Delicious chicken cutlet sub from Tony Baloney … asked for no bacon ... They surprise by replacing the bacon with frito lays. Didn’t hate it. Love that place

Rewatching The Last Dance. jordan is unique. No celebrations. Phil saying enjoy it, this is the last dance! MJ going for the kill every single time. His support players Rodman, Kerr, Tony all doing their thing. Scottie in a suit.

Anyone else hoping that Andor’s writers continue following the Rebellion story arc through ep 6… maybe chewbaka and Solo cameos. Season finale with Luke on the medal stand

Love this team. Thank you for the incredibly exciting run. #KNICKS 💙🧡

The Israeli Embassy staffers murdered by a pro-Palestinian communist terrorist while leaving the Jewish Museum in Washington D.C. were Yaron Lischinsky & Sarah Lynn Milgrim. The young couple were about to get engaged next week This is what chanting “Globalize the Intifada” does

Miracle Halliburton shot but in OT the no call on the block, I mean that was crazy. That completely changed the game

Knicks have been winning on late defensive stops all playoffs

Q: "Do you have 1 favorite moment?" Patrick Ewing: "When we beat Indiana to get to the Finals. Game 7…The Garden…I can still taste that moment…I can still feel that moment" Ewing that night in 1994: 🏀 24 points 🏀 22 rebounds 🏀 7 assists 🏀 5 blocks

Mitchell Robinson with the most amazing defensive display in the playoffs I’ve ever seen! He helped out on 4 Celtics then sealed Brown off in the left corner for the steal which led to 2 pts. #Knicks lead 36-22 with 8 mins left in the first half.

To be clear, if you didn’t catch my meaning… I don’t think this is winning any awards… re the comment about the studio, thats also a dig at the garbage some studios green-light. It’s still incredible that a machine wrote this relatively intricate plot, with relatively little guidance.

Can one NBA talking head, just one, do a segment on the incredible (and often illegal) screens the Detroit guards have been setting on the Knicks wing players. @BillSimmons … I haven’t seen anything like this in over 25 years, and maybe ever on offense

**Chapter 11: The Ledger and the Dawn** The copper mine’s smoldering ruins glowed faintly against the breaking dawn, tendrils of smoke curling into a sky streaked with gold and pink. Billy stood over Charlie’s still form, dust settling on his blood-stained shirt, the weight of loss pressing hard against his chest. Jim dragged Blackjack’s unconscious body to a gnarled oak, securing him with rope, his scarred face slack but menacing even in defeat. Mary knelt nearby, sobbing softly as she clutched her children—two small, shivering figures dwarfed by the chaos they’d escaped. Her whispers of gratitude mingled with grief, a fragile thread in the morning’s quiet. Billy’s gaze shifted to Blackjack’s fallen gear, scattered in the dirt where Jim had knocked him cold. A leather satchel lay half-open, its contents spilling—a ledger, its edges worn but pages thick with ink. Billy crouched, snagging it with a steady hand, and flipped it open. Names, dates, numbers—Hargrove’s empire laid bare: land stolen from widows, debts forced on farmers, villages razed for railroads. Every line was a scar on the West, every entry a life crushed under greed. “This is it,” Billy murmured, voice low and fierce. “The key to buryin’ him.” Jim trudged over, wiping sweat from his brow. “Blackjack’s tied tight—law’ll hang him proper now. What’s that book?” Billy held it up, eyes blazing. “Hargrove’s sins, Jim. Every damn one. We ain’t just stoppin’ him—we’re burnin’ his whole damn world down.” Jim’s lips twitched into a grim smile. “Charlie’d like that.” A soft rustle broke the stillness—Little Wolf emerged from the scrub, Charlie’s battered hat clutched in his small hands. His eyes were wide, glistening with unshed tears as he looked at Charlie’s body. “He saved you,” the boy whispered, voice trembling but resolute. Billy nodded, throat tight. “Spread it, kid—Charlie was one of us. A hero to the end.” Little Wolf gripped the hat tighter, a silent vow in his stance. Hooves thundered in the distance, growing louder as a dozen riders crested the ridge—the Mescalero Apache chief leading his clan, their faces painted with purpose. The chief dismounted, his braids swaying as he approached, flint-sharp eyes locking onto Billy. “We heard the gunfire,” he said, voice steady as stone. “Your man gave his life for kin—ours stand with you now.” He gestured to the warriors behind him, armed with rifles and resolve, their silhouettes stark against the rising sun. Billy rose, the ledger heavy in his grip, its pages a weapon sharper than any bullet. “Hargrove’s bled this land dry—stole from your people, my family, everyone who can’t fight back. This,” he tapped the book, “proves it all. I’m takin’ him down—not just for me, but for the West. You in?” The chief’s gaze hardened, a nod sealing the pact. “Our blades, our blood—for freedom.” Billy turned west, dust swirling around him as he mounted his stallion, the ledger tucked against his chest. The chief and his clan flanked him, a growing storm of defiance. Charlie’s sacrifice burned in his veins, a spark igniting a revolution to free the land from Hargrove’s chokehold. The horizon stretched wide, promising battles yet to come, hope flickering in the dawn—but the war was just beginning.

**Chapter 10: The Trap and the Sacrifice** The old copper mine loomed under a blood-red sunset, its rusted scaffolds clawing at the darkening sky. Billy, Jim, and Charlie dismounted at the entrance, the air cool and heavy with rust. Charlie’s hands shook as he tied his horse, his breath hitching. Before they stepped inside, he turned to Billy, eyes brimming with guilt. “Boss, I—I gotta come clean,” he stammered. “This is a trap. Blackjack’s got Mary and the kids—said if I didn’t lead ya here, they’re dead. I couldn’t tell ya sooner.” Billy’s jaw tightened, but his gaze softened as he clamped a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Hell, Charlie, we can’t just leave your sister to die. We’re goin’ in anyway—but smart.” He paused, scanning the mine’s jagged silhouette, then grinned—a spark of mischief cutting through the tension. “Here’s the play: we rig a decoy. Jim, grab that old crate over there—stuff it with rocks and drape my hat on it. We’ll roll it in like it’s me, draw ‘em out. Charlie, you stick close and holler like I’m hit when it goes down. I’ll flank ‘em from the side tunnel—Jim, you hold the front. We get Mary out, no matter what.” Jim hefted a splintered crate, piling it with stones and crowning it with Billy’s weathered hat. “Crazy as hell, but it might work,” he grunted, rolling it toward the mine’s mouth. Charlie nodded, swallowing hard, and they stepped into the shadows, the air thick with damp and echoes. The crate rattled in first, a clattering shadow in the flickering lantern light. “There’s the Kid!” Blackjack’s voice snarled from the dark, and his men opened fire—bullets shredded the crate, hat tumbling. Charlie yelled, “Billy’s down!” his voice cracking with feigned panic. Blackjack emerged, pistol raised, his scarred face twisted in triumph—until Billy burst from a side tunnel, Colts blazing. Two shots cracked, dropping ambushers with leg hits, their rifles clattering to the dirt. Jim charged the front, snapping a rifle barrel and clubbing another man down. Charlie fired wild, his bullet shattering a lantern—oil flared, flames licking the walls, boxing Blackjack in. Billy darted through the chaos, finding Mary and her kids in a side tunnel, wrists raw from ropes. “Go—now!” he barked, slashing their bonds and shoving them toward the exit. The kids whimpered, Mary clutching them as they ran. Blackjack lunged from the smoke, his pistol flashing—Billy spun, but the angle was tight. “Gotcha now, Kid!” Blackjack roared, finger on the trigger. Charlie’s eyes widened—he dove, shoving Billy aside as the shot rang out. The bullet tore through his chest, blood blooming red as he hit the dirt. Billy caught him, horror etching his face. “Charlie, no—” Charlie clutched Billy’s arm, gasping, “Sorry, boss… only way to save ‘em.” His voice faded, a faint smile flickering as his eyes dimmed. Billy held him, voice breaking. “You damn fool—you’re a hero, hear me?” Jim roared, charging Blackjack—his fist smashed the hunter’s jaw, bone cracking as Blackjack crumpled, out cold. The flames roared, driving the last of Blackjack’s men out or down. Billy rose, dragging Blackjack’s limp form outside, tying him tight with rope from his saddle. Jim kicked dirt over a smoldering ember. “Finish him, Billy—head shot, clean.” Billy shook his head, grim. “No. He’ll hang proper—ain’t stoopin’ to his level.”

**Chapter 9: The Return to the Mine** The trio rode toward the old copper mine as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the rusted scaffolds and yawning tunnels. Charlie gripped his reins tight, his knuckles white, eyes darting to every rustle in the scrub. Billy noticed, nudging his stallion closer. “You’re sweatin’ like a pig in a butcher shop, Charlie. What’s got you wound up?” Jim chimed in, smirking. “Yeah, kid, you look like you saw a ghost—or stepped in somethin’ nasty.” Charlie forced a laugh, high and thin. “Just ain’t fond of tight spots, is all. Spiders, y’know?” Billy grinned, tipping his hat. “Spiders, huh? We’ll protect ya from the big bad bugs.” They dismounted at the mine’s entrance, the air cool and heavy with the tang of rust. Billy lit a lantern, its flickering light dancing on the damp walls as they stepped inside. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he said, voice casual but sharp, his Colts at the ready. Jim flexed his massive hands, scanning the dark. “Gold better be worth it, kid.” Charlie nodded, mute, his heart pounding as he led them deeper, every echo a countdown to doom.

**Chapter 8: The Ultimatum** Dusk painted Mary’s cabin in shades of amber, a fragile speck against the sprawling plains. Inside, Mary hushed her two children—pale, wide-eyed little ones clinging to her skirt—as Blackjack’s shadow filled the doorway. He kicked it open, his boots thudding on the warped floor, a predator in their sanctuary. “Your brother’s ridin’ with Billy the Kid,” he rasped, voice low and menacing. “Write him a letter. Tell him to bring Billy to the old copper mine—alone, no tricks. If I think the Kid smells a rat, you and these brats are dead.” He tossed a scrap of paper and a stubby pencil at her feet, his scarred hand resting on his revolver. Mary’s hands trembled, tears streaking her face as she scratched out the words: *Charlie, they’ve got us. Lead Billy to the mine—don’t let him suspect anything. Please, or we’re gone.* Blackjack snatched the note, sealed it, and rode off, nailing it to the gang’s hideout door under cover of night. “He’ll bite,” he muttered, a cruel grin spreading. “Blood always does.” Charlie found the letter at first light, pinned to the weathered wood. His breath caught as he ripped it free, reading Mary’s desperate scrawl. His knees buckled, guilt and fear twisting his gut, but he stuffed the note into his coat, hiding the tremor in his hands. He trudged back to camp, where Billy was saddling his stallion. Forcing a grin, Charlie said, “Hey, boss, been thinkin’—that old mine? Bet there’s still some gold in them tunnels. Could be worth a look, huh?” Billy cocked an eyebrow, studying him. “You’re jumpier than a jackrabbit, Charlie. What’s eatin’ ya?” Charlie shrugged, too quick. “Nothin’, just hate mines. Dark and all.” Billy chuckled, clapping his shoulder. “Alright, kid. Lead the way—but ease up, huh? You’re makin’ me nervous.”

**Chapter 7: The Letter** The gang hunkered down at their desert camp, the fire reduced to glowing embers under a vast, starry sky. Billy sharpened a knife, lost in thought about the ledger, while Big Jim chewed on a strip of jerky, keeping watch. Charlie sat off to the side, fidgeting with a creased letter in his hands, his brow furrowed. “Gotta mail this to my sister,” Charlie said, standing abruptly and brushing dust off his trousers. “She’s countin’ on me to send word—and some cash.” Jim looked up, his deep voice steady but firm. “Hold off, kid. Blackjack’s prowlin’ too close—ain’t safe to ride out alone.” Charlie waved him off, a stubborn glint in his eye. “I ain’t a kid, Jim. Been dodgin’ trouble since Lincoln. I’ll be quick—post office and back.” Jim frowned, shaking his head. “Just be careful, Charlie. You’re too damn green to see what’s comin’.” Charlie smirked, grabbing his hat. “Worry about your own hide, big man. I got this.” He saddled up and rode into the night, the faint clop of hooves fading as he headed for Lincoln’s outskirts. The post office was a ramshackle hut, its warped boards groaning in the wind. Charlie handed the letter—a note to his sister Mary with a few crumpled bills tucked inside—to a nervous clerk, then tipped his hat and stepped out, oblivious to the eyes watching from the shadows. A wiry man with a scar splitting his lip—one of Blackjack’s crew—lurked in the alley, his memory flashing to the Lincoln heist: Charlie fumbling with that fuse, sparks flying. “That’s the Kid’s clown,” he muttered, slipping away to report back. An hour later, Blackjack stormed into the post office, his scarred face twisting into a snarl. “Letter from a runt named Charlie—where is it?” The clerk stammered, pointing to a pile of outgoing mail. Blackjack rifled through, snagging the envelope with Mary’s homestead address scrawled in Charlie’s shaky hand. He tore it open, scanning the note—*Sis, keep the young’uns fed. More soon. —Charlie*—and chuckled darkly. “Family man, huh? Perfect.” Pocketing the letter, he mounted up and rode hard for Mary’s homestead, the promise of leverage lighting his cold eyes.

**Chapter 6: The Setup**  Blackjack spread a rumor like poison through Lincoln’s veins—Hargrove had foreclosed on the town’s orphanage, leaving kids to starve in the streets. It was a lie, but Blackjack knew Billy’s weakness for the downtrodden. "He’ll bite," Blackjack muttered, his scarred face twisting into a grin as he watched the bank from a shadowed alley. "Then I’ll have him." Billy heard the tale from a trembling farmer at the Apache camp. "Hargrove’s gone too far," the man whispered, wringing his hat. Billy’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing. "We hit the bank—take back what’s theirs." Jim grunted, "Could be a trap." Billy shrugged. "Trap or not, kids ain’t starvin’ on my watch." They rode into Lincoln under a heavy sky, the town too quiet, the streets unnaturally still. Billy’s gut twisted—something was off. The people milled about, tense, their eyes darting like cornered prey. "Too damn quiet," he murmured, scanning the rooftops. "Pull back, boys. We’re out." He wheeled his stallion around, signaling the retreat, but as they turned, Blackjack and his posse sprang from the alleys, rifles blazing. "Go!" Billy shouted, spurring his horse as bullets whizzed past. Little Wolf, who’d followed in secret to see Billy in action, rode up from the scrub, his pony’s hooves pounding. "This way!" he yelled, pointing to a hidden trail snaking through the mesas. Billy’s eyes widened. "Kid, you’re a marvel!" They tore down the path, Blackjack’s men on their heels. The trail led to a barn hidden by scrub oak. They piled in, hay crunching underfoot, the air thick with livestock musk. The farmer—a grizzled man with a weathered face—met them at the door, his eyes lighting with recognition. “Billy, you old dog,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Heard what you’re doin’—givin’ back to folks Hargrove’s crushed. You and your boys are welcome here. I’ll keep ya hid—owe ya that much for savin’ my kin from the bank’s claws.” Billy nodded, a quick grin flashing. “Much obliged, friend. Keep ‘em guessin’.” Blackjack’s lantern bobbed closer, his gravel voice barking, hounds baying. Billy crouched in the loft, peering through a slat as the farmer stepped out. “Ain’t seen ‘em,” the farmer lied, chewing straw, pointing east. “Heard hoofbeats thataway.” Blackjack cursed, pulling a leather satchel from his coat and thumbing through a ledger stuffed with papers. “He’s here—I can smell him,” he growled, ledger in hand. He spat tobacco and veered off, his posse trailing. Billy’s eyes narrowed at the ledger. “That’s Hargrove’s dirt,” he whispered. “We need that book.”

**Chapter 5: The Mine Showdown**  Silver Creek Mine sprawled under a dawn sky streaked blood-red, a jagged maze of scaffolds and dynamite pits gouged into the foothills. Sulfur and sweat choked the air, chains clanking as debtors—men with hollow eyes and cracked hands—toiled under Hargrove’s overseers. Billy and his gang slipped in at first light, clad in ragged coveralls snatched from a laundry line, faces smudged with coal dust to blend with the damned. "Quick and quiet," Billy whispered, crouching behind ore crates, his twin Colts snug against his hips. Big Jim—once Hargrove’s enforcer, turned by a kid’s tears—nodded, his bulk straining the disguise. Charlie clutched a shovel, muttering, "I ain’t built for sneaky." Billy smirked, his voice low to avoid detection. "Just don’t blow it, huh?" They crept toward the prisoners’ pen, where shackled men labored under the whip’s crack. Billy signaled Jim to take the lead, eyeing the rusted gate barring their freedom. Big Jim moved first, gripping the gate with both hands. He heaved, muscles bulging, and the gate ripped free—too free—crashing into a water tank with a groan of splintered wood. A flood roared out, a muddy torrent that swept Charlie off his feet, spinning him into a pile of barrels. "Jim, you ox!" he sputtered, soaked to the bone, hat plastered to his head like a drowned rat. Billy doubled over, laughter barking out despite the stakes. "You two are a damn show—subtle as a cannon!" Guards charged, boots pounding, rifles raised, alerted by the crash and flood. Chaos erupted—Charlie’s shovel slipped from wet hands, clonking a guard square in the temple, dropping him cold. "I meant that!" he lied, scrambling up. Big Jim waded in, hurling men like sacks of grain, his fists cracking jaws with the force of a sledge. Billy’s Colts flashed, three rapid shots aimed high at the wooden beams above the guards’ heads. A wiry guard froze, yelling, "He missed!" Billy tipped his hat, grinning. "Don’t be so sure, friend." Shards rained down as the beams splintered, and a rope snapped, dropping a net of cargo netting over the trio, tangling them in a heap. The prisoners, spurred by the commotion, grabbed picks and surged forward. Billy and Jim slashed their chains, freeing them in a frenzy of clanking iron. But Billy barked, “Pull those guards out—ain’t leavin’ ‘em to die!” He darted to the netting, cutting ropes with his knife, while Jim and Charlie hauled the dazed guards clear, dumping them in the dirt beyond the mine’s mouth. Charlie lit the dynamite fuse, his hands steadier now, and the mine erupted in a thunderous plume of dust and flame, rubble collapsing as they sprinted free with the guards safe behind them. A widow, her face lined with grief, gripped Billy’s arm as they fled, her voice trembling. “Hargrove worked my husband to death here—buried him in that pit. You’re our light in this hell.” Tears cut tracks through the soot on her cheeks. Billy tipped his hat, eyes hard but kind. “Spread it wide, ma’am—we’re takin’ him down, piece by piece.” She nodded, clutching a freed child, and vanished into the dawn. Billy glanced at Jim, voice low. "Ain’t here to kill—just to free what’s chained." Jim nodded, respect flickering in his eyes.

**Chapter 4: The Villain’s Throne**  In Santa Fe, Nathaniel Hargrove’s empire sprawled across maps and ledgers, but today he stood in a dusty Lincoln branch office, his crimson jacket stark against the adobe walls. He’d ridden in to oversee the heist’s fallout, polished boots clicking as he swirled bourbon, the amber glinting in the lamplight. He sneered at his aide, a twitchy man in a too-tight suit pacing the rug. "The Kid’s a gnat on my fortune," Hargrove drawled, voice smooth but venomous. Profit was his god, the poor mere ants to crush—expendable unless they fed his wealth. Years ago, he’d dismissed a widow’s pleas with a pen stroke, her ruin a footnote. Now, her son—or so whispers hinted—was striking back, and that stung deeper than lost gold. "He’s hit three banks in a month," the aide stammered, mopping sweat from his brow. "Folks call him a hero." Hargrove slammed his glass down, bourbon sloshing. "Hero? He’s a flea! Twenty thousand for his head—dead, alive, I don’t care. Get me Blackjack." The aide bolted, tripping over the rug’s edge. Hargrove leaned back, a thin, venomous smile curling his lips. "Time’s up, whoever you are. I’ll bury you like the rest." He paused, adding under his breath, "Blackjack’s a bloodhound—sniffs out kin to trap his prey."

**Chapter 3: The Campfire Pact**  Night cloaked the desert in velvet, stars piercing the dark like bullet holes. The gang rode into a Mescalero Apache camp nestled in a hollow, ringed by scrub pines and mesas. Firelight danced across weathered faces, the air thick with sagebrush and roasting rabbit. Women stirred pots, kids darted between tents, and the chief—a wiry man with flint-sharp eyes—stepped forward, braids swaying as he nodded to the riders. The leader dismounted, dust clinging to his boots, and tossed a gold sack—lighter after Charlie’s spill—into the chief’s hands. "For the families Hargrove torched," he said, voice low and steady. Little Wolf, a scrappy boy with a mop of dark hair and a mischievous grin, bolted from the crowd. "You kept it!" he crowed, skidding to a stop at the leader’s feet, eyes aglow with hero-worship. The leader knelt, tipping his hat with a faint smile. "Promises ain’t just words, kid. You’ll see." The chief weighed the sack, then clasped the leader’s hand, his grip iron. "You’re kin now. Hargrove’s men burned our homes for his rails—your fight’s ours." Charlie, wringing out his damp shirt by the fire, piped up, "Who’s this Hargrove fella, anyway?" The big man, leaning against a pine, snorted, his shadow stretching long. "Banker scum. Thinks he owns the dirt, the sky, and every soul west of the Pecos." The leader’s jaw tightened, eyes glinting in the firelight as he stared into the flames. Little Wolf plopped beside him, legs crossed, and pressed, "You’ll stop him, right? Make him pay?" The leader ruffled the kid’s hair, a shadow crossing his face. "Bet your boots, Little Wolf. He owes blood—mine, yours, all of us he’s crushed." Charlie, gnawing on jerky, leaned too close to the fire—his sleeve caught a spark, and he yelped, stumbling back over a log into the dirt, jerky flying. "Aw, hell!" The camp burst into laughter—kids giggling, warriors smirking—and he muttered, "Always the damn joke." The leader shook his head, grinning. "Stick to fallin’, Charlie. You’re a pro at that." The big man clapped, his guffaw echoing. "Boy’s a walkin’ punchline!" Billy’s voice softened. "You’re one of us, Charlie—clumsy or not. That’s what counts."