About Me

 

Nick Vulich came out of the cornfields, a man born fifty years too late for the Wild West but too early for the apocalypse. He started scribbling about outlaws, drifters, and the cracked backbone of American history long before anyone thought to stop him. The man reads newspapers like other people snort cocaine—voraciously, sleeplessly, with a glint of doom in his eye.

 

He comes from Clinton, Iowa—river town, factory town, a haunted place where the Mississippi mutters secrets to the barges. He grew up dreaming about Jesse James, Billy the Kid, and whoever else rode hard, shot straight, and got written up in yellowing print. When the rest of the world was selling insurance, Nick was combing microfilm reels and back-alley archives, chasing the ghosts of gunfighters.

 

Somewhere between too much Diet Coke and not enough daylight, he started writing History Bytes, Shot All to Hell, and a small army of other books. Not big academic tomes, but quick hits of history, bite-sized doses for the impatient and curious. He writes like a man who’s seen the abyss of footnotes and shot it in the face.

 

Nick doesn’t just retell history; he wrestles it. He drags Lincoln, Jesse James, and the entire lot into the ring, slaps them around, and makes them talk. He writes for truck drivers, barstool philosophers, and anyone who’s ever wondered what really happened after the smoke cleared. There’s a moral somewhere, but mostly it’s about the chase—the manic hunt for what’s true, or at least what feels true when the bourbon hits.

 

On his better days, he’s a historian. On his worst days, a time-traveler with a typewriter. He spends nights staring into his computer screen while the ghosts of the Old West whisper headlines only he can hear: “Dead man walks out of Dodge,” “Train robbers rise again,” “History bites back.” 

 

He smiles, types faster, and grabs another Big Gulp.

If Iowa ever built a monument to its storytellers, they’d have to chisel his face mid-grimace, pen in one hand, a Big Gulp full of Diet Coke in the other. He’s not famous in the Hollywood sense—no movie deals or velvet jackets—but in the dim light of Midwest diners and dusty bookstores, his name gets passed around like a good rumor.

 

Nick Vulich writes because he can’t not write. He digs into America’s past the way a raccoon digs into a garbage can—snarling, determined, delighted by the mess. In a sane world, he’d be lecturing at some university. In this one, he’s out there chasing the next forgotten headline, the next outlaw, the next ghost with a story to tell. God help us if he ever runs out of Diet Coke.

Before you go ...

 

If you’ve ever said, “I remember that”... this is the place for you.

 

I dig up stories about Old West lawmen, criminals, gunfighters, murders, robberies, the weird, crazy forgotten stuff you don’t see anymore. No clickbait. No junk. Just genuine history without the usual BS.

 

If you enjoy it, consider tossing a few bucks in the donation slot. It helps keep this thing going.

Buy me a Big Gulp / nickvulich.com

 

If the Old West is your thing, you may enjoy these books...

 

Shot All To Hell

Shot All To Pieces