The Wild West Extravaganza

In the spring of 1883, a group of very dangerous men began gathering outside of Dodge City, Kansas. Men with names like Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Shotgun Collins, and Doc Holliday. Killers, all of ‘em. Men familiar with the weight of a revolver in hand and the smell of black powder smoke. They gathered to rally around one man, their compadre who had recently been forced out of town by a crooked mayor and a small army of vigilantes. That man’s name was Luke Short. A cowboy turned scout turned

When one thinks of the great judges of Yore, certain names stand out above the rest. Names like Judge Harold T. Stone. Judge Judith Sheindlin. Judges Wapner, Mathis, and Joe Brown. Judge Reinhold, Judge Dredd and Mike Judge all bear remembering. But towering over these colossal judicial minds stands one man, one legend so interwoven into the fabric of modern-day jurisprudence you’d be remise not to pay him homage. And that man’s name was Roy Damn Bean. That’s right - Judge Roy Bean - to be exact

"I've labored long and hard for bread, For honor, and for riches, But on my corns too long you've tread, You fine-haired sons of bitches." These are the words of Black Bart, the gentleman bandit who preferred to leave poems at the scene of the crime rather than dead bodies. Black Bart wasn’t a killer and he never really hurt anyone, except maybe for Wells Fargo, who’s stagecoaches he robbed at least 28 times throughout his career, taking thousands of dollars in the process. Black Bart would pay for