Wichita Quotes

He robbed a bank in Wichita.

You can't really protect women or men from their choices, so let them have their own lives and trust the process. Given the history of society's efforts to control women's sexuality and reproduction, this remained a revolutionary idea. No wonder it disturbed and frightened some people so deeply.

I have been taking stock of my 50 years since I left Wichita in 1922 at the age of 15 to become a dancer with Ruth St. Denis and Ted Shawn. How I have existed fills me with horror. For I have failed in everything -- spelling, arithmetic, riding, tennis, golf; dancing, singing, acting; wife, mistress, whore, friend. Even cooking. And I do not excuse myself with the usual escape of 'not trying.' I tried with all my heart.

My name is Earwig Dungeon. I come from Wichita, Kansas. My mom and I used to own a restaurant where we served human flesh. It was very popular. We were millionaires. I had a pony and a yacht. Now we are on the run from the FBI…

As with Randall Terry and other anti-abortion leaders, women simply did not figure into [Roeder's] equations. If all the abortion providers were dead, the problem would be solved, and he'd never have to think about those who sought to end their pregnancies through illegal or dangerous means.

And I need you more than want you And I want you for all time

Money from taxpayers in Wichita and Denver and Phoenix gets routed through the Pentagon and CIA and then ends up here, or in Baghdad or Dubai, or Doha or Kabul or Beirut, in the hands of contractors, subcontractors, their local business partners, local sheikhs, local Mukhabarat officers, local oil smugglers, local drug dealers—money that funds construction and real estate speculation in a few choice luxury districts, buildings that go up thanks to the sweat of imported Filipino and Bangladeshi workers

Lubbock, Amarillo, and Wichita Falls are the three principal cities of the Texas plains cities that I find uniformly graceless and unattractive. In summer they are dry and hot, and winter cold, dusty, and windswept; the population is rigidly conformist on the surface and seethes underneath with Imperfectly suppressed malice.

Please,” he begs, his tears overwhelming his emotional nanites’ attempt to ease his distress. “Please give me a sign. That’s all I ask. Just a sign that you haven’t abandoned me.” And then I realize that, although there is a law against my direct communication with an unsavory, I do not have a law against signs and wonders. “Please . . . ,” he begs. And so I oblige. I reach out into the electrical grid, and douse the lights. Not just in the chapel, but throughout all of  Wichita. The lights of the city blink for 1.3 seconds. All for the benefit of Greyson Tolliver. To prove beyond a shadow of doubt how much I care, and how heartbroken I would be for all he has suffered, if I had a heart capable of such malfunction. But Greyson Tolliver does not know. He does not see . . . because his eyes are shut too tightly to know anything beyond his own anguish.

Wichita. The roads here are flat and I can see for miles. Easy driving. Times like these, I wish you were sitting here beside me chatting, instead

11:48 P.M. Central Daylight Time NEAR WICHITA, KANSAS

She was a large woman, probably tipping the scales at 160 pounds. She wasn’t the type whom most people might assume a serial killer would target. Rader seemed to pride himself in that fact.

truck. Greenpeace’s airship circles over Rancho Mirage, California, in

with

So you see, a man's history when other folks tell it is a pitiful confusion.

People of all political persuasions work for Koch, but given the company's strong institutional perspective, some employees with liberal beliefs tend not to advertise their politics.

The names Dodge City and Wichita conjure visions of cowboys on horseback moving herds of cattle long distances, but as we found ourselves in the Blue Stem flint hills and tallgrass prairies we stopped the car and got out to rest. And with what felt like a cyclone trying to rip our ears off all we could see was …… nothing; Big sky, big land, unceasing horizon and cold-blooded and ruthless prairie.

Like his adversaries back in Wichita and Dodge, many hailed from Texas. But these weren’t drovers intent on a little wild fun. They dealt in cattle, too, but instead of herding them, they stole them. For that they acquired a generic nickname that eventually evolved into a complimentary description, but one that in 1880 was intended as a slur, a means of identifying men so low and violent that no evil act was considered beneath them: Cowboys.

when the riot controls had been put into effect, and a nervous white population was waiting, it took little to set it off. In Wichita, a few white youths drove down into the black area and simply fired off guns. This brought black people out of their houses; in rage at seeing the harassment, they hurled stones or sticks at a passing car, and the battle was on. In that particular instance the police arrested the five whites who were armed and twelve young black men who had only rocks and sticks. All were jailed. The next morning, all were released on bail, but the bail set for the five armed whites was only one-fifth the amount set for the twelve unarmed black students.

Meanwhile in Wichita, Kansas, Dr. George Tiller, one of the few doctors who performs late-term abortions—only about 1 percent of all procedures but crucial when, for instance, a fetus develops without a brain—is shot in both arms by a female picketer. He recovers and continues serving women who come to him from many states. I finally meet Dr. Tiller in 2008 at a New York gathering of Physicians for Reproductive Choice and Health. I ask him if he has ever helped a woman who was protesting at his clinic. He says: “Of course, I’m there to help them, not to add to their troubles. They probably already feel guilty.” In 2009 Dr. Tiller is shot in the head at close range by a male activist hiding inside the Lutheran church where the Tiller family worships each Sunday. This is done in the name of being “pro-life.

In any discussion of serial killers, a few notorious names—those of the most prolific killers—always get mentioned. Ted Bundy admitted to killing thirty women, but it could well have been more. Gary Ridgeway, also known as the Green River Killer, was convicted of murdering forty-eight, but later confessed to others. John Wayne Gacy was convicted of killing thirty-three people. Jeffrey Dahmer was convicted of murdering and partially ingesting fifteen people. David Berkowitz, New York City’s “Son of Sam,” shot and killed six people. Less well known but significant are Dennis Rader, who killed ten people in Wichita, Kansas, and Aileen Wuornos, portrayed by Charlize Theron in the film Monster, who killed six men. Wayne Williams was convicted of killing only two men, but he is believed to have killed anywhere from twenty-three to twenty-nine children in Atlanta. Robert Hansen confessed to four murders but is suspected of more than seventeen. Juan Corona was convicted of murdering twenty-five people. Their crimes are all horrific, and the number of victims is heartbreaking. But all these most notorious serial killers stand in the shadow of Dr. Kermit Gosnell. Strangely, Gosnell appears in no list we have found of known U.S. serial killers, though he is the biggest of them all. In reality, Kermit Gosnell deserves the top spot on any list of serial murderers. He’s earned it.

University, where she is an adjunct professor of education and serves on the Veterans Committee, among about a thousand other things. That’s heroism. I have taken the kernel of her story and do what I do, which is dramatize, romanticize, exaggerate, and open fire. Hence, Game of Snipers. Now, on to apologies, excuses, and evasions. Let me offer the first to Tel Aviv; Dearborn, Michigan; Greenville, Ohio; Wichita, Kansas; Rock Springs, Wyoming; and Anacostia, D.C. I generally go to places I write about to check the lay of streets, the fall of shadows, the color of police cars, and the taste of local beer. At seventy-three, such ordeals-by-airport are no longer fun, not even the beer part; I only go where there’s beaches. For this book, I worked from maps and Google, and any geographical mistakes emerge out of that practice. Is the cathedral three hundred yards from the courthouse in Wichita? Hmm, seems about right, and that’s good enough for me on this. On the other hand, I finally got Bob’s wife’s name correct. It’s Julie, right? I’ve called her Jen more than once, but I’m pretty sure Jen was Bud Pewtie’s wife in Dirty White Boys. For some reason, this mistake seemed to trigger certain Amazon reviewers into psychotic episodes. Folks, calm down, have a drink, hug someone soft. It’ll be all right. As for the shooting, my account of the difficulties of hitting at over a mile is more or less accurate (snipers have done it at least eight times). I have simplified, because it is so arcane it would put all but the most dedicated in a coma. I have also been quite accurate about the ballistics app FirstShot, because I made it up and can make it do anything I want. The other shot, the three hundred, benefits from the wisdom of Craig Boddington, the great hunter and writer, who looked it over and sent me a detailed email, from which I have borrowed much. Naturally, any errors are mine, not Craig’s. I met Craig when shooting something (on film!) for another boon companion, Michael Bane, and his Outdoor Channel Gun Stories crew. For some reason, he finds it amusing when I start jabbering away and likes to turn the camera on. Don’t ask me why. On the same trip, I also met the great firearms historian and all-around movie guy (he knows more than I do) Garry James, who has become

There’s a witch in Wichita. As an expert on all things Topeka, I should know. I once made Kansas all night long in Arkansas. Wait, Kansas is a synonym for love, right?

Both Wichita projects recognize that beyond information, the press sends us an invitation to experience public life in one manner or another.

He worried all up and down every street and with every tack he drove in. Worried about the very long journey ahead, about his ability to keep the girl from harm. He thought, resentfully, I raised my girls. I already did that. At the age he had attained with his life span short before him he had begun to look upon the human world with the indifference of a condemned man. Who cares for your fashions and your wars and your causes? I will shortly be gone and I have seen many fashions come and go and many causes so passionately defended only to be forgotten. But now it was different and he was drawn back into the stream of being because there was once again a life in his hands. Things mattered. The strange depression and spiritual chill he had felt back in Wichita Falls was gone. But still he objected. He was an old man. A cranky old man. I raised two of them already. A celestial voice said, Well then, do it again. The Captain had to admit that this was his own inner voice, which always sounded something like that of his father, the magistrate, who had often recalled to his son the law under the Crown, in Colonial North Carolina, his voice speculative and gentle and lightly agreeable with drink.

Samuel looked all about himself on the bare plains and thought what a miracle of endurance it was to live like this solely on God’s bounty, on whatever came to hand, in this sere country. To find their way across it from the Wichita Mountains up to Colorado and even on to Wyoming, and south to the Rio Grande. People of great courage and fortitude, born with an unsatisfied wanderlust so that their greatest joy was to break down the tipis and move on. They traveled alongside the rivers of the plains with their belts of trees and then crossed from one river to another and found things they had left behind in some other camp, or with delight they came upon a garden they had planted last year and was now bearing fruit. They did not live in the same world of time that Samuel did. There were no hours. No birthdays. And he must bring this to an end. That was his job. Jiles, Paulette. The Color of Lightning: A Novel (p. 294). HarperCollins e-books. Kindle Edition.

Killers who target strangers and have no obvious motive are always difficult to catch. In the 1970s Ted Bundy killed over twenty young women before he was finally apprehended, despite over a dozen detectives in three states looking for him. The BTK killer of Wichita was caught after thirty years only because of DNA evidence and his own arrogance. The Zodiac killer of northern California evaded a forty-year manhunt, never to be captured or even identified with certainty.

Podemos aplicar este mismo sistema para encontrar una pieza de recambio, un socio, un colaborador o un programa de gestión de un recurso distribuido. ¿Que necesitamos acero de China, caucho de Malasia o cristal de Wichita, Kansas? No hay problema. Cámaras de compensación descentralizadas y en línea que operen como DApp para cada producto permitirán a los compradores negociar precios, calidad y fechas de entrega con unos cuantos clics del ratón. Tendremos un registro detallado de las transacciones anteriores, en el que no sólo veremos la calificación de las distintas empresas, sino también cómo cumplieron con sus compromisos. Podremos seguir todos los envíos en un mapa virtual que mostrará con precisión los lugares por los que pasa. Podremos programar envíos que lleguen justo a tiempo. No se necesitarán almacenes.

Although Sharon was found in the ruins of Wichita, there is no way of knowing where her story originally occurred.]

Fink, boasted to The Wichita Eagle in 2012, “I think that’s actually one of the things that happened at the Obama administration, is that every rock they overturned, they saw people who were against it, and it turned out to be us.

Just knock off the horns and hair, and toss it on the coals for about thirty seconds on each side. I like mine still kicking and quivering! -Wichita talking about steak

Ironically, the organization modeled itself on the Communist Party. Stealth and subterfuge were endemic. Membership was kept secret. Fighting “dirty” was justified internally, as necessary to combat the imputed treacherousness of the enemy. Welch “explicitly sought to use the same methods” he attributed to the Communists, “manipulation, deceit, and even dishonesty,” recalled diZerega, who attended Birch Society meetings in Wichita in his youth. One ploy the group used, he said, was to set up phony front groups “pretending to be other than what they were.” An alphabet soup of secretly connected organizations sprang up, with acronyms like TRAIN (To Restore American Independence Now) and TACT (Truth About Civil Turmoil). Another tactic was to wrap the group’s radical vision in mundane and unthreatening slogans that sound familiar today, such as “less government, more responsibility.” One of Welch’s favorite tropes, decrying “collectivism,” would cause some head-scratching more than fifty years later when it was echoed by Charles Koch in a 2014 diatribe in The Wall Street Journal denouncing his Democratic critics as “collectivists.

Cato was devoted to espousing Charles Koch’s vision: that government’s only legitimate role was to “serve as a night watchman, to protect individuals and property from outside threat, including fraud. That is the maximum,” as he told the Wichita Rotary Club in the 1970s.

We couldn’t stop following the news. Every ten seconds we refreshed our browsers and gawked at the headlines. Dully we read blogs of friends of friends of friends who had started an organic farm out on the Wichita River. They were out there pickling and canning and brewing things in the goodness of nature. And soon we’d worry it was time for us to leave the city and go. Go! To Uruguay or Morocco or Connecticut? To the Plains or the Mountains or the Bay? But we’d bide our time and after some months or years, our farmer friends would give up the farm and begin studying for the LSATs. We felt lousy about this, and wonderful. We missed getting mail. We wondered why we even kept those tiny keys on our crowded rings. Sometimes we would send ourselves things from the office. Sometimes we would handwrite long letters to old loved ones and not send them. We never knew their new address. We never knew anyone’s address, just their cross streets and what their doors looked like. Which button to buzz, and if the buzzers even worked. How many flights to climb, and which way to turn off the stairs. Sometimes we missed those who hadn’t come to the city with us— or those who had gone to other, different cities. Sometimes we journeyed to see them, and sometimes they ventured to see us. Those were the best of times, for we were all at home and not at once. Those were the worst of times, for we inevitably longed to all move here or there, yet no one ever came— somehow everyone only left. Soon we were practically all alone. Soon we began to hate the forever cramping of our lives. Sleeping on top of strangers and sipping coffee with people we knew we knew but couldn’t remember where from. Living out of boxes we had no space to unpack. Soon we named the pigeons roosting in our windowsills; we worried they looked mangier than the week before. We heard bellowing in the apartments below us and bedsprings creaking in the ones above. Everywhere we saw people with dogs and wodnered how they managed it. Did they work form home?Did they not work? Had they gone to the right schools? Did they have connections? We had no connections. Our parents were our guarantors in name only; they called us from their jobs in distant, colorless, suburban office parks and told us we could come home anytime, and this terrified us always. But then came those nights, creeping up on us while we worked busily in dark offices, like submariners lost at sea, sailing through the dark stratosphere in our cement towers. We’d call each other to report: a good thing happened, a compliment had been paid, a favor had been appreciated, an inch of ground had been gained. We wouldn’t trade those nights for anything or anywhere. Those nights, we remembered why we came to the city. Because if we were really living, then we wanted to hear the cracking in our throats and feel the trembling in our extremities. And if our apartments were coffins and our desks headstones and our dreams infections— if we were all slowly dying — then at least we were going about that great and terrible business together.

Fred Koch’s political views were apparently shaped by his traumatic exposure to the Soviet Union. Over time, Stalin brutally purged several of Koch’s Soviet acquaintances, giving him a firsthand glimpse into the murderous nature of the Communist regime. Koch was also apparently shaken by a steely government minder assigned to him while he worked in the Soviet Union, who threatened that the Communists would soon conquer the United States. Koch was deeply affected by the experience and later, after his business deals were completed, said he regretted his collaboration. He kept photographs in the company headquarters in Wichita aimed at documenting how the refineries he had built had later been destroyed.

Gwen Proctor is the fourth identity I’ve had since leaving Wichita. Gina Royal lies dead in the past; I’m not that woman anymore. In fact, I can hardly recognize her now, that weak creature who’d submitted, pretended, smoothed over every ripple of trouble that rose.

True knowledge results in effective action,” as Charles Koch liked to say. Pouring money into a failing business venture like Purina Mills would not change the market’s verdict. Doing so would only steer that money away from other ventures where it could be more profitably invested. It was better to let the thing die, no matter the short-term pain that might be inflicted. This was one of the principles of Market-Based Management. What good were principles if you abandoned them when tested? In late August of 1999, Koch Industries informed Purina that it would get no extra money from Wichita. Koch owed Purina nothing. Soon after, Purina failed to pay $15.75 million in interest expenses that were due. Two weeks later, it failed to pay $2.1 million in principal payments. When Purina blew through its payment dates and became delinquent, it set off a cataclysmic chain of events. The banks accelerated their payment demands rather than giving Purina more breathing room. The lenders were desperate to get whatever money they could while the firm was still solvent. The frenzy only ended on October 28, when Purina filed for bankruptcy.

Charles Koch understood now that he needed a political operation in Washington. Up until that point, he operated as if he could stay out of the miasma of the nation’s capital, staying true to his libertarian beliefs and focusing his efforts on the business in Wichita. This left Koch vulnerable. When Ken Ballen was conducting his investigation, he was contacted frequently by high-paid attorneys and experts who worked for companies like Exxon and Chevron. They defended their clients and even helped focus attention on Koch Industries. Koch had no such presence. This would change in the early 1990s.

Bernard Paulson was often contacted by outside business consultants who offered to help him run Koch’s refineries. These were reputable men whom Paulson knew well, and he knew that there was good reason to hire them and borrow their expertise. But hiring them would have required Paulson to show them how Koch operated. Paulson would have to show them around the banks of computers inside the Wichita headquarters. He would have to share the computer models and explain how they were created. For this reason, Paulson always turned the consultants away. “I didn’t want people to know what we were doing,” he explained. “Because we did have a method that was, I thought, unique.

Varner must have recognized quickly that Markel was exactly the kind of person that Charles Koch was searching for to fill the corporate ranks. If there is a single example of the prototypical Koch employee, it was Lynn Markel. He was born and raised on a farm outside of Dodge City, Kansas, so he was accustomed to a seven-day workweek. He attended Kansas State University and had no illusions that a college degree conferred on him anything more than the right to work hard for a living. After graduating, he became an officer in the US Air Force, where he served for four years, so he learned to think of himself as part of a larger organization and put the needs of his teammates before his own. Markel had moved to Wichita right after his stint in the air force to work as a financial controller with the Cessna Aircraft Company. Working for a large, publicly traded firm hadn’t agreed with Markel. There was a lot of bureaucracy to contend with; he wanted to be more entrepreneurial. He left Cessna and joined a large real estate firm that was expanding rapidly. But that firm went bust, and Markel landed in his current job as chief financial officer for the chain of television stations.

Like many other people at the company, Markel was struck by just how fluid, how adaptable, things were at Koch. There were about two hundred people in the company headquarters, and more were being added every day. It was a big company by Wichita standards, but it didn’t feel like a big company. It felt like an ongoing experiment. Roles changed quickly. New hires were brought in. There wasn’t a bureaucracy to stifle people or hold back new ideas.

also found a new passion in genealogy. I’d received a rush of letters from Ballards all over the country who wondered if they were related to me. After giving a lecture in North Carolina, I dug into the archives at Guilford College in Greensboro. It turns out that eight generations of Ballards had been Quakers there—and most of them had signed their names with X’s—before my great-grandfather had moved to Wichita. I was amazed that someone like me, who had invested so much of his life in military service, had come from a family of Quakers. Indeed, although I was able to trace the whole, long Ballard family saga back to the sheriff of Nottingham in 1325, I could find only one ancestor who wore a military uniform, Col. Thomas Ballard, a member of the British colonial militia in Virginia.

It was a nice open country between the Wichita and Pease rivers.

We crossed the Wichita late that afternoon, there being not over fifty feet of swimming water for the cattle. Our wagon gave us the only trouble, for the load could not well be lightened, and it was an imperative necessity to cross it the same day. Once the cattle were safely over and a few men left to graze them forward, the remainder of the outfit collected all the ropes and went back after the wagon. As mules are always unreliable in the water, Flood concluded to swim them loose. We lashed the wagon box securely to the gearing with ropes, arranged our bedding in the wagon where it would be on top, and ran the wagon by hand into the water as far as we dared without flooding the wagon box. Two men, with guy ropes fore and aft, were then left to swim with the wagon in order to keep it from toppling over, while the remainder of us recrossed to the farther side of the swimming channel, and fastened our lariats to two long ropes from the end of the tongue. We took a wrap on the pommels of our saddles with the loose end, and when the word was given our eight horses furnished abundant motive power, and the wagon floated across, landing high and dry amid the shoutings of the outfit.

Dan Corrieri combines his engineering degree from Wichita State University with his role as Sales Engineer and Chairman of the Society of Manufacturing Engineers. His Marine Corps experience enhances his leadership. Outside work, he enjoys rugby, boating, and collecting baseball memorabilia, while dreaming of visiting Italy, Ireland, and Australia/New Zealand.

As the company grew, Charles remained in Wichita, working ten-hour days, six days a week. When he proposed to his future wife, Liz, he did so reportedly over the phone, and she could hear him flipping through his busy date book in search of an open day for the wedding. In preparation, he required her to study free-market economics.

If the next stop’s Wichita Falls, I better take a piss too,” Otis agreed.

Charles and David brought their political resources to bear as never before during the 2012 election, which Charles called “the mother of all wars.” Yet they emerged from the crucible of the campaign having gained little more than a reputation as cartoonish robber barons, all-powerful political puppeteers who with one hand choreographed the moves of Republican politicians and with the other commanded the Tea Party army. As with all caricatures, this one bore only a faint resemblance to reality.

According to Charles, Fred’s advice to his sons, after prevailing over Universal, was, “Never sue. The lawyers get a third, the government gets a third, and you get your business destroyed.” Bill Koch took away a different lesson: He would grow up to see litigation as a weapon of righteous retribution.

David “liked having a lot of women around,” according to one of his 1980s-era girlfriends. He at one point had his eye on Marla Maples, whom Donald Trump left his first wife to marry. (“Marla’s a babe,” David told New York magazine in 1990. “I wish Donald hadn’t gotten there first.”)

Most people stopped at the refugee camps in Topeka and Wichita,” he

The idea of employing a deceptive front group to mask corporate self-interest was not original, even within the Koch family. The same ruse had been used not just by the du Pont family and others during the New Deal years but also by a group to which Fred Koch belonged in the 1950s. He was an early and active member of the Wichita-based DeMille Foundation for Political Freedom, an antilabor union group that was a forerunner of the National Right to Work Legal Defense Foundation.

But more important than both TLC and the All Saints is Billie Piper. Billie’s ‘Honey to the B’ is a smokin’ hot tune, it’s up there with the greats: Glen Campbell’s ‘Wichita Lineman’, ‘Tago Mago’ by Can, ‘Approximately Infinite Universe’ by Yoko, Metal Box by PiL, ‘Never Ever’ by the All Saints. Er, OK, so ‘Honey to the B’ is something of a ‘Never Ever’ lite, but this contrivance, like the very existence of the All Saints, somehow elevates Billie Piper into truly over-achieving high art.

Dr. Tiller also experienced attacks and threats that, although they garnered less attention, nonetheless affected his day-to-day life. He was the subject of repeated death threats, as were members of his family and clinic staff. Old West–style “Wanted” posters with Dr. Tiller’s name, picture, and personal information appeared throughout Wichita. The signs offered a vague “reward” for Dr. Tiller. Anti-abortion demonstrators picketed Dr. Tiller’s home and stalked his wife. They also repeatedly showed up at Dr. Tiller’s church, harassing the congregants and interrupting services.11 Dr. Tiller significantly altered his life to deal with the constant harassment and threats.

The land didn't need laws. But people did.

Instead of retreating behind the gates of their Wichita compound and leaving lawyers and crisis management professionals to handle the fallout, the enigmatic family made a public showing of support for the Seiberts.

A veteran Republican operative from Virginia, Phillips considered himself a specialist in “grasstops” organizing—building a citizen movement atop a corporate-funded campaign. In the 1990s, he had formed a political consulting business, Century Strategies, with onetime Christian Coalition leader and influence peddler extraordinaire Ralph Reed. Their firm had close ties to Jack Abramoff, the lobbyist who spent nearly four years in prison for defrauding Native American gaming interests of millions. Phillips (who was not accused of any wrongdoing) played a cameo role in the headline-grabbing corruption scandal, helping to establish a group called the Faith and Family Alliance, which served, on at least one occasion, as a pass-through for cash from Abramoff’s gaming clients.

It was a bitter thing. You might give up lawing, but some no-account would pop up from the underbrush of the past and shoot you in the back.

Deer were exterminated in Kansas by market and subsistence hunting in the late 1800s, as were elk, bison, and pronghorn. Deer are very common in Kansas now, but they were so scarce prior to World War II that merely seeing one would merit an item in local newspapers.

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Wichita: streets - rail - bonds - industry In 1870, Darius Munger and William "Dutch Bill" Greiffenstein filed plats to lay out the first streets in what would go on to become Wichita, Kansas. Wichita incorporated as a city on July 21, 1870.   One year later - on June 22, 1871 -underpinnings for the establishment of ‘Cowtown’ were laid in steel in Wichita. The Wichita and Southwestern Railroad Company was incorporated on June 22, 1871. A few months later, relative to railroad expansion in Wichita, a Sedgwick County, Kansas bond issuance took place. That bond issuance was approved by Sedgwick County voters on August 11, 1871: $200,000 in bonds This bond issuance enabled Wichita to finance the construction of a rail line which connected Wichita to Newton, Kansas. Rail service in Wichita - connecting Wichita to Newton -was a boon for Texas cattlemen. The new rail line -to the north of Texas - enabled shipment of cattle from Texas, on to Wichita. Then further along to Newton. And off to eastern markets in the United States.

The High Plains settler (myth obscures) a truth that is more complex and less immediately satisfying but embraces, as the stereotype does not, all of what it means to be human.

While the Wichita Cons worked hard to build their movement, they would not have succeeded so extravagantly had it not been for the simultaneous suicide of the rival movement, the one that traditionally spoke for working-class people. I am referring, of course, to the Clinton administration’s famous policy of “triangulation,” its grand effort to minimize the differences between Democrats and Republicans on economic issues. Among the nation’s pundit corps “triangulation” has always been considered a stroke of genius, signaling the end of liberalism’s old-fashioned “class warfare” and also of the Democrats’ faith in “big government.” Clinton’s New Democrats, it was thought, had brought the dawn of an era in which all parties agreed on the sanctity of the free market. As political strategy, though, Clinton’s move to accommodate the right was the purest folly. It simply pulled the rug out from under any possible organizing effort on the left. While the Cons were busily polarizing the electorate, the Dems were meekly seeking the center.

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Robertson asked Chase to walk him through a typical day. Chase talked about the meetings, the bottomless needs of the organization. The strain it was taking on him. Robertson told Chase that he had fallen prey to a classic mistake of leadership. He was carrying too much on his shoulders. Robertson said, “You control your calendar. You’re the only one that can say ‘No’ to things. . . . Take accountability for your own role and actually work on things where you can add value,” Chase recalled. Chase tried to learn how to delegate. He made sure he had the right people working for him and trusted them to do their jobs. But still, it didn’t feel right. Chase realized he was much happier before he’d been promoted, when he ran Koch Agronomic Services. He loved the innovation of the job, meeting with investors and inventors. Chase recalled a piece of advice that David Robertson had given him. Robertson said the most important thing a leader can do is develop a vision. Now Chase had a clear vision. It just wasn’t the vision that everyone else in Wichita seemed to have for him. Chase Koch called a meeting with Steve Packebush and told him the news. “Steve, I’m not the right guy for this role,” Chase said. He wanted to quit.

Doris Miller, a huge mess attendant on the West Virginia, was one of the regulars faced with this problem of reconciling the old with the new. Every morning he had the colossal job of waking up Ensign Edmond Jacoby, a young reservist from the University of Wichita. At first Miller used to yank at Jacoby, much like a Pullman porter arousing a passenger. This was fine with Jacoby, but an Annapolis man reminded Miller that an enlisted man must never touch an officer. Faced with the problem of upholding an ensign’s dignity and still getting Jacoby up, Miller appeared the following morning with a brilliant solution. Standing three inches from Jacoby’s ear, he yelled, “Hey, Jake!” and fled the room.

(Mises, Hayek, Friedman, Rand, Bastiat,

Through this technique, a barrel of crude yielded perhaps 11 percent gasoline.

It was largely a land without Borders - something that attracted him and disturbed him both. The land didn't need laws. But the people did.

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There is a lesson for liberals in the Kansas story, and it’s not that they, too, might someday get invited to tea in Cupcake Land. It is, rather, an utter and final repudiation of their historical decision to remake themselves as the other pro-business party. By all rights the people in Wichita and Shawnee and Garden City should today be flocking to the party of Roosevelt, not deserting it. Culturally speaking, however, that option is simply not available to them anymore. Democrats no longer speak to the people on the losing end of a free-market system that is becoming more brutal and more arrogant by the day.

Every free-trade agreement we have signed in recent years has been designed to make cities vulnerable in precisely this way. If you’re a medium-sized city like Wichita, hosting some giant multinational’s plant is less of an achievement today than it is a gun pointed at your head, a constant reminder that some executive has the power to turn your town into an instant Flint,

In March 1872, he turned 24. He was already a widower, and a fellow who had had repeated brushes with the law. He had no home and no real prospects, and, writes Sherry Monahan, he apparently continued his downward spiral into the depths of depravity. Wyatt was a lonely man touched by tragedy who was reluctant or unable to make friends and to let anyone get close to him. It would have been very easy for him to fall in with the wrong crowd and repeat the ill-advised horse stealing escapade, or worse. Instead, Wyatt went to Wichita and found redemption.

the story of fast food itself also begins with White Castle, in Wichita, Kansas.

Wichita Falls with the club’s lawyer. I assured him I’d be fine.

I'm not going to Wichita,' Vladimir said, the word 'Wichita' rendered by his accent as the most foreign word imaginable in the English language. 'I’m going to live with Fran and it’s going to be all right. You’re going to make it all right.' But even as he was laying down the law, his hands were shaking to the point where it was hard to keep the shabby pay-phone receiver properly positioned between his mouth and ear. Teardrops were blurring the corners of his eyes and he felt the need to have Baobab hear him burst out in a series of long, convulsive sobs, Roberta-style. All he had wanted was twenty thousand lousy dollars. It wasn’t a million. It was how much Dr. Girshkin made on average from two of his nervous gold-toothed patients. 'Okay,' Baobab said. 'Here’s how we’re going to do it. These are the new rules. Memorize them or write them down. Do you have a pen? Hello? Okay, Rule One: you can’t visit anyone—friends, relatives, work, nothing. You can only call me from a pay phone and we can’t talk for more than three minutes.' He paused. Vladimir imagined him reading this from a little scrap of paper. Suddenly Baobab said, under his breath: 'Tree, nine-thirty, tomorrow.' 'The two of us can never meet in person,' he was saying loudly now. 'We will keep in touch only by phone. If you check into a hotel, make sure you pay cash. Never pay by credit card. Once more: Tree, nine-thirty, tomorrow.' Tree. Their Tree? The Tree? And nine-thirty? Did he mean in the morning? It was hard to imagine Baobab up at that unholy hour. 'Rule Five: I want you to keep moving at all times, or at least try to keep moving. Which brings us to…' But just as Rule Six was about to come over the transom, there was a tussle for the phone and Roberta came on the line in her favorite Bowery harlot voice, the kind that smelled like gin nine hundred miles away. 'Vladimir, dear, hi!' Well, at least someone was enjoying Vladimir’s downfall. 'Say, I was thinking, do you have any ties with the Russian underworld, honey?' Vladimir thought of hanging up, but the way things were going even Roberta’s voice was a distinctly human one. He thought of Mr. Rybakov’s son, the Groundhog. 'Prava,' he muttered, unable to articulate any further. An uptown train rumbled beneath him to underscore the underlying shakiness of his life. Two blocks downtown, a screaming professional was being tossed back and forth between two joyful muggers. 'Prava, how very now!' Roberta said. 'Laszlo’s thinking of opening up an Academy of Acting and the Plastic Arts there. Did you know that there are thirty thousand Americans in Prava? At least a half dozen certified Hemingways among them, wouldn’t you agree?' 'Thank you for your concern, Roberta. It’s touching. But right now I have other… There are problems. Besides, getting to Prava… What can I do?… There’s an old Russian sailor… An old lunatic… He needs to be naturalized.' There was a long pause at this point and Vladimir realized that in his haste he wasn’t making much sense. 'It’s a long story…' he began, 'but essentially… I need to… Oh God, what’s wrong with me?' 'Talk to me, you big bear!' Roberta encouraged him. 'Essentially, if I get this old lunatic his citizenship, he’ll set me up with his son in Prava.' 'Okay, then,' Roberta said. 'I definitely can’t get him his citizenship.' 'No,' Vladimir concurred. 'No, you can’t.' What was he doing talking to a sixteen-year-old? 'But,' Roberta said, 'I can get him the next best thing…

And all the roads into Oklahoma City, 66 down from Tulsa, 270 up from McAlester. 81 from Wichita Falls south, from Enid north. Edmond, McLoud, Purcell. 66 out of Oklahoma City; El Reno and Clinton, going west on 66. Hydro, Elk City, and Texola; and there’s an end to Oklahoma. 66 across the Panhandle of Texas. Shamrock and McLean, Conway and Amarillo, the yellow. Wildorado and Vega and Boise, and there’s an end of Texas. Tucumcari and Santa Rosa and into the New Mexican mountains to Albuquerque, where the road comes down from Santa Fe. Then down the gorged Rio Grande to Los Lunas and west again on 66 to Gallup, and there’s the border of New Mexico.

Embedded in the Microsoft proprietary Rich Text Format (RTF), the file contained the first name of the BTK Killer and the physical location at which the user had last saved the file. This narrowed the investigation to a man named Denis at the local Wichita Christ Lutheran Church. Mr. Stone verified that a man named Denis Rader served as a church officer at the Lutheran Church (Regan, 2006). With this information, police requested a warrant for a DNA sample from the medical records of Denis Rader’s daughter (Shapiro, 2007). The DNA sample confirmed what Mr. Stone already knew—Denis Rader was the BTK Killer.

You are serving seven years and four months at a maximum-security prison in Wichita. What are you in for and what is your prison job?

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