Manitou cigarettes

Wildhorse (RegulaKing)

• U.S. Tobacco Cooperative
  
• also make: Manitou, 1839, 1st Class, Shield, Traffic, Ultra Buy and Wildhorse
  
• states that "all of our cigarette brands are American owned, American grown and American manufactured"
  
• 200 count box
  
• 84mm length
  
• 20mm filter
  
• paper is thick, no logo or print on paper
  
• plain cork paper, filter is snug. seems like some filters are a little squishy after finishing & some hold up pretty good.
  
• taste/burn is harsh. doesn't taste as good as the others. The smell of the smoke wafting in the air is harsh.
  

Kentucky Select (RegulaKing)

• Wind River Tobacco Company LLC (Box says "manufactured by: Great Midwest Tube, Evendale, Ohio. Distributed by: East Carolina RYO LLC, Wilson, NC)
  
• also makes: Kentucky Select, Wind River, and Dreamcatcher, Buckhorn? and various packaged cigarettes, Kentucky Select tubes. (Hot Rod?)
  
• Made in USA
  
• 200ct box
  
• 84mm length
  
• 20mm filter
  
• paper is thick with no logo/print
  
• filters seem to hold up. longer filter = less waste
  
• taste/burn seems OK. A little harsh
  

Hot Rod (RegulaKing)

• Great Midwest Tobacco INC. (Great Midwest Tube?)
  
• manufactures Hot Rod tobacco and a variety of RYO filter tubes in Cincinnati, Ohio. (Kentucky Select tubes?)
  
• "Printed in America - Made in America"
  
• 84mm length
  
• 20mm filter
  
• 200ct box
  
• Standard white tube with brown "cork" paper tip. Plain tube with no logo or design printed on it.
  
• filter is longer = less wasted tobacco. Filter seems firm down to the last drag, doesn't get too squishy.
  
• taste/burn is OK. Don't remember any harshness
  

If the paper was a little thinner these would kick ass
Sago (RegulaKing)

• Lake Erie Tobacco Company
  
• Salamanca, NY located on the Seneca Nation of Indians Allegany Territory.
  
• also makes: American Club & Sago Filter Tubes
  
• 84mm length
  
• 20mm filter
  
• 200ct box
  
• filter paper = brown "cork" paper w/ two horizontal gold bands.
  
• longer filter = less wasted tobacco. filter gets squishy and becomes loose towards the end of the cigarette.
  
• paper is slightly thinner than Hot Rod. no ink/print
  
• taste/burn is OK
  
• I like these. Only drawback are the squishy filters when near the end of the cigarette.
  

1839 (RegulaKing)

• U.S. Tobacco Cooperative
  
• also make: Manitou, 1839, 1st Class, Shield, Traffic, Ultra Buy and Wildhorse.
  
• "All of our cigarette brands are American owned, American grown and American manufactured"
  
• 84mm length
  
• 20mm filter
  
• 200ct box
  
• no logo or print on paper. thicker paper.
  
• plain "cork" filter paper. Longer filter = less waste. filter holds up.
  
• taste/burn is OK. Not as harsh as Wildhorse.
  

These are decent. Wouldn't mind using again.
Gambler Tube Cut (RegulaKing)

• distributed by Republic Tobacco (AKA Republic Group), and manufactured in Canada.
  
• 84mm long
  
• 17mm filter
  
• 200ct box
  
• Standard white tube with brown 'cork' paper around filter. Small logo with 'Tube Cut' printed on it. After opening the box I noticed some tubes didn't have the cork paper around the filter. First time seeing this. Inspected the whole box and found 5 like that. Even found one without a logo printed on it. But the rest were fine.
  
• Paper is thinner than most brands I've tried. Difficulty injecting firmly to the filter. Remedied by tapping filter side down on a flat, hard surface. (This was because I was injecting dry, crumbled tobacco "shake". They injected just fine when the tobacco isn't dry/shakey.)
  
• Smoked good and no off putting flavors. Maybe a little quality control issue but there were only 5 tubes out of a 200ct box affected.
  
• shorter filter = wasted tobacco
  
• filter tend to get squishy towards the end
  
• These are pretty good. Thinner paper. If the filter paper was the same length as the filter and they didn't get squishy these would be even better. Updated
  

Golden Havest (RegulaKing)

• Rouseco, Inc.
  
• based in Kinston, NC,
  
• also make: Golden Harvest, Buoy and Golden Harvest SELECT, Golden Harvest Filter Tubes.
  
• made in Philippines
  
• 84mm length
  
• 17mm filter
  
• 200 count box
  
• Shorter filter = wasted tobacco
  
• has "Golden Harvest" printed on paper.
  
• ran out before I remembered to take notes on the filter squishiness.
  
• Paper feels slightly thinner. Not as thin as Gambler Tube Cut.
  
• taste/burn OK. Not harsh.
  

I like these. If the filter paper was the same length as the filter these would be good. Nothing against the Philipines, but its on the other side of the world, a long way to travel for boxes of paper. We have paper here.
Final notes:

• I've noticed when the filter is lightly rolled between thumb and index finger there is a small gap between filter and paper. Not held firmly together like prepackaged cigarettes. = all 7 brands
  
• Gambler Tube Cut paper was thinnest followed closely by Golden Harvest.
  
• Sago seemed to be in the middle. Then Hot Rod.
  
• Wildhorse/1839/Kentucky Select/ and I'd also say Hot Rod were all similar in paper thickness.
  
• All injected well when using properly moist tobacco in long shreds.
  

Hot Rod is my pick out of these. Sturdy filtelittle waste/taste OK/US made. Sago would have been #1 but the filters get squishy near the end of the cigarette.

Hi y'all I have been extremely in busking in Colorado specifically in Manitou Springs however the things I have learned I feel are fairly universal. I know some of my opinions may make some of you upset but I'm sharing what has worked for me. I am a Tenor Saxophone player. One thing I have learned is that you can have all the right circumstances be playing your best, in the perfect spot with plenty of foot traffic and you will make 25.34 for playing for ten hours it happens and so that leads me into the fact that you cannot have any kind of real predictability about what kind of money you are pulling in. I cleared about 1000 in one week during the week of Saint Patrick's day, and made 70 last week haha. If you decide to do this for a living learn how to save when you make it big because if you don't the next week you will be starving and smoking cigarette butts of the ground.
It pays to be a goddamn musician. Dirty kids that get a bunch of buckets and just start banging them you guys are the worst. Literally no one on this planet wants to hear that shit. I love people expressing themselves but does it hurt to practice so you are not irritating everyone on the street. I spend a lot of time talking to store owners, locals and tourist alike that hate this phenomenon that is happening. I really work hard to stay on top of my scales and my music theory every day and most of the other successful buskers of Manitou Springs are doing the same.
I was told once upon a time to never busk in the same spot. I have had great success not following that advice at all. I'm in one spot 90 percent of the time and 10 percent of the time in front of a new Orleans coffee shop that gives me free coffee. I have bought items from all of the stores next to me to show my appreciation for the town and support local business you know. As a result they always cut me deals and whenever they walk by my on the street these cats throw me a twenty a lot of the time. I am loved by my community and they can expect to find my at my spot every day. A lot of the locals tip me whenever they get paid. So become a part of your community and they will take care of a busker. Everyone loves a musician everyone wants so badly for you to make it you know.
I do not smoke cigarettes or weed at my spot. I love smoking cigarettes and weed don't get me wrong but it's sloppy to do it where you are playing. Sometimes I do smoke a cig. A lot of good busking spots are also populated with a lot of children and they shouldn't be around pot smoke. Most people aren't gonna tip you if you are smoking even in a town considered a stoner town.
I got so much more yall but I thought I would start with that and see if anyone even gives a shit.

Does anyone know? Thanks

Been writing a lot the past year during the pandemic so that my sanity is somewhat still intact. These are the first couple chapters of my psycho/serial killer narrative I finished. If you enjoy it, the link to Inkitt is after the text, where you can read the entire story for free. Just a small warning, lots of bad words, and gore.
Prologue
A Suave, Suit-wearing, Rare Breed
The Starlight Inn. Reasonable, below-average rates. The flickering sign that overlooks coming and going traffic says so.

 At the moment, before it winds-up it's gaudy, modernized do-up, it's typical customers are hardup, stiff dick businessmen and slippery bitch wrinkled streetwalkers that have been outlawed from the La Quinta. The wallpaper consists of stale, hackneyed sea greens and eggshell whites. The bathrooms, like the numbered guest rooms, have rusted padlocks that fasten and secure to prevent pervy intruders. Inside the bathrooms, visitors are provided with convenient, babyish deodorizers and cleansers that no person accommodated should give a fuck about. They're just for convenience. Short-term residential roadhouses are jam-packed with serviceable, user-friendly consumer needs. I'm squatting in room 404 on the fourth floor in the shithole. I ask myself, what is beneficial to me, the consumer? I examine around, blinded by the overclouded black of the eve. The only at hand aglow is the burning blaze of tobacco flaring from my cigarette. Anyway, what is convenient in room 404? Babyish deodorizers and cleansers? No. An aftermarket 27" television with basic cable? No. A twelve-hundred page novel about wine and miracles crammed in the night stand? No. The man and woman fornicating in room 406? Yes. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a frustrated pervert. 

The walls in this second-rate motel are so inadequate, a bullet can penetrate right through them. If I wait till the downright moment, when the thoughtless bitch next door reaches her climax, I can crunch the trigger of my .45. The man is a lardy flab of pudge rolls, leading me to believe that he's a bottom fucker. Through the delicate walls, his groans babble muffled, much more smothered than the women’s. She's 5’11", that's together with thrift store stilettos. Subtract the additional twenty-something centimeters, and I should disengage the bullet about sixty inches up from the floor base. Luckily, her blaring, raucous pants will indicate her clear-cut position. There will be an adequately blustering pop and fat fucker will eyeball the bitch collapse. Her bony body will become a gore smeared rag doll changing his vision to a tint of crimson. His disorientation and consternation will close out the time I need to make a spotless, quick escape. The dirty weekend woman I'm assigned to polish off, her name is-
Nevermind. You know what? Maybe I should start over. I think I will.

 Death. The cure for life. The one thing that, being absolutely relentless and inevitable, you need not worry about. Many call it the end. Others, mostly prayerful, born-again simpletons, will call it the beginning. I call it my wreck of chaotic vengeance. It's when I shall allow my filthy, diminishing carcass of weathered bones impart ruination on materialistic generations by fluttering my microscopic, toxic dead cells into the air they breathe. The world is my scapegoat. 

Who am I? My name is Harry Walken, and it's about time for me to retire. Why do I do what I do? Why do I make innumerable actions, only to enrich the satisfaction of people with no sense of propriety, decency, or discretion? Simple. It hides my neurotic traits.
Socks. I love my socks. Instead of wasting my hard-earned franklins on useful consumer needs, I buy lousy socks. Relatives even buy me foot garments for the holidays. It's pathetic. That's right, a comfortable, woven hosiery that encloses the foot and should not be used otherwise. Otherwise meaning drooling, immature individuals that spit-shine the ol’ water pump and need something readily accessible to clean up the spurt-jerk sauce. Otherwise meaning the fashionably-challenged, tightwad cultural phenomenon of socks and open-toed sandals. Go ahead. Say it. I know it's an obsession.

 Prescription drugs and tender hugs... nothing can hide the fact, that what I do, places me in between the devil and the deep blue sea. Imagine waking up every morning and seeing a murderer in the mirror. Imagine your life indulged in absolute hell because you've placed the wrongs before the rights. Imagine a gun being your only friend. The devil finds work for idle hands, and I chose to be this triggerman. Other than depriving the less fortunate from life, obsessing is another thing I'm good at. Like smoking. I've smoked more coffin nails than the majority of the European population. Why do non-smokers tell me that smoking is bad? I already know this, and furthermore, I don't give two shakes of a stubborn shit. I would rather die by choice, and I'm not a fanatic when it comes to tight-fisted dust bags that move to Florida. Florida. God's waiting room. Anyway, the average person uses approximately fifty-seven sheets of toilet paper each day. I challenged this. Twenty-two. Six of the sheets were used to clean up a poorly executed aim. 

See? Obsessive. Or maybe I'm just lazy and like to think I'm dedicated.
Make a booming sound like artillery here. Explosion.
I'm non compos mentis.
I don't acknowledge when my telephone rings. I never pick up. I'm a call back person. I allow the caller to leave a message at the beep. It's a keen move, considering my profession.
"You have four unheard messages. First unheard message;"
"Mr. Walken, this is Steve from House Special Heaven. Home of the best, cheap wholesale, and reheated globs of MSG that American Chinese food has to offer! I am calling regarding the complaint on your recent take-out order. I give you my sincerest apology, and I am proud to offer you two free wonton hot dogs with your next order. So long now, and remember, man with one chopstick go hungry!" Mr. Liu refuses to offer Chinese-language menus to non-Chinese customers. So, if you want to know the delicacies in your meal, like liver, chicken feet, or a robust cat gall, hopscotch away from House Special Heaven.

 "Second unheard message;" "Hey Harry. It's Eddie in 203. I partied way too much last night. I've been bowing before the Porcelain God all morning. It's brutal. Give me a call man." Eddie is the definition for hard drinker. I came into acquaintance with him at the White Lizard. Turns out, he hangs his trucker hat in 203, right atop my rental. He lives with his senile, decrepit grandmother, and he would rather drink Irish moonshine than get a mean blowjob. "Third unheard message;" "Hey Harry. It's me." … ... ... "I was at Shoppe Stock yesterday... the many times we went... together. Remember the time you tried to put a candy bar on layaway? You were so determined. Or, remember when you set all of the alarm clocks in housewares to go off at five minute intervals? It's the little things, right? ... ... … "I miss you." 

I'll explain later.

 "Fourth unheard message;" "Hey. It's Charlie. You owe me. The dead drop is the abandoned woman's womb. Upper level. Check the honcho's office." "You have no unheard messages." 

Chapter One
The Madman From Manitou
Charlie...
One time, a call-girl with golden-brown hair convinced Charlie that she was carrying his fuck child. He was offended and nauseous by the idea, so he did what he thought was necessary. Hazardous cleansing compounds. Toxoplasmosis from cat feces. Poorly ventilated living space.

 She was dead in a week. 

Charlie Hallorann. He's the one that would be laughing uncontrollably with rhythmic spasms at a burial ceremony while the melancholy widow sends her loved-one a final prayer. He's completely irrational. He's entirely unreasonable and lacks any sense of consequence for his actions.
Ballistic trauma... An estimated five-hundred thousand injuries are sustained periodically from the use of a bang-bang. Roughly two-hundred thousand are accidental non-conflict related. And approximately .03 percent of two-hundred thousand is the assiduous labor of Charlie Hallorann.

 His hair is greasy and knotted. Matted strands hide his blemished forehead and thick eyebrows. His eyes are wide and cinnamon brown. He’s heavy. Thickset. A long, mangy beard conceals his multiple chins. His wardrobe of choice is stained flannel shirts, soiled relaxed cut jeans and thrift store blazers. He smells like earthy aromas blended with stagnant water. Charlie Hallorann. He's a large mass of evil that prides on fast food, unmannerly enslavements and psychotic fixations. His adored accessories are tools of torture, Mr. Babaloo, and his ivory green canopy upholstered sofa. He disorganizes himself on the unkempt, unattractive sofa with Mr. Babaloo, an Old English muzzled face Pug. The two of them, with their rotund, blobby bodies, lounge on the unsightly sofa, everyday, tensely awaiting 9 p.m. 

9 p.m. is the start-off of Channel 6 Evening News.

 Channel 6 Evening News has won Overall Excellence Award for Outstanding Journalism consecutively for the last 4 years. Charlie doesn’t ritually commit to it because of its stellar reviews. He’s mawkishly obsessed for a vindictive reason. Libby Weaver, top correspondent for Channel 6 News is the lone explanation for Charlie’s perverse addiction. It all began a year ago. Charlie Hallorann was driving his artichoke-colored subcompact car on the I-10 and abruptly lost control. He was devouring greasy fried chicken instead of paying attention to the road. The fatty oils from the deep-fried poultry lubricated his meathooks, making the steering wheel slimy and slippery. He momentarily veered into the left lane and very gently bumped into a white sedan next to him. The driver of the sedan was none other than princess journalist herself, Ms. Libby Weaver. Ms. Libby Weaver and her trusty traveling buddy, a teacup Pomeranian… ironically named Teacup. Ms. Weaver is a selfish, egotistical television personality. Charlie Hallorann is a self-serving, megalomaniac. Of course they're both going to be impulsive and bullheaded. They verbally exchanged derogatory name calling. They heaved degrading insults at each other until Charlie couldn't take the cruel mistreatment anymore. So he did what any unreasonable psychopath would do. He aggressively shoved Ms. Weaver aside and snatched her clueless teacup companion from the passenger seat. He took the poor pooch and violently hurled it into traffic. Teacup died instantly. Legal proceedings were made but Charlie made some calls. Not enough evidence was presented to prove the case. Eyewitness testimony was not credible under any circumstances. Charlie won. Kind of. Libby hired a private investigator to shadow Charlie. She was determined to dig up any kind of dirt on him. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad idea. The unlucky gumshoe carelessly followed Charlie to his roughly built bungalow secluded in the dense vegetation of the bayou. Charlie just so happened to be holding a 20 inch 46cc gas powered chainsaw at the time of the intrusion. He butchered the P.I. like he was a helpless cow. The main body was cut from the anus, upward towards the center of the belly. The next major incision, he sliced around the rear until the laceration was a big, cavernous opening. He continued cutting the body wall that housed the intestines and other innards. The gravitational pull helped clean the remaining entrails out. I imagine it was a fucking mess. The savage remains were fed to the swamp life. Mr. Private Investigator never reported back to his employer. Libby gradually grew suspicious. You could say she began to fear Charlie at that point. Charlie knew she was the reason behind the eavesdropping dick. When Charlie watches Channel 6 News at 9 he can never finish a full episode. What he has isn't necessary a thought that continually preoccupies his mind. It's more like a new, expansive spectrum. It's something, not even his blend of Adderall and Xanax can pass over. It's above and moreover normal, expected limits. It's beyond any circumstances. Charlie has convinced himself that the unfortunate Libby Weaver is the cause, the explanation, or even the justification for all of life’s problems. He spuriously believes she is every reason why and who he is today. The thing is, I've known Charlie Hallorann just shy of a decade now. Before he was who he is today, he was a roadkill collector in the good ol’ Centennial State of Colorado. He was a private contractor that drove a flatbed transport on the diverse canyon roads and collected carcasses, sometimes operating a winch system for the sizable ones, and transported the bodies to appointed landfills. He claims he made $40 a buck and averaged 500 buck a year. Not bad. He also was caretaker for his Mawmaw, whom suffered from clinical depression and dementia. The only time he has a compassionate, caring tone is when he speaks of her. She passed at the ripened age of 93. She left Charlie with a generous inheritance. Shortly after, he wandered his flabby ass down here. The Queen City of the South. I’m honestly unsure if he was a hired gun when he lived in the Southern Rockies. Don’t know. Don’t care. What I do know is that only since the minor bump on I-10, Libby Weaver became his antic, peculiar fetish. Now, Charlie Hallorann wants Channel 6’s top correspondent to be amongst the dearly departed. Dead as a doornail. Six feet under. Pushing daisies. 

Fuck.
The abandoned woman's womb. The dead drop Charlie spoke of in the message on the machine.

 Imitation Infants Manufacturing Plant. The old industrial building where clammy, perspiring illegals manufactured vinyl baby dolls, enhanced to resemble human babies. Heat set paints and oils. Fine human hair. Magnetically attached umbilical cord. Equipped with a battery-powered heartbeat simulator. It's actually quite disturbing. Besides being popular among sexually promiscuous, sloven pre-teens needing to be slapped with a feminism lesson, the dolls are also a favorite collectors item for adult females with secluded ovaries. The factory smells like foul, filthy thermal socks doused in godawful sauerkraut. It's not a pleasant place. Two years ago, Raymond Kalmbach, the fifty-three year old foreman of this factory, had apparently committed suicide. It was just days after enraged wholesalers blamed Imitation Infants for the recall of one-million dolls. The dolls' umbilical cord violated CPSC's possibility of choking threat injury regulation... or something like that. The thing is, Raymond Kalmbach didn't commit suicide. I know this, because I killed him. 

When it comes to suicide, sixty-four percent of men and forty percent of women make a bang-bang their choice of death, because it's brief and relatively painless. There's a lot I have to theorize when I make a firearm murder look like the deliberate taking of one's own life. The injury location. Distance of weapon from body. The angle. Number of shots fired. Gunpowder residue. Evidence of struggle. Etc. Etc. Etc.

 Being a professional murderer isn't effortless, trouble-free work, you know? Charlie's message said, "The dead drop is the abandoned woman's womb. Upper level. Check the honcho's office." The honcho's office being Raymond Kalmbach's workstation. An arrangement of corroded, battered lockers line the rearmost wall in the office. Mr. Kalmbach's compartment is stained with rotted gore juice in the form of an X. Sonuvabitch. 

Fuck.
Inside the disfigured, bloody compartment was the spoiled, rotted corpse of Raymond Kalmbach. Crammed in his decomposing rib cage was a crinkled, rucked note that read:

 Harry, 

You owe me.
Kill the reporter.
Charlie

 Fuck. He probably had a hard-on when he wrote it. He can't do it himself because he’s a pain-stalking, narcissistic fuck. I should have never turned down that job a month ago. 

Read Each Our Own Devil for free on Inkitt. https://www.inkitt.com/stories/horro690454?utm_source=shared_ios

Long time reader, first time writer here. I live near the Pub where Jeremy was last seen alive, and it’s a case that pops in my mind often. Though I never knew him personally, several of my friends did and we went to the same Middle and High School. I haven’t seen a write up for this case on here and I think it’s an especially interesting one given the evidence and the amount of time that has passed with no new leads or arrests.
Summary:
Jeremy Peck, 24 was out on the town with friends on Christmas Eve in 2010. It was something of a Christmas Eve tradition to bar hop on Christmas Eve in West Seattle. Jeremy and his friends began drinking at the (now closed) Rocksport Bar and Grill in the Junction and as the night wore on worked their way north to Yen Wor and finally settling next-door at the Admiral Pub.
At some point his friends left the pub, assuming Jeremy would walk home as he normally did. He was last seen outside the pub around 1AM.
Jeremy was unemployed at the time and lived with his Father around Fauntleroy Way and Juneau Street (about a 50 min walk from the pub or 15 min bus ride) When he didn’t show up for Christmas his father began to reach out to Jeremys friends to see if they knew where he was.
It wasn’t unusual for Jeremy to spend a few days with friends but he’d always at least call. With New Years approaching and still no sign of him, his father reported his disappearance to the police.
No official police investigation was launched by the SPD. But a volunteer party was launched, but turned up nothing.
One thing of note drudged up by friends occurred on Oct 1 months before Jeremys disappearance. Jeremy was smoking a cigarette in the back alley outside a different dive bar called Poggie’s Tavern. Suddenly, a man possibly in his 50’s with, white hair “just reached for a shovel out of a pickup truck and punched him twice and hit him twice with the shovel. Jeremy ran off down the alley. We all tried to pull the guy off of him but he chased him. The guy is insane." said the friend.
After multiple volunteer canvassing searches throughout the West Seattle greenbelts and ravines, searchers were still empty handed.
Jeremy has no history of mental illness, wasn’t on any medication and had no known reason to disappear.
Then, early in the morning on Jan 19, 2011 a badly decomposed body washed ashore on Murden Cove located on Bainbridge Island. The body was visible from road (Manitou Beach Drive) Using tattoos and dental records for reference, the body was positively identified as Peck’s.
Apparently because of the state of the body, they couldn't determine the manner of death.
Here’s where things get interesting.
After the discovery of the body, police began investigating the case as a possible homicide.
A new tip came in that said they saw Jeremy at a later hour then initially reported, after closing time between 2 and 3am at Admiral Pub. A witness reported seeing Peck getting into a white vehicle with two men described as “hispanic looking”.
Sometime after word spread that Jeremy’s body had been recovered, police received a tip that would surely blow the case wide open. A man returning home from work around 3:30AM on Christmas Eve night reported seeing two males on the lower Spokane Street Bridge dumping something heavy over the railing in the Duwamish River, which leads directly into Elliot Bay and eventually Puget Sound. He told police he saw what he thought was a body part in the object. The two men were standing next to a white BMW 500 Series.
Police began working to track down the two men reported to be on the scene at the bridge, in addition to the BMW. Whether police used surveillance footage from the bridge or other methods is unclear but the two men on the scene as well as the car were located and a search warrant on one of the guys houses was performed.
The vehicle was taken as evidence and during the investigation of the car, police found evidence of a struggle in the back seat. A broken rear passenger door handle and damaged window tinting led the detective to say in court “Based upon my experience with combative subjects inside police cars, I believe this damage could be consistent with some kind of struggle inside the car…”
The BMW was taken to the SPD crime lab where investigators found what appeared to be blood inside the vehicle. On April 4, using DNA evidence the lab results positively identified the blood found in the BMW as being Jeremy Pecks.
According to court documents, the owner of the BMW told police he lent his vehicle to one of the persons of interest during the month of December 2010. He said the person of interest was considering buying the vehicle but later decided against it.
Even more peculiar, and also according to court documents, cell phone records of one of the people of interest placed him very near the Spokane Bridge shortly before the eyewitness account after 3AM on Christmas Eve.
No charges were filed. Therefore, the individuals names have not been released. In 2012, the Seattle Police Department added Jeremy’s case to the ‘unsolved homicides’ list.
​
Considering the evidence gathered, cell phone records and blood identified in the car, why do you think the police haven't made any arrests in this case?
​
Thanks for reading.
Sources:
https://www.westsideseattle.com/west-seattle-herald/2011/07/12/update-2-witness-jeremy-peck-case-spotted-two-men-dumping-heavy
https://footprintsattheriversedge.blogspot.com/2011/01/122410-jeremy-peck-24-seattle-wa.html

To my fellow smokers in Australia, have you guys tried manitou cigarettes? They are quite pricy at supermarkets and i've never seen anyone smoke them. They market themselves as "organic" and i'm not sure what that means exactly? Do they not taste like pure chemicals or are the "ethically sourced". Again if anyone has tried them could you guys let me know what they taste like as i'm getting sick of these budget smokes like shaung xi and choice that taste like i'm inhaling paint.

I like to keep track of what TV Shows/Movies/Books cross over or give nods to other series and considering the implications of it, so I specifically focus on those that imply (or brazenly state) that the characters share a universe. Buffy and Angel have had quite a few, so I thought I'd share to alleviate some boredom.
From the Shows/Official Canon:
In the very first episode of Buffy, we get a nod to "The Old Ones", which are part of the Cthulhu Mythos of H.P. Lovecraft. There are other more explicit references elsewhere, but this is how we kick things off.
Bad Eggs features the Gorch Brothers and mentions that they massacred a town before they were turned into vampires. This is a reference to the film The Wild Bunch.
Buffy vs Dracula is an obvious example, as Dracula is one of the most crossed-over characters in fiction. He stands proud alongside the aforementioned Cthulhu, Sherlock Holmes, Tarzan, and Batman. We will be seeing a few of those down the line. Dracula gets nods and references several times in the Buffyverse. These include Buffy/Angel crossover comic Past Lives which is steeped in Dracula stuff.
Listening to Fear has Joyce name-drop "Wally's World" which is from National Lampoon's Vacation.
Soulless was directed by Sean Astin of Lord of the Rings fame and he just HAD to feature a tomb full of dwarven runes front and center in a prominent shot. He just HAD to!
Harm's Way has probably my favorite crossover, where a Wolfram and Hart trainee video mentions their clients: "Weiland-Yutani (Alien), Yoyodyne (Buckaroo Banzai) and Fox News Corp."
That Vision Thing has Wesley mention a creature called a "Wan-Shang Dhole" in his research. That creature does appear somewhere else, an episode of The X-Files, which was written by the man who wrote That Vision Thing.
Hellbound has a double nod and some pretty awesome ones at that. While looking at texts for their research in re-corporealizing Spike, Wesley notes the "Necronomicon de Mortes" and "The Magdalene Grimoire". The first is an obvious alteration of the Necronomicon Ex Muerte from the Evil Dead series. The second is a nod to Neil Gaiman's Sandman.
Buffy Season 8 #6 has a brief cameo of The 10th Doctor and Rose from Doctor Who.
Buffy Season 11 #12 has the dragon that kicked off the season utter distinct roar onomatopoeia: "Skreonk!" A giant dragon from the pacific ocean that utters THAT sound could really be an Erzatz Godzilla for the story.
Dark Horse Free Comic Book Day 2012 "In Space, No One Can Hear You Slay" is a sort of Buffy/Aliens crossover.
Crossovers From Tie-In Material/Expanded Universe:
The comic miniseries (and its sequel) Angel vs Frankenstein is self-explanatory.
The novel These Our Actors has a flashback where Spike sees A Scottish Play where the lead is played by a dead-ringer for James Bond, Hamish Bond. Other details make this little nod more of a crossover thanks to other James Bond crossover notes.
Tales of the Slayer vol. 2 "House of the Vampire, London, England, 1897" has, naturally, another nod to Dracula (Peter Van Helsing is the watcher of the current slayer), but also two nods to Sherlock Holmes, as well as wax figures or Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, Jack the Ripper, and Lizzie Borden. They start the adventure by chasing the legendary Springheel Jack. Springheel Jack also shows up in the novel Out of the Madhouse.
In the first issue of Spike vs. Dracula, a flashback is shown where the Slaughtered Lamb appears. This is the infamous bar from the excellent An American Werewolf in London. Later, in the 5th issue, Spike lays into Dracula's reputation, talking about how he's fought Frankenstein, The Wolf Man, King Arthur, and Zorro. The thing of it is, all of those exist as published stories!
In the novel Night of the Living Rerun, the "The Book of Eibon", a Cthulhu Mythos tomb, appears.
The novelization of the Angel episode City Of has Angel and Doyle reference/pass by the "Greystoke Mansion." The Greystoke family is best represented by its most famous family member: Lord John Greystoke, who grew up as Tarzan.
City of Despair was a webcomic once hosted in the Dark Horse website where Buffy and Angel are kidnapped to be gladiators in an extradimensional arena. In the background in the barracks are a Yaut'ja/Predator and Hellboy. Given the timing and other factors, I like to think of it as "That Time Buffy Participated in Mortal Kombat" but that is partly speculative.
Tales of the Slayer Volume 4 has the story "Undeadsville" where the Slayer in question is implied to be the sister of Illya Kuryakin, a Russian defector from the series The Man from UNCLE.
The comic tale Viva Las Buffy has a cameo of characters from the Dark Horse comic The Devil's Footprints (which was done by the writer of that story arc).
Angel Spotlight: Doyle has Doyle say he's mistaken for a man named Mark Healy, which he says happens to him all the time. One of those "Nod to an Actor's prior Roles" sort of things, this time, to the show Rosanne.
In Buffy Vol 1. #43-45, Spike needs to borrow a Shear of Cytorrak. Cytorrak is a Marvel demon-god thing that empowered the Unstoppable Juggernaut.
Spike: Asylum has our bad boy in a demon/monster sanitarium meant to cure them of 'evil' that was created by Ivo Shandor, who was the source of the problems in Ghostbusters.
Spike: Old Wounds has Spike and Angel battling a Kandarian Predator Demon. Kandarian demons are from the Evil Dead series.
Angel Spotlight: Wesley has Gunn mention the "Ilithid" case, referencing the Dungeon & Dragons monsters.
Dark Congress, a Buffy Novel, has "Shuggoths" and "Yurgoths" (which is a minor corruption of Shoggoths and beings from "Yuggoth" from the Cthulhu Mythos). It also claims that Lovecraft died closing a Hellmouth in Providence, Rhode Island, which mixes pretty well with how he was portrayed in Supernatural. Though that he was given monster-cancer by the Venitori Umbrorum for selling their secrets to the Thule society in the Dresden Files adds a wrinkle to it.
Fallen Angel: Reborn has Illyria try to reclaim her power in the city between worlds run by Lee, the Fallen Angel.
Blooded, a Buffy Novel, has Lord Byron appear in the past talking to the Slayer of the time period. He gives her an off feeling. The writer of this novel also wrote novels for Highlander, and guess what? In Highlander: The Series, Lord Byron was an Immortal.
From Other Series:
Since Charmed started as an attempt to cash in on Buffy, it's unsurprising that they nod to it a few times. One episode ("The Power of Two") has the old "Where's Buffy when you need her?" line. Since Charmed gets a few nods from other crossover series listed below, I'm including this one here.
An episode of the Sci-Fi show Eureka, "God is in the Details" has a character suggest that the town's location was built on a Hellmouth. Since Buffy came out, the term has skyrocketed in use since... the 14th century. So, for Crossover Purposes, it is being referenced.
Simon R. Green's Ghost of a Chance has the "Scooby Gang" of Sunnydale mentioned, alongside them are mentioned to the Cthulhu Mythos, Ghostbusters, Carnacki, The X-Files, Drinking Midnight Wine, Frankenstein, and The Monkey's Paw.
Andy Barker P.I.'s one claim to fame is name-dropping the Double-Meat Palace.
The Interdimensional Metafictional horror Mary Shelly Lovecraft battled Cassie Hack of the comic series Hack/Slash in the story"Something Fishy" and tells Cassie "You are interesting. Perhaps not as widely loved as that summers girl... but still compelling.” She goes on to say that she brought Deep Ones (Cthulhu Mythos) to Haverhill (the real-world source for Archie) to cause a metafictional disruption. Mary also mentions “I should be glad it’s you, the girl with mommy issues and no special skills, instead of that red devil boy” (Hellboy),
The Deacon Chalk novel Blood and Bullets allude to Sunnydale, as well as having crossover nods to Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter, Night Huntress (a novel series that began with 2007's Halfway to the Grave), Sonja Blue, Dracula, Supernatural and Blade. A later novel in the series also includes Buffy alongside nods to Solomon Kane, King Arthur, and Evil Dead among a few prior nods.
The 2002 Doctor who Novel Camera Obscura has "William the Bloody Awful Poet" attend a seance with Eighth Doctor and Anji Kapoor.
Supernatural "The Mentalist" has an Orb of Thesulah mentioned. Earlier, in "Hell House," one of a pair of dwebish paranormal investigating, the Ghost Facers, tries to calm the other by asking "What would Buffy do?" to which the other replies "But she's way stronger than me." If not for the other reference, this would be dismissed as simple pop-culture call-outs, but now it becomes a sign that these two were more clued in than the episode otherwise suggests. Finally, in Season 15, a Hellmouth is featured.
The Gen 13 Novel Netherwar is penned by a writer I've alluded to several times as a writer who does a LOT of tie-in novels for TV shows, Christopher Golden, Buffy among them. A Hellmouth is a prominent plot point in this Vegas adventure. 'De Vermis Mysteries' of the Cthulhu Mythos is referenced, and the story implies that the adult leader of the team, John Lynch, is Nick Fury.
The movie House of the Dead 2 states that Cuesta Verde University is "Just Outside Sunnydale."
The 2011 comic miniseries Legion of Monsters featured Elsa Bloodstone, Morbius the Living Vampire, The Living Mummy, Manphibian, Werewolf by Night, Dracula, Daimon Hellstrom, and another Hellmouth.
West Coast Avengers vol. 3 #10 has Dimension-Hopping Heroine America Chavez use her powers to lead her teammates in an escape -- the World of Nothing But Shrimp that Illyria mentioned several times.
In American Horror Story Apocalypse “Could It Be...Satan?”, one of the witches from Coven refers to the Hotel Cortez as a Hellmouth, in an episode written by Tim Minear, making it a more solid reference.
In the Cacophony:
The novel Crépuscule Vaudou is one of those "Mega Crossover" Stories with nods and shout-outs all over the place. Buffy is among them. As is White Zombie, The Black Coats, Arsene Lupin, The Cthulhu Mythos, Brother Voodoo (a Marvel character), Child's Play, Tales of the Zombie, Revolt of the Zombies, James Bond, Angel Heart, Duke de Richleau, I Walked With a Zombie, John Thunstone, Kolchak the Night Stalker, Pirates of the Caribbean, Captian Blood, Lorna Doone, Gulliver's Travels, the works of Stephen King ("Jerusalem's Lot"), Leatherstocking Tales, Charmed, Treasure Island, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, John Carter of Mars, The X-Files, Moby Dick, The Narrative of Arthur Gordan Pym of Nantucket, Mayfair Witches, Doc Savage, The Phantom, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, The Wild Wild West (TV Series), Gone with the Wind, Oz, The Lone Ranger, Sherlock Holmes, Martin Hewitt, The Shadow, The Body Snatchers (the story on which Invasion of the Body Snatchers was based), L'Enigmatique Fen-Chu, Carnack: Ghostfinder, Atlantida, and The Exorcist.
Oddly, the Buffy reference in Crépuscule Vaudou isn't to anything from the show, but one of the tie in novels (Tales of the Slayer II "Blood and Brine"), so, points for novelty.
Eugenics Wars: The Rise of Khan Noonien Singh Volume 1 is a story about Gary Seven and Robert Lincoln's attempts to stop a project to create supermen. So Many crossovers. Among them, there's an encounter with Robot Housewives in Connecticut that is mentioned in passing (Stepford Wives). One of the eugenics workers is a sallow bug-eyes man named Mr. Eyegor (Young Frankenstein). A scientist named Maggie Erickson is featured, who is engaged to a man named Mr. Walsh. So, when they marry, she becomes Maggie Walsh. The original Frankenstein is referenced. Other references/cameos/nods include Avengers (TV series), Six Million Dollar Man, The Pretender, Beauty and the Beast (80s TV Show), Bionic Woman, Modesty Blaze, Knight Rider, and The Equalizer. This is also, obviously, a crossover with Star Trek.
Tales of the Shadowmen, a celebration of crossover nods*,* has a few Buffy issues to its name. Volume 7: Femmes Fatales features a story Fiat Lux with nods to Buffy, The Nyctalope, Cyrano de Bergerac, The Three Musketeers, The Scarlet Pimpernel, the 1950s tv series The Invaders, and the Belgian comic series Blake and Mortimer.
Volume 10: Espirit de Corps has the story "True Believers" has a Hellmouth referenced. It also has appearances or references to: Sâr Dubnotal, Blithe Spirit (1941), Lensman, Simon Ark, Sherlock Holmes, Dark Shadows, Semi-Dual (The Occult Detector (1912)), Doctor Strange, John J. Malone, Kenneth J. Malone, Network (1976 film), I Dream of Jeannie, Northern Exposure, Jane Arden, The Continental Op, Nate Heller, Judex, Dr. Spektor, Some Like It Hot, Little Caesar, Scarface, "Robin and the 7 Hoods", Dick Tracy, The Big Lebowski, Morris Klaw, Suicide Squad (Novel Series that began with Mr. Zero and the FBI Suicide Squad), Theodosia Throckmorton, John Thunstone, Fergus O'Breen, Rocket to the Morgue, Call Northside 777, Ghostbusters, Cthulhu Mythos, "Bell, Book and Candle", Mr. Mulliner, Carnacki, Special Unit 2, and The Quincunx of Time.
Volume 11: Force Majeure "Don't Judge a Book By Its Title" is a fun run on "Wait, you have the wrong Necronomicon" at the core of its story. Here are references to the Cthulhu Mythos, Evil Dead, Ghostbusters, Sâr Dubnotal, Baal (of Renée Dunan's 1924 novel of the same name), and Female Vampire (a 1975 film). And the Buffy nod? Ash thinks that, aside from being the one "Destined to fight the forces of darkness," hangs out with the band Slayer.
Volume 12: Carte Blanche has a collection of nods to Doctor Omega (an Erzatz Doctor Who), The Adventures of a Parisian Aeronaut in the Unknown Worlds, Arsène Lupin, Kolchak: The Night Stalker, Dracula, Sherlock Holmes, C. Auguste Dupin, Fantômas.
The Merkabah Rider series is another "So full of references its nuts" series. In "The War Shaman," The Watcher's Council and the Order of Kun-Sun-Dai (from Angel "Awakening" and "Cavalry") are referenced as allies to the Merkabah Riders. Other series references in the story are the Cthulhu Mythos, The Lord of the Rings, Moby Dick, King Arthur, Doctor Who, Quantum Leap, and Monk. Also, the entity known as Misquamacus takes its name from a novel series that was turned into an utterly bizarre movie called The Manitou. The story "Merkabah Rider: Once Upon a Time In the Weird West" has Richard Wilkins the First show up, alongside nods to many of the things previously references, as well as Simon of Gitta, Meaner than Hell, Solomon Kane, Kull, Conan the Barbarian, Steve Harrison, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Ghostbusters, Kung Fu, Indiana Jones, Batman, Something Wicked This Way Comes, House II: The Second Story, Oz, Winchester '73, The Wild Bunch, The Quick and the Dead, Hombre, Zorro, and The Lone Ranger.
The Quest of Frankenstein is similar. In this novel series, many crossovers are made. The Master of the Order of Aurelius and "His Blond Companion" Darla appear. Other series referenced include The Mythos once again, "The Creeper" (from The Pearl of Death, House of Horrors and the MST3K feature The Brute Man), Doc Savage, Conan, John Kirowan, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, Carmilla, Dark Shadows, World of Watches, Nosferatu, Underworld, Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter, Black Sunday, The Vampire Chronicles, Vampire City, The Black Coats, The Island of Doctor Moreau, The Most Dangerous Game, The Vampyre (1819), The Count of Monte Cristo, Tombs of the Blind Dead, Lord Peter Wimsey, Waldemar Daninsky, Curse of the Crimson Altar, Captain Kronos - Vampire Hunter, P. G. Wodehouse's Works, Viy, The Mummy (1932), and She (Who Must Be Obeyed).
Harry Dickenson vs. The Spider has a short story in it called "The Mark of the Red Leech" -- this World War I Tale has a Colonel Wyndham Price appears investigating the vampiric attacks of the "Red Leech" (Varney the Vampire). Private Henry Jones Junior (Indiana Jones), Captain Dickenson (Harry Dickenson), Colonel Renwick (an ally to Doc Sampson), Private Simpson (The Simpsons), Captain Eliot Spencer (who eventually becomes the cenobite known as Pinhead from Hellraiser/The Hellbound Heart), and Captain Ulysses Paxton (The Master Mind of Mars, part of the Burrough's Mars series) appear in the story. Obviously, Harry Dickenson and The Spider appear as well as nods to Dracula, and The Wandering Jew's Daughter.
There are a lot of "Bland Name Products" in media, to prevent lawsuits mostly. One of the most prolific is Morley Cigarettes. This thing has its own Wiki page). And the fictional company's wiki has a few more video games listed that reference it indirectly.
Another Bland-Name Product, Sugar Bombs, or Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs, appears in many series. It shows up in Out of My Mind in Buffy. Most notably, Sugar Bombs have shown up in Marvel's Runaways (Vol 2, #7), The Incredibles 2, the videogame Fallout, and, of course, Calvin and Hobbes. There are a few others, but none truly worth noting. And, given Fallout, that has to be taken as an Alternate Universe.
And in the realm of Notable Parody:
Vampirella vs. Fluffy is one of the... lamer versions of this sort of thing. It's always galling to hear a female character talk about how her Sling Swimsuit is totally empowering and no one should judge when the story is written by a man. At least Vampi doesn't kill the Buffy analog.
Big Wolf On Campus has "Muffy the Werewolf Slayer" as an episode. This is definitely more homage than parody. Oddly, between the timing of it, and the look of the title character, "Muffy" could very easily be Faith Lehane if the crossover is incorporated.
But I am always on the search for more.

The place is Manitou Springs, CO. My wife and I at the time had a long commute between work and our home. We drove to the city in the day time, came to our apartment in the evening. We had our youngest daughter at the time and was unloading some groceries. My wife saw in the corner of her eye a figure coming. It was bizarre for her to get defensive since many tourist walked the road we lived on, Ruxton Ave. She took our daughter inside right away fearing something admist. She came back out to help me and told me she felt weak all of a sudden and started pointing at this lady walking up the hill. She noticed the person did not look like someone she wanted to be in the presence of and fled inside immediately after seeing what they looked like. I however stayed, not knowing what I would make eye contact with. She looked homeless, which was common as a lot of people came to Colorado for the pot craze. This was different, she had burlap sacks cut in sections that almost had a weird aura, almost a memorization of confusion. Her face was scared and deformed, she looked like she had a hump back but possibly could have been carrying supplies. I made eye contact for only a moment, almost feeling a energy pushing me away. She had a staff too. She was walking very slow. I got chills, turned to grab the last of the bags and as soon as I did, she was gone. I knew she would be there, and my curiosity struck me to see what this entity was. But she vanished. Poofed into no where, one way street with a river next to the road. I later went out later that night to enjoy a cigarette. It was two or three in the morning. Very late, super dark, no lights on the street. It was a hill, so I looked up the road. I noticed up the pass in the faint distance I could see colors changing. Almost like a flame burning, but not the same colors. It was more purple, blue, black. I still do not know to this day what this "thing" was. If it was a trick, it was well played, but the street has a very dark history. No doubt in my mind, this thing was a demon of some sort.

Hey all, First off, apologies if there's relational dynamics or boundaries with the plant (and especially it's commodification) that I miss/overstep as a non-Native. I help run a specialty tobacco shop, and would love to carry indigenous owned tobacco if possible. Having an alternative to offer when I break the news that American Spirit is owned by RJ Reynolds would be great. The use of appropriated symbols by AS tends to give a lot of people misconceptions. Even my boss thought the company was at least part owned/partnered with Native communities. If anyone has clarity about this, that would also be greatly appreciated. The other piece I wanted to ask about is the cigarette brand Manitou. We got a catalogue from them the other day, and what little info I could find hinted that they're a German company. Can anyone confirm this? I wouldn't be surprised given Germany's historical fixation/stereotyping/appropriation. Thanks.

by Nathanael West 26 The door was locked. Lem hammered on it, but no one answered. He went to the woodpile to get an axe and there found Jake Raven lying on the ground. He had been shot through the chest. Hastily snatching up the ax Lem ran to the cabin. A few hearty blows and the door tum- bled in. In the half-gloom of the cabin, Lem was horrified to see the Pike man busily tearing off Betty's sole remaining piece of underwear. She was struggling as best she could, but the ruffian from Missouri was too strong for her. Lem raised the axe high over his head and started forward to interfere. He did not get very far because the ruffian had prepared for just such a contingency by setting an enormous bear trap inside the door. Our hero stepped on the pan of the trap and its saw- toothed jaws closed with great force on the calf of his leg, cutting through his trousers, skin, flesh and halfway into the bone besides. He dropped in a heap, as though he had been shot through the brain. At the sight of poor Lem weltering in his own blood, Betty fainted. In no way disturbed, the Missourian went coolly about his nefarious business and soon accomplished his purpose. With the hapless girl in his arms he then left the cabin. Throwing her behind his saddle, he pressed his cruel spurs into his horse's sides and galloped off in the general direction of Mexico. Once more the deep hush of the primeval forest de- scended on the little clearing, making peaceful what had been a scene of wild torment and savage villainy. A squirrel began to chatter hysterically in a treetop and from somewhere along the brook came the plash of a rising trout. Birds sang. Suddenly the birds were still. The squirrel fled from the tree in which he had been gathering pine cones. Something was moving behind the woodpile. Jake Raven was not dead after all. With all the stoical disregard of pain for which his race is famous, the sorely wounded Indian crawled along on his hands and knees. His progress was slow but sure. Some three miles away was the boundary line of the California Indian Reservation. Jake knew that there was an encampment of his people close by the line and it was to them that he was going for help. After a long, torturous struggle, he arrived at his des- tination, but his efforts had o weakened him that he fainted dead away in the arms of the first redskin to reach him. Not before, however, he had managed to mumble the following words: "White man shoot. Go camp quick. . . ." Leaving Jake to the tender ministrations of the village squaws, the warriors of the tribe assembled around the wigwam of their chief to plan a course of action. Some- where a tom-tom began to throb. The chief's name was Israel Satinpenny. He had been to Harvard and hated the white man with undying venom. For many years now, he had been trying to get the Indian nation to rise and drive the palefaces back to the countries from which they had come, but so far he had had little success. His people had grown soft and lost their warlike ways. Perhaps, with the wanton wounding of Jake Raven, his chance had come. When the warriors had all gathered around his tent, he appeared in full regalia and began a harangue. "Red men!" he thundered. "The time has come to protest in the name of the Indian peoples and to cry out against that abomination of abominations, the paleface. "In our father's memory this was a fair, sweet land, where a man could hear his heart beat without wondering if what he heard wasn't an alarm clock, where a man could fill his nose with pleasant flower odors without finding that they came from a bottle. Need I speak of springs that had never known the tyranny of iron pipes? Of deer that had never tasted hay? Of wild ducks that had never been banded by the U.S. Department of Conservation? "In return for the loss of these things, we accepted the white man's civilization, syphilis and the radio, tuberculosis and the cinema. We accepted his civilization because he himself believed in it. But now that he has begun to doubt, why should we continue to accept? His final gift to us is doubt, a soul-corroding doubt. He rotted this land in the name of progress. and now it is he himself who is rotting. The stench of his fear stinks in the nostrils of the great god Manitou. "In what way is the white man wiser than the red? We lived here from time immemorial and everything was sweet and fresh. The paleface came and in his wisdom filled the sky with smoke and the rivers with refuse. What, in his wisdom, was he doing? I'll tell you. He was making clever cigarette lighters. He was making superb fountain pens. He was making paper bags, doorknobs, leatherette satchels. All the power of water, air and earth he made to turn his wheels within wheels within wheels within wheels. They turned, sure enough, and the land was flooded with toilet paper, painted boxes to keep pins in, key rings, watch fobs, leatherette satchels. "When the paleface controlled the things he manu- factured, we red men could only wonder at and praise his ability to hide his vomit. But now all the secret places of the earth are full. Now even the Grand Canyon will no longer hold razor blades. Now the dam, O warriors, has broken and he is up to his neck in the articles of his manufacture. "He has loused the continent up good. But is he trying to de-louse it? No, all his efforts go to keep on lousing up the joint. All that worries him is how he can go on making little painted boxes for pins, watch fobs, leatherette satchels. "Don't mistake me, Indians. I'm no Rousseauistic phi- losopher. I know that you can't put the clock back. But there is one thing you can do. You can stop that clock. You can smash that clock. "The time is ripe. Riot and profaneness, poverty and violence are everywhere. The gates of pandemonium are open and through the land stalk the gods Mapeeo and Suraniou. "The day of vengeance is here. The star of the paleface is sinking and he knows it. Spengler has said so; Valéry has said so; thousands of his wise men proclaim it. "O, brothers, this is the time to run upon his neck and the bosses of his armor. While he is sick and fainting, while he is dying of a surfeit of shoddy." Wild yells for vengeance broke from the throats of the warriors. Shouting their new war cry of "Smash that clock!" they smeared themselves with bright paint and mounted their ponies. In every brave's hand was a tomahawk and between his teeth a scalping knife. Before jumping on his own mustang, Chief Satinpenny ordered one of his lieutenants to the nearest telegraph office. From there he was to send code messages to all the Indian tribes in the United States, Canada and Mexico, ordering them to rise and slay. With Satinpenny leading them, the warriors galloped through the forest over the trail that Jake Raven had come. When they arrived at the cabin, they found Lem still fast in the unrelenting jaws of the bear trap. "Yeehoieee!" screamed the chief, as he stooped over the recumbent form of the poor lad and tore the scalp from his head. Then brandishing his reeking trophy on high, he sprang on his pony and made for the nearest settlements, followed by his horde of blood-crazed savages. An Indian boy remained behind with instructions to fire the cabin. Fortunately, he had no matches and tried to do it with two sticks, but no matter how hard he rubbed them together he alone grew warm. With a curse unbecoming of of his few years, he left off to go swimming in the creek, first looting Lem's bloody head of its store of teeth and glass eye. 27 A few hours later, Mr. Whipple rode on the scene with his load of provisions. The moment he entered the clearing he knew that something was wrong and hurried to the cabin. There he found Lem with his leg still in the bear trap. He bent over the unconscious form of the poor, muti- lated lad and was happy to discover that his heart still beat. He tried desperately to release the trap, but failed, and was forced to carry Lem out of the cabin with it dangling from his leg. Placing our hero across the pommel of his saddle, he galloped all that night, arriving at the county hospital the next morning. Lem was immediately admitted to the ward, where the good doctors began their long fight to save the lad's life. They triumphed, but not before they had found it necessary to remove his leg at the knee. With the disappearance of Jake Raven, there was no use in Mr. Whipple's returning to the mine, so he re- mained near Lem, visiting the poor boy every day. Once he brought him an orange to eat, another time some simple wild flowers which he himself had gathered. Lem's convalescence was a long one. Before it was over all of Shagpoke's funds were spent, and the ex- President was forced to work in the livery stable in order to keep body and soul together. When our hero left the hospital, he joined him there. At first Lem had some difficulty in using the wooden leg with which the hospital authorities had equipped him. Practice, however, makes perfect, and in time he was able to help Mr. Whipple clean the stalls and curry the horses. It goes without saying that the two friends were not satisfied to remain hostlers. They both searched for more suitable employment, but there was none to be had. Shagpoke's mind was quick and fertile. One day, as he watched Lem show his scalped skull for the twentieth time, he was struck by an idea. Why not get a tent and exhibit his young friend as the last man to have been scalped by the Indians and the sole survivor of the Yuba River massacre? Our hero was not very enthusiastic about the plan, but Mr. Whipple finally managed to convince him that it was the only way in which they could hope to escape from their drudgery in the livery stable. He promised Lem that as soon as they had accumulated a little money they would abandon the tent show and enter some other business. Out of an old piece of tarpaulin they fashioned a rough tent. Mr. Whipple then obtained a crate of cheap kerosene lighters from a dealer in pedlar's supplies. With this meager equipment they took to the open road. Their method of work was very simple. When they arrived at the outskirts of a likely town, they set up their tent. Lem hid himself inside it, while Mr. Whipple beat furiously on the bottom of a tin can with a stick. In a short while, he was surrounded by a crowd eager to know what the noise was about. After describing the merits of his kerosene lighters, he made his audience a "dual" offer. For the same ten cents, they could both obtain a cigarette lighter and enter the tent where they would see the sole survivior of the Yuba River massacre, getting a close view of his freshly scalped skull. Business was not as good as they had thought it would be. Although Mr. Whipple was an excellent salesman, the people they encountered had very little money to spend and could not afford to gratify their curiosity no matter how much it was aroused. One day, after many weary months on the road, the two friends were about to set up their tent, when a small boy volunteered the information that there was a much bigger show being given free at the local opera house. Realizing that it would be futile for them to try to compete with this other attraction, they decided to visit it. There were bills posted on every fence, and the two friends stopped to read one of them. FREE FREE FREE Chamber of American Horrors Animate and Inanimate Hideosities also Chief Jake Raven COME ONE COME ALL S. Snodgrasse Mgr. FREE FREE FREE Delighted to discover that their red-skinned friend was still alive, they set out to find him. He was coming down the steps of the opera house just as they arrived there, and his joy on seeing them was great. He insisted on their accompanying him to a restaurant. Over his coffee, Jake explained that after being shot by the man from Pike County, he had crawled to the Indian encampment. There his wounds had been healed by the use of certain medicaments secret to the squaws of his tribe. It was this same elixir that he was now selling in con- junction with the "Chamber of American Horrors." Lem in his turn told how he had been scalped and how Mr. Whipple had arrived just in time to carry him to the hospital. After listening sympathetically to the lad's story, Jake expressed his anger in no uncertain terms. He con- demned Chief Satinpenny for being a hothead, and as- sured Lem and Mr. Whipple that the respectable members of the tribe frowned on Satinpenny's activities. Although Mr. Whipple believed in Jake, he was not sat- isfied that the Indian rising was as simple as it seemed. "Where," he asked the friendly redskin, "had Satinpenny obtained the machine guns and whisky needed to keep his warriors in the field?" Jake was unable to answer this question, and Mr. Whipple smiled as though he knew a great deal more than he was prepared to divulge at this time. 28 "I remember your administration well," said Sylvanus Snodgrasse to Mr. Whipple. "It will be an honor to have you and your friend, whom I also know and admire, in my employ." "Thank you," said both Shagpoke and Lem together. "You spend today rehearsing your roles and tomor- row you will appear in the pageant." It was through the good offices of Jake Raven that the above interview was made possible. Realizing how poor they were, he had suggested that the two friends abandon their own little show and obtain positions in the one with which he was traveling. As soon as Shagpoke and Lem left the manager's office an inner door opened and through it entered a certain man. If they had seen him and had known who he was, they would have been greatly surprised. Moreover, they would not have been quite so happy over their new jobs. This stranger was none other than the fat man in the Chesterfield overcoat, Operative 6348XM, or Comrade Z as he was known at a different address. His presence in Snodgrasse's office is explained by the fact that the "Cham- ber of American Horrors, Animate and Inanimate Hideos- ities," although it appeared to be a museum, was in reality a bureau for disseminating propaganda of the most sub- versive nature. It had been created and financed to this end by the same groups that employed the fat man. Snodgrasse had become one of their agents because of his inability to sell his "poems." Like many another "poet," he blamed his literary failure on the American public in- stead of on his own lack of talent, and his desire for revolution was really a desire for revenge. Furthermore, having lost faith in himself, he thought it was his duty to under- mine the nation's faith in itself. As its name promised, the show was divided into two parts, "animate" and "inanimate." Let us first briefly con- sider the latter, which consisted of innumerable objects culled from the popular art of the country and of an equally large number of manufactured articles of the kind detested so heartily by Chief Satinpenny. ("Can this be a coincidence?" Mr. Whipple was later to ask.) The hall which led to the main room of the "inanimate" exhibit was lined with sculptures in plaster. Among the most striking of these was a Venus de Milo with a clock in her abdomen, a copy of Power's "Greek Slave" with elastic bandages on all her joints, A Hercules wearing a small compact truss. In the center of the principal salon was a gigantic hemorrhoid that was lit from within by electric lights. To give the effect of throbbing pain, these lights went on and off. All was not medical, however. Along the walls were tables on which were displayed collections of objects whose distinction lay in the great skill with which their materials had been disguised. Paper had been made to look like wood, wood like rubber, rubber like steel, steel like cheese, cheese like glass, and, finally, glass like paper. Other tables carried instruments whose purposes were dual and sometimes triple or even sextuple. Among the most ingenious were pencil sharpeners that could also be used as earpicks, can openers as hair brushes. Then, too, there was a large variety of objects whose real uses had been cleverly camouflaged. The visitor saw flower pots that were really victrolas, revolvers that held candy, candy that held collar buttons and so forth. The "animate" part of the show took place in the auditorium of the opera house. It was called "The Pageant of America or A Curse on Columbus," and consisted of a series of short sketches in which Quakers were shown being branded, Indians brutalized and cheated, Negroes sold, children sweated to death. Snodgrasse tried to make ob- vious the relationship between these sketches and the "inanimate" exhibit by a little speech in which he claimed that the former had resulted in the latter. His arguments were not very convincing, however. The "pageant" culminated in a small playlet which I will attempt to set down from memory. When the curtain rises, the audience sees the comfortable parlor of a typical American home. An old, white-haired grandmother is knitting near the fire while the three small sons of her dead daughter play together on the floor. From a radio in the corner comes a rich, melodic voice. Radio: "The Indefatigable Investment Company of Wall Street wishes its unseen audience all happiness, health and wealth, especially the latter. Widows, orphans, cripples, are you getting a large enough return on your capital? Is the money left by your departed ones bringing you all that thy desired you to have in the way of comforts? Write or telephone . . ." Here the stage becomes dark for a few seconds. When the lights are bright again, we hear the same voice, but see that this time it comes from a sleek, young salesman. He is talking to the old grandmother. The impression given is that of a snake and a bird. The old lady is the bird, of course. Sleek Salesman: "Dear Madam, in South America lies the fair, fertile land of Iguania. It is a marvelous country, rich in minerals and oil. For five thousand dollars — yes, Madam, I'm advising you to sell all your Liberty Bonds — you will get ten of our Gold Iguanians, which yield seventeen per cent per annum. These bonds are se- cured by the first mortgage on all the natural resources of Iguania." Grandmother: "But I . . ." Sleek Salesman: "You will have to act fast, as we have only a limited number of Gold Iguanians left. The ones I am offering you are part of a series set aside by our company especially for widows and orphans. It was neces- sary for us to do this because otherwise the big banks and mortgage companies would have snatched up the entire issue." Grandmother: "But I . . ." The Three Small Sons: "Goo, goo. . . ." Sleek Salesman: "Think of these kiddies, Madam. Soon they will be ready for college. They will want Brooks suits and banjos and fur coats like the other boys. How will you feel when you have to refuse them these things because of your stubbornness?" Here the curtain falls for a change of scene. It rises again on a busy street. The old grandmother is seen lying in the gutter with her head pillowed against the curb. Around her are arranged her three grandchildren, all very evidently dead of starvation. Grandmother (feebly to the people who hurry past): "We are starving. Bread . . . bread . . ." No one pays attention to her and she dies. An idle breeze plays mischievously with the rags drap- ing the four corpses. Suddenly it whirls aloft several sheets of highly engraved paper, one of which is blown across the path of two gentlemen in silk hats, on whose vests huge dollar signs are embroidered. They are evidently millionaires. First Millionaire (picking up engraved paper): "Hey, Bill, isn't this one of your Iguanian Gold Bonds?" (He laughs.) Second Millionaire (echoing his companion's laughter): "Sure enough. That's from the special issue for widows and orphans. I got them out in 1928 and they sold like hot cakes. (He turns the bond over in his hands, admiring it.) I'll tell you one thing, George, it certainly pays to do a good printing job." Laughing heartily, the two millionaires move along the street. In their way lie the four dead bodies and they al- most trip over them. They exit cursing the street cleaning department for its negligence. 

A Cool Million: or, The Dismantling of Lemuel Pitkin ©1934 by Nathanael West
from Two Novels by Nathanael West: The Dream Life of Balso Snell & A Cool Million Fifteenth printing, 1982 Farrar, Strauss and Giroux : New York, pp. 154 - 166

Bought a pack of Manitou Organic Green, and boy it was the first big nicotine buzz I've had since I started smoking. I don't know whether it was it was the additive free, the quality of the tobacco, or just the strength (I'm pretty sure the green is weaker than some of the other colours) but it was a pleasent change. Others had similar experience with similar cigarettes like Manitou or American Spirit? (which of course I can't get in Australia)

So I've been smoking Winfield skys tailored cigarettes in Australia for ages, and the quality is just not what it used to be. I picked up a pouch of Manitou organic tobacco today and it's the best smoke I've had in a while...I got a massive head spin though. Tobacconist didn't know the strength though, and I can't find shit on the internet. Can anyone help me out?

I've been using TarGards (permament, metal inserts, http://www.targard.com/permanent-cigarette-filters) for a long time now. They are great. I don't smoke without them anymore. I'm rolling with Manitou tobacco, sometimes without a filter, and the taste is incomparable.
My issue with the TarGards is their products seem to vary ever so slightly, so I don't get a consistent smoke between different inserts. Probably due to the machining process or whatever. Seems like the ports are slightly larger, or slightly smaller. So I have about seven inserts and mouthpieces, but only use two of them, because the others don't have the same draw.
I've been looking at Friend Holders (http://www.cigaretteholders.com/Filtered-Friend.html - bottom most item). I'm thinking of trying them next. I've also found another brand selling something almost identical, but not online (Aztec).
Anyone care to share their experiences?

Amidst the hype of our Enduro, 650b, hydraulic, pneumatic buzzword-mobiles, it is easy to lose track of the past. But it wasnt that long ago when our sport was in it's infancy, though it seems a lifetime ago. We were once driven by 7 gears, suspended by rubber, and barely clinging on to our laughable safety gear as we hurled ourselves down terrain previously trod upon by only the rain.
There stands in my mind, a few bikes that completely turned the sport around on it's heels and ordered it to march in a different direction. Occasionally that direction was not the most efficeint, safe or fast, but revolution is not defined as progress, just change.
How the full suspension bike was homologated from the pro circuit to the dealership floors is one of the highlights of my youth, the suspension chassis platform was in it's infancy when I was in high school and I was just itching to pull the trigger on a brand new bike. The only drawback being, then as now, the multi-thousand dollar pricetags of the glistening, anodized aircraft-grade aluminum displayed before me.
I had mowed and raked and shoveled and begged and even felled a tree to be able to afford my first real bike. It was by no means top of the range, a steel Specialized with no suspension, but for a fourteen-year-old it was my first ticket to the amusement park we refer to as outside.
I skipped classes, ditched my girlfriend, disobeyed my elders and scoffed the law on my bike. I upgraded everything on it and spent thousands on anodized parts, suspension, wheels, and then finally pedals and shoes after a time. When I snapped my foot into my SPD for the first time is when I became serious about my bike.
I kept the Specialized for a while, it had changed hands among my friends a few times, and finally was retired out of our circle. We were animals by then, our bikes were the absolute cream of the crop. We scoffed at inefficient full suspension and big travel. We were pushing the limits of lightweight and durability, sometimes with catastrophic result. I had snapped a Manitou Palmer in half, a friend had sheared a Race Face Air Carbon handlebar, we had put wheels into shapes that Pythagoras himself would have trouble understanding.
We remained in love with our sport, but eventually adulthood crept in to steal our time. We all got jobs, kids, marriage, and we got lazy. We sold our thousands of dollars on the hundred and we got our licenses. Some of us got fat. I smoked cigarettes.
I bought myself a graduation present in 2001, a Gary Fisher Hoo Koo E Koo. I still have it to this day. For about eight years it remained stock. I kept it in the back of my truck just in case I needed a runabout when off-roading. It got rusty and looked used, the paint peeled off on it.
One day I decided to take the old girl out. I brought a bottle of water and dusted off my 15 year old Diadoras. I snapped my feet into my SPDs for the first time again. The bike is too small for me by about three inches, it ran like dogshit and I felt like I was respirating through a bedspread. But I was back.
I took the Fisher down to the frame and stripped the badly peeled paint off, not being remoltely artistic, I bought a can of Krylon and sprayed it flat black. I had a box of old parts from way back when that I held onto. Marzocchi, XTR, Mavic, Dura-Ace, all things from my past that stirred emotions in me.
The long road lay ahead. I quit smoking and bought a new bike, a GT Avalanche. The Avalanche had ticked off a few boxes that really spoke to me, first was pedigree. I am a sucker for a good GT. The running gear on her was fine, XT, FSA, Avid, RockShox. I put on a set of Easton wheels and really great Continental tires.
The Avalanche and I had one of those relationships normally reserved for first loves or best friends. I loved the way that thing handled. Apparently, the relationship wasn't meant to be, when I crashed and bent my frame beyond repair.
It doesnt matter though, does it? Of course I bought a new bike immediately thereafter, a top-of-the range Cannondale this time. It was obscenely expensive and is about as reliable as a narcoleptic airline pilot, but this bike is the fastest thing I have ever pedaled. Ever.
I found my dream bike as well, a GT LTS-1. It's the bike that i drooled over as a child and now, deep into my thirties, I have one to call my own. I baby it, I polish it till my fingers bleed. It breaks my heart every time something happens to it. I just spent 600 bucks getting the suspension refitted. A nice Risse Shock and a NOS Manitou fork with a King headset.
It's bizarre how I flog the fragile, purebred ultralight Cannondale to the point where I'm wearing the paint off it, yet I sit for hours with this 20 year old hunk of aluminum, staring at it. It's the embodiment of my youth.
I had never stopped with the sport, even through the lazy days. Having worked on and off in the industry since 1997, I am now on my eighth year at my current place, and it's a great industry to be in. The best job I ever had dreamed of. I get paid to talk about and ride bikes all day.
I don't want to come off as another industry vet, though I am. I can get snobby sometimes, I admit. I know which wheel size is absolutely the best ever, and I know what 2015 and beyond will bring for us. The sport is moving faster than i have ever seen it.
There is no point to my writing this morning, perhaps killing time, with all the snow. I am anxiously waiting for the next time i can get out there. It's been weeks and I feel terrible.
I suppose that I want you all to know that no matter who you are, no matter what condition you are in, we are all out there together.
Together, we ride.