We stood with about a thousand people outside the Lackawanna County Courthouse Saturday when a “No Kings” protestor commented on the “WHAT ABOUT GAZA?” sign my political scientist activist wife held.

With a knotted American flag bandana twisted jauntily around his neck like an America’s Cup yacht captain, an obedient cellphone-photo-taking wife by his side and what looked like a pampered grandkid he led by the hand, the anti-Trumper looked derisively at Stephanie’s sign and snapped, “Not Today.”

Turning immediately to confront this smartass ignorance, Stephanie said, “Absolutely today.”

“And every other day,” I said facing our smug critic, firing responses in a litany of harsh truths about why American-taxpayer-sponsored Israeli genocide against Palestinian civilians in Gaza matters every moment of every day.

The self-appointed No Kings censor skittered away like an insect into the comfort of an overwhelmingly brainwashed crowd of mostly registered Democrats dressed in silly costumes carrying signs decorated with cutesy slogans, the same predictable cheerleaders who refuse to take responsibility for their party’s complicity in the ongoing Israeli slaughter.

Two or three times in the course of the afternoon I held above my head a small Palestinian flag taped to a piece of white cardboard. Turning in a circle like an outlaw biker facing numerous opponents in a barroom brawl, I provided easily confirmable facts as a longtime journalist with the word PRESS stenciled in big white letters on the front and back of my blue T-shirt.

I yelled.

“American-sponsored Israeli genocide has killed more than 200 Palestinian local journalists in Gaza.”

I barked.

“Democrats and Republicans together are united in the carnage.”

I roared.

“Free Palestine.”

I didn’t need a microphone, bullhorn or podium. And I didn’t ask the bourgeois special interest rally organizer for permission to speak. I respect my free speech American birthright much more than to ever bow to partisan political control freaks’ delusions of power.

But when I looked around the Scranton No Kings pompom rally, nobody else in the crowd was waving a Palestinian flag or holding a protest sign against the Israeli carnage that has killed more than 64,000 civilians in two years and poisoned the land, air and water upon which humans depend to survive. Only as we left the rally later that day did we meet Farouk, a Palestinian friend who wore a “Free Palestine” sweatshirt and lost family members including children in the ongoing Israeli massacres in Gaza.

Self-centered privileged Democrats abhor criticism of their political party. They still blame those of us who refused to vote for Vice President Kamala Harris for her loss in the 2024 presidential election. Rather than blame Harris herself and other blind faith Democrats like her boss and former President Joe Biden who first signed on to the Israeli genocide, they condemn others. If these whiny elitists ever hope to regain political power, they better soon admit and repair their dismal failings that gave birth to Trump and his band of white supremacists who value iron fist authoritarianism over soft core liberal democracy.

I’m not interested in compromising with or trying to persuade Democrats or Republicans who ignore the starvation and intentional extermination of innocent Palestinian men, women and children. They all need to know I fight on the other side. I’m not going away. And I refuse to remain silent about anybody’s approval of a bastard nation’s America-financed war crimes.

Northeastern Pennsylvania Palestinian rights activists have assembled for the past two years to raise awareness to America’s role in Israel’s genocide in Gaza. We zeroed in on the General Dynamics plant in Scranton and the for-profit national defense contractor’s role in the international corporate bomb-making business. United States Army spokespersons have refused to answer my written questions about whether shell casings made at the Scranton Army Ammunition Plant mostly for Ukraine are also later packed with explosives and shipped to Israel where they are used to kill Palestinian civilians.

In September 2024 Scranton Mayor Paige Cognetti, the mother of two children, gleefully visited the Scranton Army Ammunition Plant in a cold-blooded celebration closed to the media to autograph a 155mm artillery shell that might have eventually killed mothers and children in Gaza. At a 2023 “Stand With Israel” event at the Scranton Jewish Community Center, Cognetti made clear her alliance and allegiance with Israeli supremacy and militant Zionism.

Since then Cognetti has refused to answer my written questions about whether she still stands with Israel. Now a Democratic congressional candidate while at the same time running for re-election as mayor, Scranton’s warmonger mayor has promised if elected to Congress to help create more work for Scranton bomb makers who help ensure more death and destruction among unarmed civilians.

That’s why NEPA human rights activist Austin Sopko’s surprise disruption of Thursday’s Scranton mayoral debate carries such powerful significance. When Cognetti began a robotic recitation of success as mayor, one of Sopko’s comrades, a Palestinian woman, stood and quietly interrupted to ask Cognetti about her continuing support for Israeli genocide.

As Cognetti smirked and the moderator asked for no more interruptions, Sopko stood, waving a Palestinian flag in one hand and verbally lambasting Cognetti whose politically technocratic mind froze during Sopko’s rapid-fire political diatribe. Sopko clearly rattled Cognetti, exposing her lack of political leadership as she offered no response to legitimate criticism. Before security escorted Sopko from the auditorium, a second woman activist stood to address Cognetti’s racist embrace of Israel’s Palestinian slaughter. All three protestors live and vote in the 8^th Congressional District where Cognetti is a candidate.

Our sweet land of liberty must continue to reject symbolic kings, queens, princes and political princesses. No more Trump. No more “Genocide Joe” Biden and “Bombala” Kamala Harris. No more former U.S. Sen. Bob Casey and his former dull congressional sidekick Matt Cartwright. No more phony “Paige against the Machine” Cognetti and her ignoble court of bootlicker jesters.

No more royal pains in the ass who help kill humanity and murder the dreams of children.

Kenny “Duff” Duffin died in 2023 without knowing he gave me the long-ago gift of his example to create a fictitious character in one of my novels, a Black hero who resists prejudice and fights for social justice. Duff’s strong spirit helps guide me as a writer to breathe resistance into America’s continuing struggle against injustice.

The story of our friendship needs telling now as much as ever.

In my 2020 novel Paddy’s Day in Trump Town  make-believe man of integrity and champion of principle Paddy “Duff” Duffin keeps on pushing with the heartfelt pulse of a soulful Curtis Mayfield anthem. In Paddy’s Day in Trump Town Revisited, the updated 2025 reissue Avventura Press released this summer, Duff drives the story as one of my book’s bold leaders. A difficult read, the book is loaded with harsh satire, dark humor and graphic brutality.

As a biracial Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania police detective searching Luzerne County hard coal country for his father, Duff represents goodness, courage and integrity in a disturbing contemporary story of racism, misogyny, violence, Irish American white supremacy and severe societal dysfunction. Duff’s mission makes clear how and why we must stand for what’s right in the increasingly wrong world of Donald Trump’s presidency, a system fueled by political corruption, discrimination and hate. 

I pondered my fictitious character’s personality for a long time before naming him. I decided on his surname “Duffin” and his nickname “Duff” to proclaim his white Irish roots yet remain true to his Blackness. Many Black people in the United States carry Irish surnames for a variety of reasons. My fictitious character’s single mother gave her son her last name when he was born. She named her baby boy “Paddy” for a very different reason you’ll have to read the book to find out.

Kenny Duffin and I worked as drug and alcohol counselors at a Pennsylvania state prison re-entry facility at Third and Herr in Harrisburg in the late 1970s. Unlike the real Duff, who graduated from John Harris High School, I attended an all-white high school in Perry County. I met my first two Black acquaintances when I was 18 and attended Penn State in 1969.

Not long after I moved to the University Park campus I recognized a Black teenager from Harrisburg who the year before had sucker-punched me from behind at a dance that turned into a Black vs. white free-for-all in the aftermath of the Martin Luther King Jr. assassination. Heavily outnumbered the night my attacker threw his punch, I swallowed my urge to mix it up and headed for the door.

I still wonder if Duff knew the guy who hit me. Back then I decided not to ask. Let it go, I told myself, so I did. As the years went by I matured slowly but surely, got smarter and learned to control my own temper. During the almost four years I worked for the State Correctional Institution at Camp Hill as a full-time counselor and part-time boxing instructor I made several Black friends from whom I learned lifelong lessons about race and class.

In addition to Duff, Corrections Officer Dickie Green, Robbie Lewis at the Police Athletic League gym, co-workers Dave Stockton, Jimmy Polite, June M. and stand-up peacemaker Norman “Bo” Wilson helped me understand my role in a nasty white society that rigged the system against Black people. I also learned from Butch at the Broad Street Market and Guff who owned the Zodiac Lounge across the street and eventually got murdered. I even forgave the young brother who blindsided me.

Equally important, Black inmates like Delbert Hodge, Jeff Smith and Boo Boo Lark, complex men raised in what can seem like a perpetual underclass with whom elite white America does not want to share the American Dream, helped me grow. Working for the “Bureau of Corrections” planted seeds in my psyche that took root decades later and provoked me to write Paddy’s Day in Trump Town, a flashpoint narrative about our time in America when white-hot bigotry elected a white racist president.

In 2024 mean-spirited mostly white American male voters did it again.

In my mind I see Kenny Duffin leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, taking a long drag off his cigarette, paying close attention before speaking in the inmate therapy groups we ran. Working 24/7 shifts in the musty four-story inner-city apartment building, we did what we could to help convicts re-enter society without depending on guns, heroin or other drugs and alcohol.

Whenever Duff spoke in his soft tones, Black B-Ward gang members from Philly, Pittsburgh rapists, and pimps, killers, Harrisburg junkies, athletes, Vietnam combat veterans and Black Muslims sat in respectful silence. Rough rural white rednecks paid attention, too. A smattering of Puerto Ricans nodded, tuning into Duff’s advice. Those who embraced his guidance had a better chance of making it on the street when they got paroled. Duff’s words and attitude carried weight. We won some and we lost some — both inmates and staff.

Unlike me Duff had nothing to prove. My big white ego did more to intimidate than heal. I did okay with most inmates, but Duff’s calm heart spoke with far more power than my macho attitude. Duff carried himself with confidence and class. He, too, had studied at Penn State’s main campus, could play some serious basketball and radiated a solid handsome bearing with smooth dark brown skin and a disarming smile. Duff could sing, too, having spent time on stage with one of the best ’60s soul groups to ever come out of the Burg, even better than the Emperors and the lead singer for the Magnificent Men as far as I was concerned.

Most of all, Duff was fair. That’s the moral of this story. Be fair. It’s nice to be nice. Equity makes us stronger people. Respecting ourselves and others provides power to escape prisons of weakness and insecurity.

I wish Duff had read my book. If people who knew and loved him do read my new paperback, they should quickly recognize Duff’s gentle spirit and embrace his vibrant energy in a sincere quest to improve their own and other people’s lives.

Kenny “Duff” Duffin sparked the pure sense of hope required for progress.

So does Paddy “Duff” Duffin, a main character in my novel.

We must continue to fight the power.

America needs all the help we can get.

A long time ago some smart-ass started telling what came to be known as Pat and Mike jokes, slurs meant to mock the Irish.

Irish Americans eventually laughed loudest. Countless descendants of the old sod even embraced the monkey-faced Notre Dame leprechaun as one of us, a mean-spirited caricature that proves a sad irony at the core of these stereotypic jokes. Laughing at ourselves is one thing. Helping our enemies laugh at us is an entirely different pot of Irish stew. Joining racists in mocking who we are goes beyond the emerald pale.

Yet some truth exists in stereotypes.

Some unexpected brilliance does, too.

That’s why I’m writing two-page Pat and Mike stories, two-man dialogues I’m packing into a collection called Pat and Mike Rule the World. I’ll post each new story on my website at https://theoutlawcorbett.com/ and on my Facebook page. Maybe in a year or so we’ll load the words into a book. Or maybe not. Like always, I’ll figure it out.

Our ethnic neighborhoods are nowadays changing and not necessarily for the better. Pat and Mike? They’re trying. For better or worse, their personal conversations could take place in Boston, Wilkes-Barre, Philadelphia, New York, Chicago or any other once vibrant Irish American sanctuary. But make no mistake about locale. Pat and Mike live in Scranton, Pennsylvania, birthplace of former president Joe Biden. Not surprisingly, Pat and Mike are ashamed to admit Biden is as homegrown as they are.

Writing Pat and Mike stories inspires edgy fun. Like peppering a jab into a heavyweight boxing opponent’s puss, punchy dialogue provokes backlash and emotion. Sacrilegious and incendiary, Pat and Mike exist as purebred star-spangled white men. Their stories tell truths not often publicly shared. No problem is too big to solve or too intellectual for the lads to address. Pat and Mike think and talk like bigots although they say they don’t do it on purpose. They’re just trying to understand a changing world. Fairness isn’t always as easy as you think. Taking sides is easier. Pat and Mike take sides, sometimes turning up on both sides at the same time.

So after you read each Pat and Mike story make sure to look in the mirror. Do you agree with Pat or Mike or both? Do you know somebody like them?  Are you like them? Do you want to be even more like them?

If you don’t know, ask me.

I’ll ask Pat and Mike.

They’ll tell us even if we really don’t want to know.

“Go with the flow,” Harry whispered to us a few weeks before he died.

Harry shared this same mantra with me and his first cousin Stephanie Bressler when we stayed at the Lark in May. Stephanie and Harry grew up together as children in the ‘50s living a block away from each other in Tower City, Pennsylvania.

Smiling and poised in our second-floor room for a few minutes that day, Harry’s aura glowed brighter than the vivid red, white and blue neon sign outside the classic Stone Harbor, New Jersey, family motel where he lived and worked for about 50 years. A stellar prophet with all the right numbers plugged into the cosmos, each day Harry saw astrological truth in the stars and planets as his beatific vision enlightened many people blessed to know him over many years.

Countless co-workers, vacationers and neighbors who loved Harry listened and learned from his clear perception and often silly charm. A solitary mountain yogi living by the sea, Harry’s intellect, gentle spirit and good humor simply helped us feel good.

Our happiness mattered to Harry.

So the next time you look to the morning sky from the beach or anywhere else in this world, let your heart hear Harry playing one of his beloved Broadway show tunes on the piano. Take those few sacred moments to bask in the warmth of the rising sun and give thanks for nature’s way. Next time you think of Harry think of riding the wind forever like a majestic monarch butterfly gliding high above white sand on the softest summer day.

Above all, take Harry’s advice.

Go with the flow.

Just go with the flow.

All bets are hopefully off at American Legion Post 568 in the Minooka section of Scranton.

But getting Democratic Pennsylvania House of Representatives lawmaker Kyle Donahue, who represents Minooka and serves as a majority member of the House of Representatives Gaming Oversight Committee, to take illegal gambling in his own backyard seriously is nothing but a crapshoot.

The same goes for Donahue’s “constituent services advisor” and childhood best friend Sean O’Shea who serves as Post 568 president. O’Shea made national news back in 2005 when then U.S. Army soldier O’Shea spoke with and shared his diary entries with a writer from GQ Magazine. O’Shea told his story about guarding Saddam Hussein in an American military prison for almost ten months before the Iraqi dictator’s December 30, 2006, execution by hanging.

In a 8/20/25 letter to American Legion Post 568, Lackawanna County District Attorney Brian Gallagher ordered members to “cease and desist illegal gambling and illegal liquor raffles.” Do it again and Gallagher promised to file criminal charges against those who organize and conduct illegal gambling which includes the popular Post 568 Yeti cooler-loaded-with-liquor raffle.

In a June Facebook post O’Shea sold raffle tickets on his personal public Facebook page for the American Legion Post 568 Yeti cooler-loaded-with-liquor raffle. State Liquor Control Board records call O’Shea the post president. Various local news reports also call him the post commander.

“These crimes jeopardize the post liquor license and could permanently close the post bar,” Gallagher wrote.

Minooka bars have served as illegal gambling dens for about 100 years. But the clannish Minooka Irish neighborhood never before showcased a state legislator who hired a “constituent services advisor” who oversaw what Gallagher calls illegal gambling and Pennsylvania State Police Liquor Enforcement agents call shoddy record keeping and state liquor law violations at Minooka American Legion Post 568.

State lawmaker Donahue refused twice to answer my written question as to whether he bought any tickets for the illegal raffle from O’Shea or anybody else at the Minooka American Legion. O’Shea failed to respond to emails and asked me not to contact him on his personal Facebook page before unfriending and blocking me after I asked him questions about the raffle. O’Shea was far more congenial several years ago when he visited my office at WILK News Radio to talk about local politics and the images and reflections he has of Saddam Hussein.

Despite Gallagher’s warning, Rep. Donahue doubled down defending the Post 568 “misunderstanding” despite sitting as a majority member on the Pennsylvania House of Representatives Gaming Oversight Committee. State taxpayers pay the undistinguished state legislator $106,422.33-per-year plus $185/day per diem to uphold the public trust and police legal gambling in the Commonwealth among other legislative duties. State lawmaker Donahue seemed oblivious to Gallagher’s promise to enforce gambling laws state taxpayers expect state lawmaker Donahue to advocate.

In a 9/4/25 email I asked Rep, Donahue, “Are you aware of the warning letter Lackawanna County District Attorney Brian Gallagher sent to American Legion Post 568 with regard to this crime? Are you aware of the related liquor law violations Pennsylvania State Police filed against American Legion Post 568?”

Rep. Donahue responded:

“First off, to classify this as “illegal” or a “crime” is disingenuous at best. It is a Liquor Control Board (LCB) administrative violation that works its way through an administrative law process within the LCB. It is also my understanding that this specific case was a misunderstanding of the small game of chance license that American Legion Post 568 currently holds. But ignorance is not an excuse for violating the regulations that are in place and the LCB did in fact issue an administrative citation to Post 568 which will now work its way through that process.”

In Gallagher’s August 20 letter addressed to “Members of American Legion Connolly Post 568” and titled “Re: Official Warning Regarding Liquor Raffles” the district attorney wrote:

“It has been reported to my office that your legion is engaging in liquor raffles in violation of Pennsylvania law. This correspondence serves as a formal warning regarding the unlawful conduct of liquor raffles and “basket of cheer” raffles at your organization without the required licenses and authorizations under Pennsylvania law.

Be advised: this activity is illegal.”

DA Gallagher further wrote, “This notice shall serve as your only opportunity for warning. Any future instance of unlicensed liquor raffles, baskets of cheer, or similar illegal fundraising activity will result in the immediate filing of criminal charges against the responsible individuals and the organization.

You are hereby directed to cease and desist immediately from all unlawful liquor raffles and to ensure that all future fundraising activities are conducted in strict compliance with Pennsylvania law.”

Gallagher continued, “I understand and am sympathetic to the fact that many legions, VFWs, and private clubs conduct these raffles without having the proper license not for any underlying criminal purpose but rather to maintain the property, pay the bills, and ensure that the post remains a welcoming place for veterans, families, and neighbors.”

“However, as District Attorney, I am required to enforce the law. Conducting unlicensed liquor raffles or “baskets of cheer” constitutes a criminal violation under the above Pennsylvania statutes,” Gallagher wrote.

“The American Legion Post 568 is an institution in Minooka and represents the very best of that neighborhood and the City of Scranton. Please don’t put law enforcement in a position where we are forced to file criminal charges because of conduct that is easily avoidable. This would stain the legion, its members, its history and Minooka,” wrote Gallagher. “Failure to comply will result in enforcement action without further notice.”

On 8/22/25 Gallagher wrote in an email to The Scranton City News, “In reviewing all the evidence with my Chief County Detective Tom Davis and Deputy Chief Chris Kolcharno, we have decided to issue a warning to the Post regarding the liquor raffle. No criminal charges will be filed for illegal gambling.”

DA Gallagher further wrote. “The legion has been issued a verbal and written warning, advising them of the technical violation and that any more violations could result in criminal charges. I believe a warning at this stage is the fair and just route to take especially considering that the PSP BLCE filed two citations against this POST for the raffle. This will be their only warning.”

In a 7/29/25 email to The Scranton City News District Office Commander, Pennsylvania State Police Bureau of Liquor Control Enforcement in Wilkes-Barre Sergeant H. Christopher Bonin, wrote:

“The Bureau of Liquor Control Enforcement has completed an investigation into this licensee and will be issuing citations for the following liquor law violations:

Liquor Law Section – 40:5.32(e)(3) Offered and/or gave liquor and/or malt or brewed beverages as a prize.

Liquor Law Section – 10:328.503 Failed to maintain complete and truthful records covering the operation of the licensed business for a period of two years immediately preceding 07/10/25 concerning the local option small games of chance act.

These charges will be brought before an Administrative Law Judge (ALJ) who has the authority to impose penalties ranging from $50-$1,000 for minor offenses and up to $5,000 for more serious offenses.  In addition, the ALJ can also impose a license suspension or revocation of the license based on the severity of the charge brought.  The ALJ can also mandate training for the licensee in an effort to educate them on the requirement of being a licensee.”

The Scranton City News could not determine the hearing date or how American Legion Post 568 representatives will plead to the violations.

On 9/4/25 state police at department headquarters in Harrisburg posted a public press release confirming the filing of citations against “Connolly Post Veterans Camp Home Association” in the June 28 Yeti cooler-loaded-with-liquor raffle at Post 568 in Minooka.

Rep. Donahue ended his email response to me by writing, “In our current world that is filled with hate and vitriol, Post 568 should be commended for the good for the good work they do in their community and not used as a pawn in one of your personal vendettas.”

I’m a constituent whom state lawmaker Donahue represents. I also hold public officials accountable through aggressive journalism. As the grandson of a Minooka Irish immigrant coal miner who died from Black Lung and who proudly became an American citizen, I take seriously the U.S. Constitution and the First Amendment in our nation of law.

The political is always personal. And the search for truth is always good. So is calling out worthless public servants who abuse the public trust the way Donahue and O’Shea squander their obligation to serve democracy and justice.

Has O’Shea taken any responsibility and apologized for his disgraceful behavior? Has O’Shea apologized to military veterans and their families for risking the American Legion Post 568 liquor license that helps raise money for veterans’ services? Has O’Shea apologized for his reckless and feckless Facebook stupidity?

Has Rep. Donahue disciplined O’Shea? Has Rep. Donahue discussed his staffer’s unethical behavior with Democratic Party leadership or any of his colleagues on the House of Representatives Gaming Oversight Committee? Has Rep. Donahue acknowledged the sad irony of his personal state gambling watchdog duties crapping out against his personal failure to police his own hometown office?

What are the odds either Sean O’Shea or Rep. Kyle Donahue has taken this shameful example of public disservice seriously?

The odds are slim to none.

All truth seekers are members of the PRESS.

For that reason People for the Responsible Empowerment of Strong Support for journalism (PRESS) will rally Friday, September 5, at 6 p.m. at the WBRE-TV/28/WYOU-TV/22 downtown Scranton news bureau at 150 Adams Avenue on the corner of Adams Avenue and Biden Street.

Our demonstration challenges the lack of local news coverage of the approximately 200 mostly Palestinian journalists the Israeli military killed with weapons paid for by American taxpayers in less than two years of ongoing genocide in Gaza.

Corporate media is guilty of journalistic malpractice whenever news executives fail to prioritize and localize stories of such tragic impact. Because all NEPA print and broadcast media are complicit in this negligence, we chose the most visible media outlet office in NEPA to peacefully assemble and protest.

Biden Street in former President Joe Biden’s birthplace also holds powerful symbolic significance. Biden and his Vice President Kamala Harris initially armed and enabled the ongoing Israeli genocide. President Donald Trump continues to enable and aid the Israeli slaughter of civilians. Both Democrats and Republicans lay siege to journalists and journalism.

Scranton/Wilkes-Barre media have failed to sufficiently report the murders and assassinations of Palestinian journalists as well as the continuing Israeli extermination of the Palestinian people in Gaza and the West Bank. Because Israel bans international journalists from on-the-ground reporting in Gaza, American journalists including those working in NEPA must do better raising awareness to the continuing Palestinian slaughter.

News professionals who turn their backs on their colleagues turn their backs on the truth as well as on themselves.

Help free Palestine with a free press.

Who: PRESS (People for the Responsible Empowerment of Strong Support) for journalism

What: Rally to challenge unsatisfactory local news coverage of Israeli genocide and the killing of approximately 200 local Palestinian journalists in Gaza

Where: WBRE-TV/28/WYOU-TV/22 downtown Scranton news bureau at 150 Adams Avenue on the corner of Adams Avenue and Biden Street

When: Friday, September 5, at 6 p.m.

Contact: Steve Corbett

Email: stephencorbett01@comcast.net

Cell: 570-687-3870

Israeli bombs kill more health care workers in Gaza. Israeli bombs kill more journalists in Gaza. Israeli bombs kill more children in Gaza. Israeli bombs kill more hope for the future in Gaza.

Who have you helped kill today?

Silence and willing taxpayer support for a savage Israeli slaughter has contributed to the death and destruction of Palestinian life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, solemn values Americans supposedly embrace and nurture. Unless you oppose the Israeli/American genocide and do something to help make the carnage stop, you help kill the sacred idea that we are obligated to help stop war crimes and human extermination.

Unless you oppose occupation and support the idea of Palestinian freedom you have helped kill America’s democratic and patriotic belief in law and justice. Unless you stand against our lackluster and dangerous local, state and national elected government officials who support Israeli military madness, you have sided with ongoing barbaric furor that fuels Israel’s unjust war on Palestinian people, culture and identity.

You help the madness continue.

Last September Ukraine President Volodymyr Zelenskyy visited former President Joe Biden’s birthplace in Scranton and the Scranton Army Ammunition Plant that makes 155 shell casings civilian workers later fill with explosives to send to Ukraine and elsewhere.

Government officials barred media from the tour.

Some of Pennsylvania’s most powerful and popular elected officials, all loyal Blue MAGA yellow dog Democrats, showed up to greet Zelenskyy and autograph or write notes on new bomb casings to send a message to whoever has the bad luck to be on the explosive receiving end of a Scranton-made shell.

Chipper cheerleaders included Scranton Mayor Paige Cognetti, Gov. Josh Shapiro, then U.S. Rep. Matt Cartwright and then U.S. Sen. Bob Casey. Cartwright and Casey lost re-election bids in November to right-wing zealot Republicans Rep. Rob Bresnahan Jr. and Sen. Dave McCormick, losing countless Democratic and Independent votes because of their support for Israeli genocide. Israeli lackey and Pennsylvania’s other U.S. Sen. John Fetterman missed the Scranton rally due to previously scheduled goose-stepping practice.

Nowadays Zionist zealot Shapiro keeps busy trying to curtail free speech and intimidate college presidents with phony accusations of antisemitism the way he bullied University of Pennsylvania administrators who had respected faculty and students during legitimate pro-Palestinian campus protests. Zionist darling Shapiro now uses his position as governor to set the stage for a future Democratic bid for president of the United States.

Cognetti busies herself running for re-election as Scranton mayor as well as playing cutsey about whether she’ll run for the Democratic nomination to face Bresnahan in November. Cognetti once publicly stated, “I stand with Israel.” The Oregon-raised hipster and Harvard Business School graduate steadfastly refuses to respond to my questions as to whether she still supports the colonialist apartheid state. Liberal warmonger Cognetti wants to have her bombs and drop them too, all while Gazan children and other innocents die at the hands of Israeli/American mass murder she supports.

Army spokespersons refused to grant me a subsequent tour of the Scranton ammunition factory and repeatedly refused to answer my questions about whether Israel receives our Scranton homemade bombs to kill Palestinian children, women and men.

I joined Palestinian rights protestors Monday at the Scranton ammunition plant to call attention to the Israeli/American slaughter. After the protest I offered the best advice I could about how to pressure our local, state and national elected officials who depend on Northeastern Pennsylvania (NEPA) voters for re-election and why we need to confront, embarrass and shame them at every turn.

Pickets at their homes and weddings, disruptions of public and private events and civil disobedience need to increase. Increasing numbers of people of conscience need to make these so-called public servants aware of their hypocrisy. We must voice our unwillingness to ignore their self-absorbed apathy. We pay for their salaries and benefits. We must hold them accountable for their crimes of silence.

We must also pressure NEPA media.

Despite the Israeli military killing more than 200 local Palestinian journalists, some with assassination, and barring international press organizations from freely covering Gaza, other than a shallow local report here and there, NEPA television stations and newspapers have failed to report the Palestinian genocide appropriately or thoroughly. Not one local broadcast or print reporter or local news executive has been brave enough to dig deep or push for easily available local angles in this tragic story. Of course, Scranton Times-Tribune columnist Chris Kelly long ago relinquished the aggressive voice of an honorable news columnist and remains an apologist for status quo Democrats and sweetheart to the liberal beautiful people.

Many more of us must speak out against Israel’s final solution against the Palestinian people. We must resist and oppose our family and friends’ support for the Israeli/American plan for annihilation. We must fight the cruel for-profit system that kills in our name.

Humanity depends on it.

Ready for 25 shots in the belly with a long needle, I braced for the jab. Thanks to modern science, though, I only required one shot in each arm and one in each leg. Three more next week will do the trick.

No rabies.

Bring on the vampires.

I was going to tell the nurses I fought a tiger but thought better of it when I saw an emergency room doctor looking at me and thought he might be a psychiatrist. Involuntary commitment is not my idea of a wild weekend.

Stephanie woke me a few nights earlier with the bat signal.

“Bat in the bedroom!” she said at 2 a.m.

After bailing out of bed we peeked through the crack in the closed door and watched as the little critter circled the rotating ceiling fan. Around and around he went with no means of escape. Entering the room like a commando I opened a window. We turned off the fan and the light. Again I went behind enemy lines and opened another window.

No luck.

Exhausted, the poor little fellow clung to the wall. I tried to trap him in a cardboard box, but he slid away and crawled under the bed. So we waited. Patience is a virtue. Eventually he fled.

Steve from Pennsylvania Critter Control in Scranton checked out the house and determined no bats lived there and hadn’t left attic droppings. But he advised us to contact our doctor just in case the bat scratched or bit. You sometimes don’t even feel the claws or teeth when you’re asleep, he said, adding that doctors almost always advised rabies shots after exposure. We contacted our physician, Dr. Brenda Goodrich at Geisinger 65 Forward, who suggested “post exposure vaccination is the safest route.”

Rabies is almost always fatal, according to experts, and might lay dormant for months or even years before seizures, hallucinations, inflammation of the brain and death. By the time severe symptoms attack you’re a goner.

On a busy Thursday afternoon loaded with very sick patients ranging from sparkling newborns to terribly sad senior citizens, the Geisinger CMC emergency room nurses, the physician’s assistant and resident staff could not have been nicer. Smart and efficient, they treated Stephanie and me with the utmost care.

The only regret I have is I wasn’t able to sink my fangs into a few people’s throats (you know who you are) before I got vaccinated. I’m particularly thankful I didn’t have to take even one shot in the belly. Somebody did, though.

The dark Buddha tattoo on my upper left arm took a direct hit. Stoic and still, he sat Zazen in a calm meditative mood. Peace of mind is always worth the effort, especially when it comes to famine, pestilence, destruction and death.

I’m pretty sure we’re OK.

But I still want to bite somebody.

On Sonny Drake’s first day dead, the power of his words banged around in my head like outlaw biker ghosts brawling inside the gas tank of his vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

“Live Pagan, die Pagan,” he said matter-of-factly in our last conversation.

The day after Sonny’s death, a month short of his 72nd birthday, I watched still-robust green leaves in a vibrant neighborhood tree begin to turn fiery red as each leaf prepared to fall. All life goes down sooner or later. Sonny called his body a vessel, a repository that holds blood, bone, tissue and organs that one day drops like a well-used scooter in a fatal crash on an oily stretch of dark and dangerous road.

But the righteous spirit of his hallowed Pagan’s Motorcycle Club lives forever, Sonny said.

At my friend’s funeral at Indiantown Gap National Cemetery, about 75 Pagans rode their shining heavy metal beasts through the sacred green land of the dead, passing headstones commemorating military warriors past, parking in a long line that embodied the menacing muscle of a fire-breathing dragon.

Beneath wooden beams of an open air pavilion, two uniformed Marines gently folded Old Glory and presented America’s symbol of freedom to Sonny’s widow, Margie. Christian prayers ended as the nice pastor with whom Sonny and I went to high school and played football presented his practiced, pious smile and disappeared back into the solemn, silent crowd.

Life had officially ended for the former Pagan’s Central Pennsylvania chapter president.

But the club had the last word.

Stepping unexpectedly to the front of the crowd where the pastor earlier stood, a blunt East Coast Pagan’s chapter president and military veteran commanded center stage for an encore. Evoking Sonny’s bold spirit in a piercing growl, he made clear his personal devotion to his deceased brother’s final destination.

“Valhalla!” he blasted in a deep voice, referencing the hallowed Norse afterlife reserved for Viking chieftains.

Assembled club members bellowed in response.

“Valhalla!”

Again the president howled his message.

“Valhalla!”

The outlaw multitude rumbled louder.

“Valhalla!”

Riding words hard and fast to honor the glory of their horde’s living and dead, the president thundered, “Pagan’s Nation!”

Fired up club members screamed their oath to the heavens.

“Pagan’s Nation!”

“Valhalla!” shouted the Pagan’s chapter president one last time, raising a clenched fist to the sky.

“Valhalla!” came the club’s uncompromising grand finale.

Still cemetery air trembled. Moving en masse and climbing on their bikes, the red, white and blue colors they wore on their backs shined with fire god Surt etched in black in the middle of their cutoff denim vests. Kicking over well-oiled engines they roared away from the boxed white ash remains of a good man who loved his country, family, friends and club.

In life Sonny stood tall and lean, muscled with a shaved head and ominous black-inked tattoos on both arms depicting wailing skulls and the Grim Reaper beckoning from a bourbon bottle-sized gray brand cut into his upper arm.

Yes, Sonny Drake lived and died a Pagan – a Pagan forever, forever a Pagan.

Non-club members and citizens like most of us rarely get a look inside the mind of a patched Pagan and former chapter president. I did because Sonny Drake and I grew up together in rural Central Pennsylvania. We respected each other until the end. As his life shut down, I offered to write a chapter of his life as part of a club history that John Hall, another friend of mine for more than 50 years, is putting together with personal stories from memorable Pagan’s members like Sonny Drake. Hall, 75, an elder non-active Pagan and former New York chapter president, is the author of Riding on the Edge: A Motorcycle Outlaw’s Tale.

Despite sneaky undercover cops and deadly rivals, this hardcore brotherhood stands proud and unbowed among East Coast one-percenters. Pagan membership rosters swell with prospects flexing hard young muscle beside seasoned brothers who more than ever roll across America in what Pagan leadership considers their expanding nation.

Following a second near-fatal motorcycle accident, Al “Sonny” Drake Jr. moved in 2021 to Citrus County, Florida, with Margie and two Doberman defenders that roared at me in the background when he and I talked for hours on the phone about his relationship with the Pagan’s Motorcycle Club. Sonny didn’t give away any secrets or talk club business. He channeled raw spirit that drove him deep into the soul of loyalty he feels about his brothers.

“You’re the only person that I have spoken with about my experiences,” he said.

We also talked frankly about how Sonny confronted, faced and accepted death with gallant courage. Despite increasing morphine doses, he spoke clearly and realistically, expressing curiosity in the face of pain.

“It’s a process what I’m going through,” he said. “Not good. Not bad. It is what it is.”

Sonny embraced death as a stand-up role model, an icon among club members, their families and friends, particularly younger guys who looked up to him. Without many like him left, younger Pagan’s should take heed and learn how to ride reality from one of the best.

Before moving south he led the club’s Appalachian chapter near Duncannon, PA, a rough-and-ready assemblage of Perry County country boys who understand the land and how to nurture the rough terrain, hard rocks and all. A former Marine, American legion commander and federal naval supply depot security officer for decades, Sonny knew the rules of the road.

OK, so hard road almost ate him up a couple of times – actually a jittery white-tail deer who hit his bike with the force of a steroid-ridden semi-pro linebacker and an oblivious jackass in a pickup truck who pulled out in front of him. Bones that didn’t break the first time broke the second. Sonny healed both times. When he went down he got up. After chewing gravel he spit it out. A few years later he took another spill and asked for an extra helping of asphalt for dessert.

To Sonny Drake the trappings of existence boiled down to the initials LPDP – “Live Pagan Die Pagan.” The letters PFFP also meant something sacred. “Pagan Forever Forever Pagan” defined his club commitment. Sonny made his allegiance clear when he signed off in a final email to me he ended with those abbreviations.

Sonny Drake’s words to live by still pound in my head. You, too, should crave holy primitive enlightenment from the now-stilled heart of a Pagan prince who sensed ancient warlord blood in his ancestry and did something about it. His daring created a force that remains a two-fisted cosmic spirit that guides hardcore searchers to explore the unknown.

So how’d Sonny Drake handle the 1% outlaw lifestyle?

“We all push our limits,” Sonny told me. “You’ve got to know who you are. You’ve got to know your place. Most people don’t know who they are. Too many people don’t know their place.”

Do you know your limits?

“Me? I’m good.”

How do you use that knowledge?

“I’m always casting pearls. I’m talking about lessons. Sometimes I kick myself in the ass wondering if I’m wasting my breath. Some people aren’t ready to understand. You only learn if you want to learn. That’s why I ride with the best. Always the A team, only the best.”

Did you jump at the chance to become a Pagan?

“I drug my feet about joining the club. A couple of 30-year guys would always say, hey, Sonny, when are you gonna put Sutar (that’s how the club spells the name) on your back? The Norse fire giant wielding his flaming sword is the club symbol – a god, a demon, a ruthless force to lead armies into battle. My family surname means dragon. I’m descended from Vikings so it looks like joining this fire-breathing club was meant to be. But I’d tell them, I’m not ready. I said I don’t think I’m the man you’re looking for. They got real serious and said you’re exactly the man we’re looking for. They knew what they wanted.”

Did you know what the Pagan’s wanted?

“When I was ready I knew they were right because I knew who I was. All honorable men belong to the same tribe. You’ve got to know who you are.

How did you handle your new outlaw life?

“Changing old ways is important. Everything changes. Nothing’s permanent. Not behaving badly makes a stronger nation. It’s great to be a Jesse James, right? Knuckle-dragging, chain-wielding, ax handle-swinging barbarians, right? We’re one-percenters. Nobody else in the biker world matters to us. But I won’t cross the line. I know what to do and what not to do. Knowing who you are is where club power is born. Look in the mirror. Tell me what you see. Tell me who you see.”

What did the Pagan’s see in you?

“The club saw discipline in me. Six years in the Marines, a top secret clearance in my job. The club respected what I would do to help. I respected the club. Look at me – Mr. Clean Boy Scout turned into a diamond, a chapter president. I added raw meat to the bone. A number of brothers influenced me to join. Like-minded brothers share the same patches, our military backgrounds, loyalty and respect. One in particular, I owe it all to him.  He knows who he is.”

Do risks come to a Pagan?

“In the club life we wear bullseyes on our backs.  Survival comes down to strength and loyalty. Living’s like riding a wild spirit that’s hard to control, hard to tame. Either you find the balance or you don’t.  We find honor and trust in the brotherhood. We’re getting bigger and stronger every day.”

You sure love your bikes, right?

“Bikes come and go, though. I’ve owned 16 Harleys over the years. My first bike was a ’67 XLCH Sportster I bought in 1970. I still have a 1947 Knucklehead (half ’47 Knucklehead/half ’48 Panhead) that’s a showpiece bike – one pure, sacred motorcycle. I totaled a Fat Boy when that deer ran out in front of me. I totaled a Softail when that pickup truck pulled out in front of me. For all my broken bones are worth, and I got a lot of them, I was sober both times.”

In our last two telephone conversations, Sonny talked about preparing for the last ride.

“I’m always searching,” he said. “Where did we come from? Where are we going?”

As life closed in, Sonny said he learned more about himself with each breath on each day. Continuing the quest for wisdom even when pancreatic cancer chewed up his body, Sonny knew the power of the fate he faced. He saw his passing as a trial by fire, an inferno that moved him deeper into a connection between the sweet mysteries of life and death’s mighty flames lifting him to Valhalla.

Telling me he hoped he didn’t sound corny, he said he told Margie, “I’m moving on. This vessel, this body, I’m in my cocoon, all curled up. I’ll emerge on the other side as a beautiful butterfly.”

Then Sonny laughed like he did when we boxed by the coal ash pit as teenagers and I caught him with a teeth-jarring shot in the mouth.

“Or a beautiful Harley,” he said.

A few days after Sonny’s funeral, I heard the boys threw him a party at their farm. Rain, gray skies and thick mud couldn’t dampen their mood or tone down the Pagan’s Nation message. Sonny’s final testimonial read aloud to a silent crowd encouraged guts and growth among the tribe.

 “Explosions come out of nowhere,” he said. “You better be ready to expect the unexpected. Loud and proud, I’ve lived my life to the fullest. We live in our own minds so you better get it right. To get something out you better put something in.”

Our beautiful outlaw put something in all right – something righteous and then some.

Even in death, when Sonny Drake spoke, the Pagan’s listened.

Maybe I did kill those chickens the summer of 1970, wiping out about 50 of the little cluckers on a Perry County back road when I was young, wild and free-range.

I launched my murder most fowl by making Sonny Drake and the other two guys in the van laugh so hard and so loud the chickens heard us coming and got so scared they ran together packed into a huddle so tight the panicky poultry suffocated to death. Asphyxiated, their bodies crushed so tightly against each other, they couldn’t muster a single cluck for help from their quivering beaks.

That’s what the farmer told our boss after witnessing us racing by howling at the top of our savage lungs with me inciting the riot, yelling the loudest, rocking the van back and forth and raising a cloud of dust as we fishtailed along the dirt road past the barn headed to the mountain.

The big German farmer later complained to Sonny’s father, Al, who was nice enough to hire us in the first place. I forget the exact nature of our job that morning, but Mr. Drake had hired us to help clear brush for a future new highway running through Juniata County. Mr. Drake drove a company pickup and held down a good job as a supervisor. Not one of us had listed chicken killer on our resume like we were bloodstained butchers at Mutzabaugh’s Meat Market in Duncannon.

The farmer considered us a gang of hoofty desperadoes coming home to roost. The big man in the bibs and straw hat pegged me as a hardboiled slaughterhouse madman. In a way he was right. Back then I didn’t give a peep about those dirty birds and almost asked the farmer if we could collect their limp downy corpses for a big barbecue at our next underage beer party.

If anything I considered the feather fluster second-degree poultry slaughter, definitely not henocide. I explained that wolves must have snuck down from the hills after we passed by to petrify the pecker-headed poultry.

I didn’t mean to kill the chickens. The thought never crossed my muddled mind that the dumb clucks could hear us or were even listening. If they hadn’t been so chicken and ignored the clatter their descendants might be alive today and their great-grandmothers would have lived on not as spring chickens, of course, but as aging biddies with nice nest eggs. But, no, the bird brains put all their eggs in one basket and the family tree came crashing down to bury their petrified chicken bones in the dirt.

Deep-fried finality serves them right on a silver platter.

In the long run, though, maybe I did the checked-out chickens a favor. Who wants to wind up as nuggets or a McChicken sandwich? Aren’t ghosts of chickens past/passed better off as birds of a feather flocking together in chicken heaven than getting executed to make industrially flattened meat patties?

More than 50 years later, henpecked by guilt, I’m ready to take responsibility for my featherbrained folly and apologize to the late Mr. Drake, the farmer, and mostly, to the deceased chickens.

Sonny’s gone now but I’m sure he’s proud of me as he lives eternal life in Valhalla shaking a tail feather, drinking mead and ale from an antler beer stein and digging into free all-you-can-eat chicken wings and legs and whatever other parts of the birds he wants to gobble. As for me, I no longer see walking dead chickens in my sleep, stunned zombie birds looking at me like I’m a nightmare worse than Colonel Sanders. I crave peace of mind, not chickens cackling at me like I’m some carnival geek.

Now I’m chicken tender, beating my big white meat breast for chicken compassion.

Maybe that’s why 30 years ago I turned pescatarian and only consume plant-based Chik’N Patties. Veggie chicken burgers don’t kill themselves by running into each other before I smoke ’em on the grill. Nope, no beef, pork or poultry for me and my aging heart. I’m a happy man, a proud Appalachian American raised with all the smoked trout, thick ears of Pennsylvania yellow sweet corn and fat red field-grown tomatoes I can eat.

Cock-a-doodle-doo!