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It’s well-established that some folks work themselves into an early grave to earn an honest living, while others—blessed with a more creative disposition—prefer to let Uncle Sam do the heavy lifting. Such was the case with one Candies Goode-McCoy of Las Vegas, whose knack for arithmetic, while impressive, appears to have been applied to the wrong ledger.

The Department of Justice reports that Ms. Goode-McCoy, in a display of boundless entrepreneurial spirit, conspired with like-minded individuals to defraud the government of nearly $100 million in COVID-19 tax credits. Between June 2022 and September 2023, she busied herself filing 1,200 fraudulent tax returns that even the most hardened scoundrels must have tipped their hats in admiration.

The IRS, ever a generous and trusting institution, unwittingly handed over $33 million before realizing that the arithmetic had taken on a fictitious quality.

For her trouble, Ms. Goode-McCoy stands accused of pocketing $1.3 million in fraudulent refunds, with an additional $800,000 for her expert services in creative bookkeeping. Unlike the common crook, who contents himself with a quick getaway, Ms. Goode-McCoy saw fit to reinvest her ill-gotten gains into the vital sectors of luxury automobiles, gambling, and vacations—thus ensuring the money continued to circulate, if only among the more disreputable elements of society.

Alas, her enterprise met an untimely end, and she now faces the unenviable prospect of explaining her financial strategies to a federal judge. At sentencing, she may expect to spend up to 10 years in government housing, where luxury accommodations are somewhat lacking. Fines will be imposed, though one suspects her ability to pay them will be hampered by her newfound career in license plate manufacturing.

It seems the Washoe County School District has found itself entangled in a peculiar scientific discovery—namely, that vibrations in the air arranged into words by the voice of one Vanessa Bowie-Middleton were of such an unsettling nature that they rendered some fine folks wholly unable to endure their workday in peace.

Ms. Bowie-Middleton, a kitchen worker of respectable standing, was informed in 2022 that her voice, being unmistakably her own, had the unfortunate effect of disturbing the delicate constitutions of educators at Bohach Elementary School. To rectify this shocking phenomenon, she was prohibited from using the cafeteria’s public address system or even verbally correcting wayward children, lest the fabric of pedagogical tranquility get torn asunder.

The restriction, curiously, applied only to her and not to any other cafeteria worker—an oversight one might have expected the district’s “investigators” to notice before they confidently declared there was “no evidence” of wrongdoing. After a generous seven-month interval—perhaps the precise length required to forget common sense—the district magnanimously allowed Ms. Bowie-Middleton to resume speaking as freely as any other lunchroom worker.

Faced with this absurdity, Ms. Bowie-Middleton pursued a federal discrimination lawsuit, which was resolved with a $60,000 settlement. Her attorney, Terri Keyser-Cooper, expressed astonishment that such an indignity was even possible in the year 2022, likening it to the sort of segregationist nonsense one might have assumed had been discarded alongside other relics of institutionalized lunacy.

For her part, Ms. Bowie-Middleton has taken her talents to Mendive Middle School, where one hopes her voice is received with no more astonishment than is ordinarily afforded to a person. Whether the afflicted ears of Bohach Elementary recovered from their ordeal remains unknown.

Well, folks, it seems the good citizens of Reno have once again found themselves in the dubious company of open murder, a crime which—despite its obvious unpleasantness—remains a reliable fixture in the annals of human folly.

At just about the time decent people were settling into their Sunday repose, Reno’s finest received summons to Harvard Way, near Vassar Avenue, on account of what was politely termed a “suspicious circumstance.” Now, “suspicious” is one of those words that can mean anything from a misplaced lawn ornament to something that sends a chill straight through the boots, and in this case, it was decidedly the latter.

Upon arrival, officers made the acquaintance of one Filipe Montoya, aged thirty, who, by all appearances, had business most serious on his mind. As it turns out, their conversation was rudely interrupted by the discovery of a woman, aged thirty-eight, who was in no condition to hold any conversation at all, being dead as a doornail within the premises.

With appreciation for the gravity of the matter, the Robbery/Homicide unit took the reins, deciding that no other villains were at large and that the general public could go about their business without fear of further interruption—at least for the time being. The departed’s identity remains under wraps, pending the usual courtesies of notification.

Meanwhile, those with any illuminating details about this lamentable episode are encouraged to relay their knowledge to the Reno Police Department at (775) 334-2677 or, for those who prefer to whisper such things, to Secret Witness at (775) 322-4900.

Behold the curious case of Nevada’s Senator Jacky Rosen, who, in her boundless wisdom and indefatigable compassion, has decided that schools, churches, and hospitals should be as sacred and untouchable as a Sunday preacher’s collection plate. In the spirit of grand legislative endeavors, she has joined forces with fellow lawmakers to introduce the Protecting Sensitive Locations Act, a bill designed to keep the long arm of immigration enforcement at bay in places where one might expect to find textbooks, pews, or stethoscopes rather than handcuffs.

“Why,” asks the good Senator, “should a respectable citizen be forced to contemplate the specter of deportation whilst reciting the Lord’s Prayer, bandaging a scraped knee, or attempting to decipher their child’s algebra homework?”

Respectable citizens don’t come to a country illegally or let their children worry about the long arm of the law.

She deems it “outrageous” that President Trump would dare disrupt the tranquil scenes of school drop-offs and Sunday sermons with the unpleasant business of enforcing immigration laws. Thus, with the noble stroke of a pen, she seeks to return when an individual could sit through a hospital waiting room’s ten-hour delay without the added inconvenience of federal agents in pursuit.

But let us not forget Nevada’s legislative minds, ever eager to take the cause of shielding illegal aliens from the terrifying prospect of border enforcement. Assemblywoman Cecelia González, perhaps inspired by the unshakable logic that laws shouldn’t get enforced whenever they cause discomfort, has put forth AB217, a bill so thoroughly padded with legal barricades that one wonders if Nevada schools will soon require a judge’s blessing for a janitor to change a lightbulb. This particular measure seeks to not only keep ICE from entering school grounds without a warrant but also makes it a crime for any school employee to so much as whisper a word of a student’s whereabouts to the authorities.

If there are worries that police might still have power in schools, the new bill makes it clear that students cannot get pepper sprayed or stunned. It seems that a troublemaker will get only stern looks and firm letters.

Meanwhile, the school districts, unions, and assorted guardians of education have taken it upon themselves to assure families that their private information shall remain as secure as the gambler’s last dollar in a casino. Letters of reassurance are issued, meetings convened, and declarations made that under no circumstances shall a school police officer, teacher, or administrator engage in the heinous act of acknowledging an immigration officer’s existence.

As Nevada’s lawmakers lay down the gauntlet against federal enforcement, will these measures provide the peace of mind they so earnestly promise, or will they merely serve as a temporary barricade against the realities of law and order?

Either way, one must admire the grand performance. If nothing else, it provides ample entertainment for those of us watching from the gallery.

How Not to Vacation

It is a well-known fact among seasoned explorers and armchair adventurers alike that when setting forth into the wild, one should carry a stout heart, a keen eye, and, if they possess a lick of sense, an understanding of the general principles of gravity. Alas, the hiker recently plucked from the rocky heights of Gateway Canyon seems to have lacked that last bit of wisdom and, as a result, found themselves perched upon a ledge, hollering their predicament to the heavens like a lonesome coyote with a sore throat.

Now, in the great outdoors, there are many ways to attract attention—some more dignified than others. A man might light a signal fire, wave a bright cloth, or, in particularly dire circumstances, compose a note of distress and entrust it to a passing eagle. But our intrepid vacationer took the more direct approach of bellowing at the top of their lungs until a kind passerby took notice and gave the matter to the ever-obliging authorities of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department Search and Rescue.

Upon arrival, these rescuers quickly determined that climbing up to retrieve the hiker would be about as practical as convincing a cat to take a bath. The unfortunate soul was some 400 feet above the trail, clinging to his perch like a barnacle on a ship’s hull, and required a helicopter. Two officers, who undoubtedly spent their formative years ignoring their mothers’ warnings about playing on rooftops, were lowered into the precarious scene.

By the grace of modern engineering and no small amount of patience, the rescuers employed a device known as a “lezard”—which, contrary to what the name suggests, is not a reptilian creature with an unusual work ethic, but rather a technical rescue lanyard designed for precisely these sorts of misadventures. With this contraption, they managed to hoist the hiker up and away from his predicament, depositing him safely at a nearby fire station, where he was greeted with expressions ranging from sympathy to quiet exasperation.

Gateway Canyon, for those unfamiliar, lies a mere twenty miles west of Las Vegas, proving that while Lady Luck may be generous at the gaming tables, she has no patience for those who gamble against common sense in the great outdoors. One can only hope that our daring wanderer has learned a valuable lesson—that when venturing into the wild, it is wise to respect both the land and one’s limitations, lest one’s vacation become a spectacle requiring helicopters and highly trained professionals to correct.

Or at Least Until Supper

The good people of Nevada have seen many strange sights at the State Capitol, but yesterday’s gathering was one for the books. A motley collection of the disgruntled and the overenthusiastic converged upon Carson Street, waving signs, shouting slogans, and generally conducting themselves in a manner best described as a cross between a political uprising and a particularly unruly family reunion.

The occasion? A “National Day of Protest,” which, if we are to believe its architects, was meant to “reject fascism,” “defend equality,” and “resist executive overreach.” It remains unclear how these noble goals translated into midday loitering and minor traffic disruptions, but that is the beauty of democracy: one need not be effective so long as one is loud.

It was not their first attempt at such an endeavor. A previous installment occurred on February 5, when crowds gathered nationwide to express their discontent with various executive orders. That protest, while spirited, was modest compared to yesterday’s gathering, which stretched from Musser Street to the edge of the Capitol complex, proving that, at the very least, a grievance has a remarkable power of multiplication.

The “50501 Movement,” as it calls itself (for reasons best known to its founders), boasts of being a decentralized grassroots effort born on the internet—Reddit, to be precise, which explains much. According to its website, the movement is a response to the “plutocratic allies” of the Trump administration. This writer is uncertain how many of these protesters could define “plutocratic,” but their commitment to the cause was evident, if not always coherent.

Law enforcement, perhaps recalling the previous protest’s excitement—where one motorist allegedly solved his political disagreements with the business end of a firearm—maintained a hearty presence. Officers on foot, in cars, motorcycles, and even dirt bikes roamed the perimeter, prepared for any escalation beyond the usual grumbling and sign-waving. Fortunately, no incidents aside from a semi-truck forced to a screeching halt—an unfortunate byproduct of enthusiastic civic engagement mixing with inattentive traffic management, were reported.

Curiously absent from the affair were counter-protesters on foot, though several motorists made their opinions known with flags and impromptu window signage. Pro-Trump banners and Confederate flags made their rounds, drawing the obligatory chorus of boos from the assembled activists.

But here is the rub–while these fervent agitators stood shoulder to shoulder decrying various injustices, there was not a word—nay, not even a whisper—about the nine million dollars that vanished under Nevada’s Attorney General’s nose, nor the hundreds of millions that mysteriously evaporated during the COVID-era spending spree. Nobody mentioned the teachers’ unions, which have created a troubling mix of inefficiency and despair in Nevada’s education system. No, dear reader, the righteous indignation of the day was reserved for D.O.G.E., which is drawing reparations from an ill-willed bureaucracy.

It is known as a “useful idiot”—a term not coined by me but rather by those who have studied the curious phenomenon of people passionately demanding solutions to problems they barely understand. And so, with grand pronouncements and self-satisfied rhetoric, they marched, wholly convinced of their virtue, blissfully unaware of the richer pickings for outrage that lay just beyond their protest signs.

The next event in the 50501 playbook is February 28, where participants are encouraged to refrain from spending money—a noble sacrifice, provided it does not interfere with their morning lattes. It will be followed by an Amazon boycott and, in March, a call for a nationwide workforce strike. One can only hope these revolutionaries have informed their employers, lest they discover too late that striking is most effective when one has a job to return to.

By 4 p.m., the crowds had mostly dispersed, leaving only a handful of stalwarts clinging to their signs and convictions. And so ended another chapter in the ongoing saga of American political theater—equal parts earnestness and absurdity, with a healthy dose of irony for those wise enough to recognize it.

Now, I may have put pen to paper on this subject before—though, if memory serves, it was at the behest of a newspaper editor who took a dim view of digressions, embellishments, and the honest pursuit of a good yarn. But that was then, and this is now.

The good folks at the Rural Medevac Alliance have announced that their flying contraption, Battle Born Medevac 1, is buzzing about the countryside, day and night. It is no small matter, as it turns out that more than half the times someone has hollered for them, it has been after dark—a time when most respectable people are asleep and most disreputable ones are getting themselves into the sorts of trouble that require urgent medical intervention.

“We are mighty pleased about this,” said one Joey Loehner, the high captain of this outfit. “Our pilots and crew now have the best sky-faring wizardry money can buy, which means we can fetch twice the number of folks in dire straits than we could before.”

It, of course, is a great comfort to anyone who needs swift conveyance to a hospital and an even greater comfort to those who enjoy having aeronautical marvels available at all hours but hope never to need them.

Now, if you find yourself lost, broken, or otherwise indisposed anywhere between the Tahoe Basin and Tonopah, Mammoth, and Lovelock, rest assured that Medevac 1 can come flapping over the horizon to fetch you. And should that horizon be veiled in darkness, fear not! The pilots now don a set of wondrous Night Vision Goggles—made of some luminous wizard glass called E3 White Phosphorous, which sounds like something one ought to handle with tongs but is the latest and greatest in nighttime seeing spectacles.

This miraculous eyewear allows the pilots to peer into the darkness as if it were broad daylight while also sparing the head and neck the indignity of hauling around the sort of heavy headgear that turns a simple flight into an exercise in endurance. The result is fewer stiff necks and improved odds of arriving where one means to go.

As for what kind of scrapes these airborne Samaritans get called to, the list is as varied as mankind’s talent for calamity. Auto wrecks, sudden ailments, hospital transfers, search-and-rescue missions—if there is trouble afoot and an urgent need to flee from it or get plucked out of it, the good people of Battle Born Medevac 1 will be there.

Headquarters is South Lyon Medical Center in Yerington, and when the call comes, it’s the Lyon County Sheriff’s Office that’ll send them to wherever they are most needed. If one must get into trouble, it is at least reassuring to know that help now flies at all hours, with eyes that pierce the dark and wings that wait for no man.

Virginia City is a peculiar town. It takes no small effort to stand out in the throng of silver-tongued scoundrels, hard-bitten miners, and fortune-hunting gamblers, but Jackson managed it with an ease that bordered on art. Not for his charm or his wit—though he possessed neither—but for his unmatched skill with a revolver and a propensity to use it in ways that made men marvel even as it made them shiver.

Jackson was not violent, at least not by Virginia City standards. Violence in these parts is as regular as breakfast, and some said Jackson had skipped breakfast more than a few times. He was, however, a man of principle, and his primary principle was this: offenses were like gold nuggets, valuable and worth holding on to.

One brisk morning, as the town’s citizenry shuffled along C Street, Jackson was leaning lazily against a post, contemplating the mysteries of the universe—or, more likely, the mysteries of his next drink. His gaze suddenly fixed on a figure in the distance, a man walking toward him with the carefree air of one unaware he was heading straight for the gates of perdition.

The unfortunate soul had offended Jackson some days prior, though no one could quite recall the nature of the offense. Neither, likely, could Jackson. It was enough that it happened and was unaddressed.

As the man drew near, Jackson straightened up, dusted off his coat, and turned to a nearby group of men.

“Gentlemen,” Jackson announced with a slow, deliberate drawl that suggested he had all the time in the world, “You see that fella comin’ yonder?”

The men squinted against the sun and nodded.

“Well,” Jackson continued, drawing his revolver with the kind of reverence one might reserve for a fine violin, “He’s got a button on his coat—a third one, from the top. It’s a good twenty-yard shot, I reckon. And I’ll clip it clean.”

There was no time for protest or persuasion—not that anyone would have dared try. Jackson’s arm rose, steady as a church steeple, and the revolver barked.

A murmur of admiration rippled through the crowd as the man staggered backward, clutching his chest. Jackson, his face as blank as an unmined vein, holstered his revolver and ambled off, muttering something about needing to find a decent breakfast.

The funeral was well-attended, as funerals often are in these parts.

The drifter rode into town like a cloud dragging its shadow across the desert. His hat brim hung low, shading eyes that had seen too much.

Dust clung to his boots, and his horse moved at a weary plod, the animal’s ribs visible beneath a coat of trail grit. At his hip, a Colt revolver swung like a promise in waiting.

As he passed the Odeon Saloon, a man leaning against a hitching post called, “Levi Grayson? That you?” His voice cracked with disbelief, and he squinted against the setting sun.

The drifter didn’t turn his head, didn’t slow his horse. He rode on, stopping when he reached the rail outside the saloon.

Sliding from the saddle, he hitched his horse and took the creaking steps to the boardwalk. When he pushed through the Odeon’s doors, the hinges groaned like they knew trouble had arrived.

Inside, behind the bar, Henry “Hank” Maddox gave the newcomer a quick once-over, his eyes flicking to the gun at Levi’s side. A young, pretty girl with sharp, untamed beauty moved between tables, collecting empty mugs.

Levi’s gaze lingered too long on her, and the corner of his mouth quirked in a half-smile that promised nothing good.

The man who’d called his name entered and approached, grinning wide. “By God, it is you!” he said, clapping a hand on Levi’s shoulder. “I didn’t think I’d see you again, not after all these years.”

Levi glanced at him, recognition flickering. “Bill Langley,” he said, voice low and flat. “Been a long time.”

“Too long,” Bill said, his enthusiasm unchecked. “You remember when we used to run this town? Seemed like nothing could stop us back then. What brings you back, anyhow?”

Levi’s eyes hardened. “I go where the road takes me.”

From across the room, Sheriff Roy Tanner watched the exchange. A man who’d worn the badge longer than most folks in Dayton could remember, Roy didn’t miss much.

He noted the gun, the casual way Levi moved, and the edge of trouble that clung to him like a second shadow. Years ago, Dayton had voted to clear Main Street of sidearms.

It had been Roy’s job to enforce it ever since, and he wasn’t about to start making exceptions. The sheriff crossed the room, boots heavy on the floorboards.

“Evening, stranger,” he said, stopping near Levi. “Reckon you don’t know, but this here’s a no-gun town. Main Street’s off-limits.”

Levi turned slowly, one hand resting on the bar. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t reckon this was a town where a man gets told what he can and can’t carry.”

“The law’s the law,” Roy said evenly.

Levi’s smile widened, but his eyes were cold as the grave. “Ain’t never been too fond of laws or lawmen.”

The sheriff held his gaze for a long moment before speaking. “Let’s leave it at that,” he said, turning to leave, his wisdom keeping him alive.

As the night deepened, Levi drank too much. His words became mean, cutting into Bill’s awkward attempts at conversation. When Ellie Harper, the saloon girl, brushed past, he grabbed her wrist.

“C’mon now,” he slurred. “Ain’t no need to play hard to get.”

Ellie yanked her hand free. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped, her voice firm. “Go find some other girl to bother.”

Levi chuckled darkly. “Don’t think you understand who you’re talking to.”

Before Ellie could respond, Hank stepped in, his voice calm but resolute. “That’s enough, friend. Leave the girl be.”

Levi turned on him, swaying slightly. “You gonna make me?” he sneered, his hand drifting toward his revolver.

“No one’s making you do anything,” Hank said, keeping his tone even. “But maybe it’s time you called it a night.”

Levi snorted, then fired into the ceiling. The boom silenced the room, and all eyes turned to him. “I’ll call it a night when I’m damn good and ready,” he growled. “How ‘bout I shoot up this whole place? See who’s man enough to stop me!”

The saloon doors swung open, and Sheriff Tanner stepped through.

“That’s enough, Grayson,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Put the gun down.”

Levi turned, his grin feral. “Roy Tanner,” he said, his words dripping with mockery. “Still playing the hero, huh?”

Before Roy could respond, Levi raised his gun and fired. The sheriff fell where he stood, a single shot to the chest silencing him forever.

Levi laughed, his head thrown back, drunk on the power of it. “Anybody else feel like playing sheriff tonight?” he taunted. “Go on, step through those doors. I’ll make a game of it!”

Behind the bar, Hank moved. He reached beneath the counter and came up with a double-barrel shotgun, leveling it at Levi’s head. The room was silent save for the sound of both hammers getting cocked.

“Nobody’s that fast,” Hank said, his voice steady.

Levi sneered, his hand twitching toward his revolver. “You wanna bet?”

The roar of both barrels filled the saloon.

A Modern Business Strategy

Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford, a man of such exceptional virtue that one might suspect him of sainthood were he not so tragically confined to the legal profession, has joined hands with 16 of his fellow state prosecutors to bring us a revelation of the age: Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) is not only lawful but downright essential to business success. Yes, dear reader, it turns out that the secret to a “legally compliant and thriving workplace” is not, as some old-fashioned folks might believe, hiring the best person for the job, but rather ensuring that one’s hiring practices resemble a grand game of Bingo—where the winner is determined not by merit, but by the precise arrangement of demographic checkboxes.

According to General Ford, the recent attacks on DEI are “incorrect and disingenuous information.” It is a relief, for many of us were beginning to suspect that selecting employees based on factors other than their abilities might have some slight drawbacks.

But no! DEI, we are assured, makes businesses financially stronger and gives them an advantage over their competitors. How, you ask? Well, through the brilliant strategy of ensuring that companies are “reflective of the communities they serve,” rather than, say, competent at what they do.

One might ask forgiveness for thinking that history is replete with evidence that businesses thrive when they hire the most skilled and capable. And the quaint notions of merit and experience were misguided relics of a bygone era. As it turns out, the modern business model is less about skill and more about ensuring the appropriate level of chromatic diversity in the company holiday photo.

Ford also takes a moment to denounce political actors who oppose DEI, accusing them of seeking to “keep us divided.” It is an interesting stance, considering DEI programs are all about constantly categorizing, separating, and sorting according to immutable traits in the name of social justice.

The logic is simple: the way to end discrimination is to focus even harder on race, gender, and every conceivable identity marker—sort of like putting out a fire by dousing it in kerosene.

He is also quite vexed with President Trump, who suggests hiring based on merit rather than identity might be a reasonable course of action. Ford assures us, however, that DEI is not unlawful hiring—perish the thought. It merely “focuses on ensuring that businesses can recruit, hire, and retain qualified employees” while prioritizing race, gender, and other factors over those pesky things like experience, skill, or performance.

You see, it’s all about balance—ensuring that the workplace is both inclusive and exclusive at the same time. It is a true marvel of modern logic.

And so, we must tip our hats to Ford for his tireless efforts to educate us poor, unenlightened souls. For too long, businesses have been shackled by the tyranny of qualifications, laboring under the outdated belief that knowledge and ability were the chief ingredients of success.

Thanks to DEI, we know that the real key is ensuring a properly curated workforce, arranged with the precision of a Victorian parlor display—ornamental, diverse, and ideally, incapable of independent thought.

One can only hope Ford’s next great endeavor will be to extend these principles beyond the workplace.

Yes, progress marches on. And with it, the comforting assurance that one’s livelihood, safety, and economic future are in the capable hands of a system that values appearance over ability.

What could go wrong?