kansas—put their names to a letter that might as well have been titled, “We’re Watching You, and We Ain’t Pleased.”

The missive, addressed to Leo Terrell, chief of the Department of Justice’s Task Force to Combat Anti-Semitism, was a full-throated cheer for the renewed efforts to ensure that America’s immigration laws get enforced with the same vigor as a frontier marshal handling unruly desperadoes. The AGs, taking a moment to remind everyone that the past few years have not exactly been a golden age of law and order, heaped praise upon the Task Force for taking a firm hand where the previous administration had, in their view, let things meander like a lazy river.

The letter lamented the freewheeling atmosphere on college campuses, where foreign students with the privilege of an American education have, according to the AGs, taken it upon themselves to behave as if their student visas were a license to promote terror and treason. The signers declared that the days of hand-wringing were over, and it was time to start considering whether such behavior warranted a swift exit from our fair republic.

As an illustrative example, they pointed to the recent arrest of Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian national with a knack for violent radical campus demonstrations, as proof that such concerns were not the stuff of overactive imaginations.

“Your early efforts to hold both bad actors and universities accountable for tolerating and fostering anti-Semitic activity on campus are laudable, recognized, and appreciated,” the letter proclaimed, in a tone that suggested this was but the first volley in a campaign.

In a forthcoming interview, Wilson sought to clarify that while Americans enjoy the sacred right to say foolish things, there are limits to that freedom, particularly when speech veers into the realm of incitement and mayhem.

“Can you imagine,” he asked, with a rhetorical flourish fit for a courtroom, “if someone were out there passing out KKK or white supremacist propaganda to advocate for the open lynching of blacks? That’s horrible and evil, but that’s basically what this is.”

Now, lest anyone assume all state attorneys general were marching in lockstep on this issue, one notable name was absent from the list—Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford. His absence was left unremarked in the letter, but for those reading between the lines, it carried the weight of an ellipsis followed by a knowing glance.

And so, the letter has been sent, the battle lines drawn, and the message made plain–in this new era, there will be less tolerance for the intolerable, and those inclined toward stirring up trouble may find their welcome in these United States short-lived.

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.