Crime/Mystery/Thriller, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Investigative Report Dossier   by Matias Travieso-Diaz

You can get a subjective and highly factual dossier

on most anyone in the public realm almost instantly.

Douglas Coupland

 LAS VEGAS JOURNAL – INVESTIGATIVE REPORT DOSSIER

CURRENT AS OF: February 4, 2000

1: Identity of the subject: Trent Allison Blackwood, dob: April 23, 1947

2: Subject’s address(es): Local (most recent): Royal Flush Hotel, 4472 Paradise Rd., Las Vegas, NV 88119

Home (if different): (Last known): 743 North Beverly Drive, Beverly Hills, CA 90210

3: Family members, friends, victims, and enemies: See item 5.

4: Published references to subject: References to Mr. Blackwood have been made in the Los Angeles press, and in other newspapers and magazines (Attachment 1). An example:

          LA TIMES:
          MORNING REPORT – NEWS FROM DEC. 31, 1999

Trial Date Set in Blackwood Securities Fraud Case

The clerk of the LA Superior Court issued a notice over the weekend advising that the trial in the criminal case against Trent Blackwood on fraud charges over the Mirage Industries collapse will begin on January 8, and is expected to last for several weeks. Jury selection is set to be completed in the first few days of the trial.

Attempts to contact Mr. Blackwood about this notice have been unsuccessful. 

5: Public records information: A search of public records involving Mr. Blackwood in California is ongoing. No relevant records from Las Vegas have been located. A preliminary internet search revealed that Mr. Blackwood married Rebecca T. Burgess in June 1970 and divorced her in September 1986; married Tanya Estevez in April 1991 and divorced her in January 1993. He has three children: Lucas Blackwood, born in March 1972, Eileen Blackwood, born in January 1974, and Elias Blackwood, born in February 1975. Records of  business permits, licenses, building permits, recorded deeds, trust deeds, conveyances, notices of sale, powers of attorney, liens, local, state, and federal taxes, bonds, property tax records, unsecured property tax records, business filings, political donations, consumer affairs licenses, and driving records remain to be secured.

6: California Court Proceedings: As per the reports in the press (Attachment 1) Mr. Blackwood is involved in several civil suits by and against him by his former partners in Mirage Industries; he is a defendant in two tort actions for damages by purchasers of Mirage cosmetics; he is undergoing proceedings in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court; and he is going to trial in the above-mentioned securities fraud criminal case. He is charged with having a majority ownership of a thinly capitalized cosmetics business, endangering the safety of the public by selling products containing toxic substances, and defrauding investors by issuing worthless shares in his company.

7: Federal Investigation of Potential Criminal Activity: On January 1, 2000, Mr. Blackwood was arrested by FBI agents in his Paradise hotel room. As detailed in the FBI rap sheet (Attachment 2), Mr. Blackwood is being charged with conducting a multi-state large-scale fraudulent gambling operation in complicity with one Gregory Tomlison of Santa Monica, California. The alleged facts, as summarized in the rap sheet, are as follows: 

a. In complicity with other unnamed persons, Blackwood and Tomlison partnered in the rigging of a December 22, 1999 football game between TCU and East Carolina University. Tomlison placed large bets in favor of TCU at each of nine casinos throughout the United States. He won a total of $900,000. He had collected on eight of the nine bets and went to the Mandalay Bay Resort, intending to meet with Blackwood, collect on the ninth, and share the proceedings of the criminal enterprise with his accomplice.

b. While at the Mandalay Bay, Tomlison suffered a heart attack. Blackwood summoned help, but Tomlison died while help was on its way. Blackwood went to the cashier’s cage, presented a ticket for the Mobile Alabama Bowl bet, and collected $200,000 in cash.

c. After exiting the Mandalay Bay, Blackwood proceeded to the Treasure Island Hotel, where he spent several hours playing twenty-one. Apparently, he lost all the money in his possession, including the amount collected at the Mandalay Bay.

d. .Blackwood returned to his hotel room close to midnight, filled a tub with hot water, disrobed, laid on the tub, and cut his wrists with a razor, intending to commit suicide. His attempt was thwarted by the arrival of FBI agents seeking to arrest him for his above-mentioned criminal activity, which had been under investigation for some time.

e. Blackwood is currently undergoing treatment at the Sunrise Hospitalin Paradise. Upon discharge, he will be released into the custody of the FBI and extradited to California for his scheduled trial, and later will face another trial in Federal court on the above-described charges.

8: Other Matters: Blackwood has issued a statement concerning his legal troubles and attempted suicide. It reads as follows: 

Statement of Trent Allison Blackwood

    1. I was indicted and am scheduled to stand trial in Los Angeles v. Blackwood, a security fraud case brought against me by the City of Los Angeles in my capacity as President of the defunct Mirage Industries, Inc. I have pleaded not guilty to the charges brought against me and intend to defend myself vigorously and prove my innocence.
    2. The purpose of this statement is not to address the issues that will be litigated in the Los Angeles trial, but to set the record straight on certain matters that transpired on December 31, 1999 and January 1, 2000 during my stay in the city of Las Vegas, Nevada.
    3. On December 31, 1999, having received notice from counsel that my trial in the Los Angeles case would commence in a few days, I decided to take a short vacation in Las Vegas to relax and prepare myself mentally for the upcoming trial.
    4. Upon arrival in Vegas, I started searching for a place to stay. After hours of searching, I was able to book the last available single room at a motel in Paradise, a long walk from the Strip.
    5. Since it was the eve of a new millennium, I resolved to stay up past midnight and while away the remaining hours of the day by gambling. I went to the Bally’s hotel, bought nickels, and began playing one of the five cent slots. I hit the jackpot and found himself in possession of an avalanche of nickels amounting to one hundred and eighty-five dollars.
    6. I had a leisurely dinner and drank a lot of wine. By six thirty I began to walk through the Strip to clear my head. I ended up at the Race and Sportsbook lounge at the Mandalay Bay casino. I sat on one of the lounge’s couches and ordered a beer.
    7. A few minutes later I was joined at the couch by a stranger, a heavy-set middle-aged man holding a large glass of whiskey. He sat and focused intently on one of the lounge’s TV screens, which was showing the Sun Bowl game between Oregon and Minnesota. I asked my companion, whose name I never learned: “Do you have money on this game?”  The answer surprised me: “No, I don’t, but I like watching games to practice my skill in predicting the final score. It looks like Oregon is going to win this one.” I replied: “Are you really able to predict in the third quarter how a close football game is going to end?”  The man turned towards me, slurring his words: “Not only that, but I can figure out even the point spread. Oregon by three or four points.”
    8. When I suggested he could be making money using his talent, he retorted: “Yes. In the last ten days I’ve made a killing. On December 22 there was the Mobile Alabama Bowl game between TCU and East Carolina. I figured out that TCU would win by two touchdowns and the point spread was Carolina plus 10, meaning that TCU was favored to win by ten points or less. I picked TCU and placed bets at each of nine casinos. I won a total of $900,000.”
    9. I was somewhat skeptical and asked: “Then, what are you doing here?” He replied instantly: “Casinos keep track of large bets placed on a single game and alert each other to prevent fraud. So, I did not cash the winnings on my bets all at once, but one every day. This is my last collection, here at the Mandalay. I leave Vegas tonight to return to LA.”
    10. A few minutes later, I heard loud grunts coming from my couch companion. Turning to him, I noticed that the man had turned very pale, was sweating, and appeared to be experiencing shortness of breath. When I asked, “Are you okay?”  “No” was the response. “I’m having pains in my chest and the arms… Maybe a heart attack… Listen, get me help. In my jacket there’s a ticket from this casino for the TCU game. It’s worth $200,000. Cash it, bring the money to me, and we’ll split it.”
    11. I took the ticket, ran to the counter to summon help, and then returned to the couch where the man lay, drifting in and out of consciousness.  I sat by him until two paramedics arrived pushing a stretcher. One of them bent over the man and took his pulse. He turned to the other and said: “I think he is dead.”  I watched as they tried to resuscitate him, without success.
    12. I walked away from the death scene and went to the cashier’s cage, where I presented the ticket with the Mobile Alabama Bowl game bet. The cashier looked at her screen, then at the ticket and frowned. “How do you want the money?”  “Hundred-dollar bills, please,” I replied.  “I’ll get a satchel” she replied. A long while later she returned with a briefcase containing the cash. I thanked her, walked out of the Mandalay, and headed towards my motel.
    13. As I walked, I found myself next to the Treasure Island casino. Remembering my early streak of good luck playing the slot machines, I decided to try to make a little more money playing cards. Entering the hotel, I proceeded to the High Limit Lounge, a small room containing blackjack tables, baccarat tables, and a large roulette.
    14. Over the next three and a half hours I played blackjack, and ultimately lost all the money I had. I went out to the street and trudged back to my motel.
    15. In my room, I took off my clothes and drew a hot bath. I climbed into the tub, intending to get some rest. My thoughts then turned into a review of my life and my mood became increasingly somber. On impulse, I decided to end it all. I opened a package of single blade razors I had purchased along the way, took a razor out, and slashed my wrists. I dozed off. My next recollection was waking up in the emergency room of the Sunrise Hospital.
    16. I never had met the man who gave me his betting ticket at Mandalay Bay Resort, and never engaged in a fraudulent gambling activity with him or anyone else. 

 

            /ss/ 

Trent Allison Blackwood

January 15, 2000 

 

9: Follow-Up Actions: (a) Investigate possible compulsive gambling angle; (b) Research connections between Blackwood and Tomlison in California prior to December 31, 1999 and track other potential fraudulent gambling ventures; (c) Interview staff at Mandalay Bay re suspicious circumstances Tomlison’s death; (f) follow up on Blackwood’s suicide attempt in Las Vegas.

FILE CLOSING: Trial in Trent Blackwood’s LA Superior Court securities fraud case was rescheduled on account of his attempted suicide while in Las Vegas. Because of the planned Federal charges involving the alleged fraudulent gambling operation, he was held awaiting trial at the California State Prison, Los Angeles County in Lancaster, California. While at that facility, on February 3, 2000 Blackwood was assaulted by another inmate and stabbed to death with a shank. On account of Blackwood’s death, the investigation described herein could not be completed and the question whether he was guilty of all or any of the crimes with which he was charged remains unresolved.

[Attachment 1] [Filed separately]

[Attachment 2] [Filed separately]

 

Matias Travieso-Diaz 

Image –  A gavel on a stand 

 

 

All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Mehico by Richard Hulse

Emerson drove all through that warm afternoon. The three of them were quiet most of the way, but at one point Bobby looked over to Charlene in the back seat.

‘So, where’s you and your folks from?’

He felt a little awkward. He was just trying to make conversation. But she said nothing and perhaps she hadn’t even heard the question. She was frowningly immersed in Modern Screen. On the cover of the magazine was a picture of Bette Davis, blonde and alluring.

Continue reading “Mehico by Richard Hulse”
All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, General Fiction

Mr. Lucky by Frederick K Foote

Sometimes I don’t recognize good luck when I see it. For example, on Sunday morning, at breakfast, part of the filling in one of my back teeth comes undone. I crunch on the broken filling and spit it out, and after that, everything is either too hot or too cold to eat. And around noon, there is a little pain at the site of that missing filling.

Continue reading “Mr. Lucky by Frederick K Foote”
All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Bleeding Seamonster by Stan J Wild

Trixie moves in first, plays it perfectly; she says: “where’s Gee Street?” So, the poor bastard pulls his map’s app up and Max can see he is susceptible.

She collared the man, stepping out the lift at the top of the concourse. She plays dumb, gets him to really spell it all out to her. Subtlety, I tell them: she has that in abundance.

Continue reading “Bleeding Seamonster by Stan J Wild”
All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

The Stringer by Christopher Ananias

A small dark-haired boy was walking in the fog like a phantom. Lenny Coins thought about his father. How could his father do such a thing—things? But the balloons. What about those?

At the bus stop, Tom waited for Lenny and offered him a Marlboro cigarette. Like he did every morning.

“I’m only eleven. I don’t smoke, Tom.” This was in the eighties when the Marlboro Man rode the range, instead of a hospital bed. Smoking was cool, and serial killers were coming on strong. 

Continue reading “The Stringer by Christopher Ananias”
All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Death to the Dean by Linda P. Rose

Muriel McGregor had her champions, but they were far outnumbered by her enemies. Both agreed that the university president had made a mistake when he selected Muriel to be dean of the Humanities College. The tenured faculty were noisy or ominously quiet when discussing Muriel. The untenured professors were discreet. They hugged their fears and were vaguely positive.

Continue reading “Death to the Dean by Linda P. Rose”
All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Pennsylvania Man by Tony Godino

It’s nighttime, and- look, I won’t get into what’s gone on. I won’t get into Jenny or into what’s happening with the kids or any of it. I think it’s simpler than all that. And- it’s terrible. I don’t mean to say it isn’t. I’m just focusing on what I can change. There are people in terrible trouble and something’s gotta be done. Nothing can be done about Jenny. And the kids, I don’t know. I just don’t know. Anyway. It’s nighttime, which isn’t unusual. I am having dinner at the diner again. I sit in the booth across from the windows into the St. Pat’s rec hall. I watch him. This is the third night in a row after a few weeks waiting. I know something is coming because I’ve spent good time with thinking about it. I can feel it as if it were mine.

Continue reading “Pennsylvania Man by Tony Godino”
All Stories, Christmas Crime Week 2025, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Snow by Diane M Dickson

Hello, I hope everyone is geared up and ready for the madness about to be released, though it’s probably already ongoing in most places. When the rellies get you down and you fancy a nice quiet sleep somewhere without turkey and stuffing perhaps an overnight in the local lockup appeals.

Anyway, I hope everyone has the exact sort of time that they want and I have to say thank you to my fellow editors for choosing this little piece to kick off the Christmas Crime Week. Strap in guys, things could get rocky – ho ho ho.

Snow by Diane M Dickson

Image: Jail cell with Christmas trimming chains on the bars by Angie at Studio Anjou

All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

The Wood Places by Ena Kaitch

   “It’s great of you to come and hear me speak. I know that’s not actually what’s going on; saying that makes it seem like this meeting is the product of a request or a personal choice. I like that. I prefer it to the alternative of having to introduce myself and explain a little about why I’m here. We all know why I’m here.”

Continue reading “The Wood Places by Ena Kaitch”
Short Fiction

Brains by A. Elizabeth Herting

The Dead walked the earth.

Tortured, ragged souls rambling and shambling down backcountry roads and abandoned interstate highways. Eyes black as pitch, feet, limbs, and tattered pieces of moldering rags fell all around them as they struggled. Blood dripping from rapine chins; mindless, gnawing hunger torturing bloated bellies. Nothing would satisfy their unclean, macabre craving. Nothing but one thing. The only thing that would fill the empty, black void in their desiccated, rotting shells…brai…

Brains, Jerry? Seriously? That is such a cliche! I thought zombie porn was so, like, 2015. Or was that the shiny vampire-werewolf thingies? I can’t keep track!

Sighing, Jerry Lasater slammed the laptop shut. The voice was loud this time. It took many forms when he wrote, but it was pure, unfiltered Chelsea tonight. Not the tolerable version of his ex-wife he’d grown to respect as a good friend over the past ten years or so. No, this was Chelsea circa 2014, right before the divorce. Chelsea, all spitting mad and full of righteous fury, especially about his writing. She always was his fiercest critic.

“Get ye back, Satan’s daughter!” he said out loud to the large, empty house, raising his bourbon high into the air in tribute. “You have no control here, wee daemon!”

Can it, Jer. We both know when the writing is shit. You know it, I know it, even the Great Catsby knows it. Just look at him!

The enormous black Persian cat on the table gave a multi-syllabled meow before jumping down in annoyance, away from this lame, imaginary conversation.

“Et tu, Brute? Ya traitor, ya!” Jerry slurred in an exaggerated Irish brogue perfected from years of mimicking Barry Fitzgerald in the classic movie, “The Quiet Man.” Lasater glibly drained the glass, laughing at his cleverness as he watched his enormous cat prance out of the room.

 “Yeah, well until you learn how to operate the can opener, I suggest you be nice-ya bugger!” The cat’s only response was a huge bushy tail held high and a fully exposed rear end. Jerry shook his head in amusement. Chelsea and the Great Catsby had a lot in common.

The late afternoon sun set early, winter solstice in full swing. Jerry usually relished the darkness, but tonight, it and the imaginary version of his ex-wife conspired against his peace of mind. He sat, feet propped up, crystal tumbler in hand, surveying the neighborhood as day thickened to dusk.

Lasater lived in a good-sized, cookie-cutter suburban home with vaulted ceilings and a large picture window facing the street. He sure as hell didn’t need five bedrooms, four bathrooms, and an oversized corner lot, but at one time he harbored visions of normalcy. Wife. Kids. Golden Retriever. 0 for 3, Jer, a perfect losing record!

Although the Great Catsby was much more dog than cat, Lasater thought, fetching strange, random items and delivering them at the most inopportune moments. He once dropped a bright green cat’s eye marble into his outraged ex-mother-in-law’s third scotch and soda, launching the cat to instant rock-star status in Jerry’s book. The Great Catsby weighed over twenty-two pounds and had a serious attitude, but then again, so did Lasater. You two are a match made in heaven, Jerry, a fine pair of misfits! Lasater waved Chelsea’s voice away and yanked the laptop open again.

Brains. Slimy, glorious brains! In every size and capacity, the undead relentlessly pursued their mindless, frenzied desire…

“Mindless,” Jer? That pun is waaaay cringe…Lovecraft, you are NOT, and King would laugh in your face…

“Catsby, would you kindly tell your dear mother to piss off!”

The cat nuzzled Lasater’s arm, giving him a brief moment of solidarity before running down the basement steps, deep into the bowels of the large house. The Great Catsby was a true hoarder- he had an impressive stash of odds and ends ripe for fetching down there. A lost cuff link, Chelsea’s bright blue scrunchy, plastic milk-bottle rings, crumpled up cigarette packs from Lasater’s smoking days- nothing was off-limits for his felonious feline. It became a game between them, Jerry throwing one item and waiting to see what lost treasure was returned to him.

 Sighing, Jerry folded his hands and rested his forehead on them, trying to get his bearings. The Chelsea voice wasn’t wrong, damn it. He knew he had to rework the story. Refilling his glass, Lasater leaned back, loving the feeling of his bare, dirty feet on top of Chelsea’s fancy dining room tablecloth when he saw a sudden movement out of the corner of his left eye.

The Great Catsby returned to unceremoniously spit a beat-up, old popsicle stick into his glass. Lasater sighed in resignation before tossing back the bourbon, neatly catching the stick in his teeth. He grinned around it, looking like a raving Cheshire Cat lunatic with a shiny prize. Catsby appeared to nod in approval before raising his hind leg and frantically licking.

Gross, Jer! Do you know where that stick has been? Wait, don’t answer that…

“Och, demon woman. Everyone knows that Wild Turkey is the world’s greatest sanitizer!”

Lasater caught a healthy glimpse of himself in the picture window. With wispy, graying hair askew, a ratty old sweatshirt, and bloodshot eyes, he slowly spit the stick into his hand, slicked back his wayward hair, and did his best Nicholson impersonation.

“All work and no play makes Jer a dull boy! Hahahahaha! Chelsea….I’m home!!!!”

A flash across the street instantly froze his impromptu performance. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen it, but it was unnerving every time. You’d think in this neighborhood, with the fascist HOA and overpriced fees, it wouldn’t be allowed, but it would seem tonight, the show must go on. He vaguely wondered which one of them would be the headliner.

The window was on the second floor of the house across the street. Bright lightbulbs framed it like an old-fashioned movie set. From the sparseness of the walls and the overly bright illumination, Lasater guessed it was a bathroom. Possibly the one attached to the master bedroom. It simply had to be a bathroom because every time a person moved into the window frame, what Lasater was beginning to think of as the “Main Stage,” they appeared to be in some state of undress.

Pale white body parts crossed the stage, back and forth, again and again. The frosted panes created enough cover for what Lasater could vividly see in his fevered writer’s imagination. He didn’t know this set of neighbors, never bothering to get involved in the details of his day-to-day surroundings. They could be any age or type, the Blurry People were impossible to decipher.

Lasater couldn’t bear to think of them as old or saggy or full of creases. In his mind, they were somewhat youngish and fit, but not too much so. Mature and comfortable in their own skins, only lightly touched by the ravages of time. Primal and free.  Every time one of them passed by, he felt a hot sting of shame that he was a participant in this nightly production.

Catsby let out a plaintive cry. Jerry vaguely remembered that he still held the popsicle stick in his hand. Without taking his eyes off the Main Stage, he threw the stick hard across the room, hearing it plunk down each basement stair to Catsby’s Lair. The cat tore after it like a shot, his back legs spinning like an old Looney Tunes cartoon. It was a marvel of nature, a cat of that size moving so fast.

He turned his attention back to the Main Stage, watching the couple, leaning over what Lasater guessed to be a sink, or sitting in front of a ghostly mirror putting on invisible makeup. Some nights, he could see one of them lowered down on what he suspected to be a toilet or standing in place for an ethereal shower. At times, it seemed they wore random bits of clothing, but mostly they were in the altogether, just as they were tonight. Lasater swallowed hard, hopelessly trapped in his thoughts.

Whoa there, Jerry. You need to take it down a notch, hon. A deep breath, now another…

Lasater groped blindly behind him, lowering himself back into the chair, letting Chelsea’s imaginary voice guide him. He closed his eyes before reaching for the tumbler and taking a deep, fortifying drink. On the Main Stage, the Blurry People came together, arms held out and embracing as Lasater attempted to control his breathing. Trance-like, the figures began to sway in unison, clasping hands as Lasater retrieved the laptop and began to type.

Their bodies were still tender, supple, and just beginning to turn. The barest traces of decay, a slight, sweet odor. Not at all, the mindless, hunger-filled, dumb monstrosities of yore. Instead of tearing and gnawing, they came together gently in shared longing. Dead but not so much so that they lost that wavering, final human connection, holding on until the last possible moment. Mouths gaping, the first pangs of hunger gnawing away at the shreds of their fading humanity…

That’s it, Jer, keep going with this… don’t stop…

The Main Stage was eclipsed with the Blurries, bodies melding together before separating. He could see one of them lean back, laughing as they twirled and spun in complete, oblivious abandon. Jerry’s fingers flew across the keys, completely entranced by this vision and his ex-wife’s disembodied voice softly purring into his ear, egging him on.

Human, they’d no longer be, but the imprint of their former essence was still there, enough so they could keep dancing before the disease finally took over. Before the ravages of time, nature, and circumstance turned them into immortal monsters. They held out as long as they could, these poor, wretched, beautiful beings, dancing faster and faster in wild abandon until…

The Great Catsby broke his trance, jumping up with a solid thud on the table. Lasater watched as the Blurry People finished their impromptu dance and melded back into shadows. The Main Stage went dark; this evening’s show mercifully concluded. Jerry sighed and stroked Catsby’s soft, black fur as the giant feline spat a tiny, desiccated bone into Lasater’s cocktail. Sighing, Jerry fished out Chelsea’s pinky and used it to stir his Wild Turkey.

Lasater laughed, mildly amused but not surprised that the Great Catsby had finally made his way to the part of the basement where his ex-wife was housed. God only knew what Catsby might bring him next; maybe it was time to do a little rearranging down there.

So what happens in the story, Jer? How does it end? Maybe you should pay the neighbors a visit for more inspiration…

“Well, I was thinking it has something to do with….BRAINS!! Ah, just kidding, Chels! You were always an insufferable nag, darlin’, but that’s not a bad idea; it might just move the story along. All in due time. None of us is going anywhere. You certainly aren’t.”

Jerry Lasater reluctantly closed the front window blinds, double-checking the locks and windows in his nightly routine. Washing and drying his favorite tumbler, he unlocked his grandmother’s antique china cabinet, replacing the glass for another day before retrieving his wife’s well-loved, indented skull from its silken pouch in the back drawer.

On his way up to bed, he gently stroked his ex-wife’s skull with one hand and the Great Catsby with the other and decided to let the Main Stage, his marriage troubles, and the direction of his latest story percolate for another day.

“All the rewriting and work was well worth it, darlin’, dontcha think?”

For once, Chelsea stayed mercifully silent.

 Lasater sighed. like the great novel said, tomorrow was another day. It was his last coherent thought as the Great Catsby ran up the stairs into his darkened bedroom, and they all settled in for a long winter’s nap.

A. Elizabeth Herting

Image: the middle keys ona kayboard (GHJKL) flanked by the rows above and below in black with white lettering. From Pixabay.com