Eight hundred dollars for pots and pans?

Josh looked up from his phone.

They normally cost fifteen.

Taylor’s anger bubbled over like an unwatched pot of pasta.

Are you crazy?

No, just hungry.

With both of us not working we can’t even afford to go out for tacos and you’re spending the rent money on pots and pans?

We call it graphite-infused cookware.

Who’s we?

Foodies.

You mean that pack of hipster losers who Zoomed with you every Friday night for the past year to talk about the cooking shows you watched on TV?

Everybody’s finally getting together in person here this Friday night.

Over my dead body they are.

Don’t you push your micro-aggression on me, Taylor.

You don’t even cook, Josh.

Learning to prepare meals the right way takes time. Chefs need training with proper ingredients. We need proper tools.

You want tools I’ll give you a screw driver. The hinges on the bedroom door are falling off.

 Veal piccata sounds nice. I wish we had some veal.

Canned beans sounds better because that’s all we have left in the kitchen cupboard.

Josh put on a dreamy face.

I’ll slice the meat as thin as rice paper, dredge the portions in flour, brown, then serve in a sauce containing lemon juice, butter, and capers.

Josh’s face took a turn for the worse, like sliding on ice in Vermont and hitting a tree head-on.

You’re not telling me we don’t have any capers, are you?

I’m telling you if you keep this up I’ll grill your fat ass over an open pit because we’ll have nothing left to eat.

Body shaming doesn’t become you, Taylor.

Body slamming is more like it.

Taylor rushed Josh with all the urgency of a walk-on Penn State linebacker blitzing a third-string quarterback for a chance at a scholarship. Josh squealed and ran into the bedroom. Taylor’s cell phone played a Lady Gaga ring tone. Her girlfriend Brittany screamed at the other end.

You won’t believe what Justin bought, she said.

Taylor felt faint and tried to catch her breath.

He signed us up for weekly bulk meat delivery, steaks, chops, lobsters and even pre-sculpted burgers packed in dry ice and shipped fresh from Wichita, Brittany said.

I didn’t know they had lobsters in Wichita, Taylor said.

Buffalo meat, even, Brittany said.

Josh bought pots and pans, Taylor said.

Justin says he’s bringing meat over to your house Friday to help Josh cook some dinner.

You coming?

Yeah, I guess, Brittany said.

Taylor truly didn’t want to ask but simply couldn’t help herself.

Just by chance, Justin doesn’t have any veal, does he?

Harold noticed the shirt.

Who’s on your sweatshirt?

Denis thought he heard a voice ringing in his head, words that sounded like echoes in the boxing gym.

The two fighters on your shirt, who are they?

Denis touched the front of his jersey.

Let me see, Harold said.

Etched profiles of two men, one on the left with a moustache and one on the right with a full beard, stared at each other from the front of the faded shirt. Printed in smaller letters, the words WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP appeared printed above the men’s names, SPINKS AND COONEY written in stacked white letters one name atop the other across a pink background. June 15 appeared emblazoned across the names in black letters. The words THE WAR AT THE SHORE stood out below the date and above the words BUTCH LEWIS PRODUCTIONS INC IN ASSOCIATION WITH TRUMP PLAZA HOTEL & CASINO.

Whoa, where’d you get that, old-timer?

Denis blinked, staring at sweat-stains on the heavy canvas punching bag.

Harold got excited.

Were you at that fight in Atlantic City?

Denis let his gloved hands hang at his sides, the laces undone.

Harold threw a subtle head feint, tossing off a soft jab and then a straight right hand. He had four amateur fights and one as a newly turned professional, an unheard of advance years ago when a boxer needed dozens of amateur bouts before turning pro,

Man, I watched that on video a hundred times, Harold said. Nineteen eighty-seven, man. I hated Cooney because of all that great white hope shit. Gentleman Gerry Irish bullshit.

Somewhere in the back of his head Denis heard a bell ring. As one of several professional heavyweight sparring partners hired over the years to help name heavyweights prepare for battle, Denis worked with the best, taking heavy blows and weathering a stunning fuselage of power that took a bruising toll on his body and brain.

Cooney’s camp turned him down. But when Gerry saw Denis leaving the casino ring area one day where he still came to watch training because he lived in a room and had nowhere else to go, the polite big man from Long Island gave Denis a shirt.

Here you go, champ, Cooney said.

Harold started rat-a-tat-tat with his boxing babble.

Man, I thought he had Spinks but in the fifth Cooney just stopped punching, Harold said. He didn’t even tie Spinks up. Cooney went down hard how many times? I’ll never understand what happened.

Denis rubbed his eyes with the backs of his boxing gloves.

He didn’t know where he was.

With flushed faces shimmering beneath a green neon beer sign, their argument started early and finished late, with punches, of course. Violence lurked just under the skin of any disagreement in most Scranton bars. Yet, this infusion of emotion fueled neighborhood lore and the working-class legacy, stories told and retold over the years with each recitation adding new layers of bullshit.

Brian meant no harm.

They ought to name the street Joe Biden Boulevard, he said.

Kevin flared.

You just called it a street.

Boulevard sounds classier, Brian said.

You can’t even spell boulevard.

Neither can your mother.

A couple of lushes crowding the bar grabbed both men by their shoulders and pulled them apart.

Another lug chimed in.

How about Joe Biden Way?

They already named the intersection up by his childhood home that.

So then why’s he need another street?

City Council’s pushing for the name, not him.

So why should I give two shits?

Because honoring him honors us, Brian said.

He tried to explain.

Joe’s from Scranton. We’re from Scranton. I heard a guy on the news the other night say the whole world is watching us.

But he couldn’t help himself when he turned back to Kevin.

Just like your brother said he used to watch your sister undress before she took her bath after high school cheerleading practice, Brian said.

More drunks again pulled Brian and Kevin apart.

Yet another Einstein piped in.

Avenue is better than boulevard because boulevard is a Black name like Martin Luther King Boulevard.

I never even thought of that, Kevin said.

So what’s Irish?

Street. Like O’Connell Street.

Where’s that, Boston?

It’s in the heart of Ireland.

How about Biden Court?

Like an NBA basketball court? No way, that’s all Black Lives Matter Land.

Joe Biden Highway?

You need to hit the highway, you goof.

Brian glared.

Joe Biden Lane.

Like that cowboy singer Frankie Laine from the 50s who did Mule Train?

You calling Joe Biden an ass?

Duh, like what’s the Democrats’ mascot, donkey face?

Brian got in a punch this time.

Road?

Row?

Place?

The men picked up a frantic pace until the bartender slammed his fist on the bar.

I got it, he said.

The guys waited.

Dead end, he said.

MOM, Grandpa’s smoking weed again!

When did you turn into such a little rat?

You told on me when I was making dance videos and was supposed to be studying, Little Brenda said.

You’re 16.

You’re 70.

Yeah, but I’m retired. Your mother has to work, cook, clean and buy groceries. I watch cartoons at 10 in the morning when you’re struggling with trigonometry. Maybe I’ll start making dance videos.

MOM!

Grandpa butted the joint and put the roach in his pocket. Turning on the TV he punched in the number for the Three Stooges Channel.

Woopwoopwoopwoop, he said.

Curly was his favorite, of course.

Nyaknyaknyaknyak, Grandpa said.

Big Brenda stood behind her father.

How many times have I told you not to smoke around Little Brenda?

I gave up Marlboros, what more do you want?

Smoking weed around Little Brenda sets a bad example.

I’m using prescribed medical marijuana, Grandpa said.

Your biggest medical problem is you’re stoned all the time.

I’m anxiety-ridden.

Look who‘s talking. Living with you is turning me into a wreck.

So move. I’ll pay for the U-Haul.

You know I can’t afford to move.

Then get offa my cloud.

Listen to Mr. Flower Power, Big Brenda said.

Grandpa bristled.

I’m not just some pothead like your Generation Zero.

What are you other than a leftover 60s guru?

You’re either on the cannabus or off the cannabus, Brenda.

MOM!

WHAT!

Where’s my attention deficit medication?

See, Grandpa said.

See what?

Instant Pharma’s gonna get you. A little medical marijuana might do her the world of good, he said.

Big Brenda turned and walked away cursing to herself as Little Brenda came racing into the kitchen as Grandpa pulled on a black skull cap with a marijuana leaf embroidered on the front.

See what you started, kid?

I wish I could watch cartoons in the morning, Little Brenda said.

How about the Stooges?

Mom says I’m supposed to eat breakfast.

Grandpa put on the smug face he reserved for special occasions.

Breakfast of champions?

Opening the cupboard door he reached to the back and pulled out a cereal box. Raising his index finger to his lips, he shushed his granddaughter. Emptying a pile of toasty, oatsy cannabis flakes into two bowls, he offered one to Little Brenda.

Shut up and eat your Weedies, he said.

Escaping in an ungodly specter of fire and brimstone, the ghost of Hunter Thompson rises from the tomb. The same way the priest in “The Exorcist” (played by my late friend and Scranton native Jason Miller) felt the presence of Beelzebub, I feel the good doctor’s presence and applaud his eternal life because Hunter Thompson died for our sins.

Resurrection illuminates his cosmic conversation from the afterlife. Rebirth lights the way one journalistic comet at a time. Revival brightens the darkness by fueling ferociously aggressive reporting and commentary that comforts the afflicted and afflicts the comfortable.

Hunter Thompson lives through his own words but also in Gonzo Today, the online monthly magazine where his immortal remains mingle with the universe until his energy lands on earth again and again, touching down without brakes on the runway of our minds, only screeching to a stop when we publish fresh tales from the terrible wasteland of America.

https://gonzotoday.com/

Then Thompson’s ghost sours again, rising higher and higher, searching for truth to unleash and inject into the hearts and minds of countless Gonzo adherents who depend upon his spirit to evolve.

I said “we” because I’m now a columnist for Gonzo Today, writing my gnarled and blasphemous impressions of the American Scream. Alive and well in Scranton, PA, President Joe Biden’s birthplace, I patrol the national political landscape on the lookout for state-sponsored land mines, legislative booby-traps and official improvised explosive devices set into place by corrupt elected connivers who call themselves public servants.

Duty-bound and qualified to spread the bruised and raw spirit of Hunter Thompson’s unexpurgated expression, I’ve fought the system for decades through mainstream journalism. Staying one step ahead of the posse, the establishment almost had me a few times but I kept moving, a rebel undeterred by the enemy’s legislative and administrative power. I earned my wings, paid my dues and survived the crash. Not everybody can or wants to rumble, but I do and have the scars to prove it.

That’s why I’m stoked to fight for Gonzo Today, a free-wheeling platform of ideas designed to agitate, create debate and inflame passion. I’ve been disturbing readers with my words since high school when I published the “Hairy Messenger” aboveground newspaper in 1969 and handed out copies on green paper confiscated from the school supply closet to unsuspecting kids as they got off the school bus in the morning.

Fifty years later, two faded copies of that paper helped decorate a table at my high school reunion, a long ago tribute to freedom and defiance when the United States government stole young lives in the Vietnam draft and killed them, criminal degenerate President Nixon was the one, and FBI-inspired reefer madness sent the poor and vulnerable to prison.

But I’m still here, writing, raising hell and sharing cheap street wisdom as a long-haired freak, an outlaw raging and aging in bitter resentment against the robotic societal machine that continues to grind us down, chew us up and spit us out.

The mechanical “sheens” win only if we let them.

Don’t let them succeed.

Question yourself.

Question authority.

Hunter Thompson is risen!

Longshots make the best winners.

If Marlene Sebastianelli emerges after the May 18 special election as the new Pennsylvania state senator for the 22^nd District, voters can finally expect a legitimate champion of the people.

Current state Rep. Marty Flynn is the endorsed Democratic Party nominee for the job loyal Democrat John Blake held for years. Every political prima donna blessed by political bosses needs to get KO’d sooner or later.

Unlike Flynn, Sebastianelli offers voters and taxpayers hands-on independent leadership experience rather than the macho power, prestige and influence Democrats pump into Flynn’s inflated sense of entitlement.

Sebastianelli distances herself so far from establishment political machines she isn’t even a Democrat. Running as a Green Party candidate, she offers voters of all political persuasions a realistic change that translates into real power for all people rather than the usual old boy power for elite politicians and their connected cronies.

As a longtime Democrat, I’m stepping away from my political party to vote for Sebastianelli. I’m not leaving for good although freedom of choice more and more looks like an appealing option. It’s just time to shun another anointed company man party leaders expect Democrats and others to endure.

For eight years Flynn has treated his public service in the Pennsylvania House of Representatives like a bare-knuckle carnival fight. The former prison guard, professional boxer and mixed martial arts bully expects us to support his act.

When it comes to leadership skill, though, Flynn exhibits none.

He just does what he’s told.

Sebastianelli brings a multi-faceted career of professional achievement to her bid for the chance to represent taxpayers rather than the moneyed interests of political masters. A small business owner who earned a Master of Business Administration degree, a breast cancer survivor, mother, wife, accomplished healthcare administrator and tireless community advocate, she exhibits clearer critical thinking ability than Flynn ever exhibited in his shoot-’em-up public service/pugilism career.

Flynn has outlived his usefulness as a public servant.

Marlene Sebastianelli has just begun.

Veteran general assignment reporter Scott Blake awoke to color action news on the big screen television he left on all night. Dancing shadows from the TV flames engulfed the room as he rolled out of bed and stood in a slow yet smooth motion. The editor would likely call soon. Grab your notebook and get your ass to the wildfire line. The digital clock changed to 4:12 a.m. as he turned on the small lamp and stared into bloodshot eyes that pulsed from the chest of drawers’ mirror.

Near the evacuation site, Marge took 45 minutes to drive slowly down the winding road out of the canyon and pull into one of the few remaining spaces at the community center. All she packed was the two cats, a litter tray, cat food, litter and blankets for them to curl up. Because the gym was too big and the cats were freaking out, she figured she could sleep in the back seat with her babies.

An evacuee named Simon excitedly told seasoned newsman Scott Blake about his friend. 

Freddy got a motel room, he said.

Giddy about spending time hanging with Freddy in the face of disaster, he babbled about the fire and taking your chances and what are the odds of losing your home, anyway? Like, about one in a thousand?

The skilled journalist asked for personal detail but Simon didn’t have any, saying he was watching the TV news before he came out and the houses seemed safe and the firefighters seemed to have everything under control. Nothing was under control and the newsman looked at Simon like he was a total asshole. Giggling now, telling the world about him and Freddy, Simon feigned embarrassment, overplaying the moment. He behaved like the understudy lead in the senior class play, just shocked that the lead actor broke his leg in a DUI car accident over the weekend and now Mr. Understudy would have to take center stage in his place.

The correspondent, the cat lady and Simon shared a fiery predicament for better or worse.

Young general assignment staff writer Brian Miller picked up his smart phone on the first ring. Listening for a whole minute to the editor’s directions, he had time to light a joint and turn on the TV. On the screen a dog park was on fire. A woman wiped her eyes and talked about Afghans, hounds, not refugees.

No, Brian said. I can’t.

He listened some more.

I can’t, not this time. I’m just not able to cover the fire, he said.

He inhaled deeply.

I’m just not.

At the fire the woman opened the car’s back door and leaned in. The cats jumped out over her head, running for their lives down the long driveway past a police car, an ambulance and a fire truck, all with flashing lights. The woman shrieked garbled unintelligible syllables.

Across the parking lot, Simon rolled his eyes like a coquettish drama queen.

Oh, my, he said.

Brian raised his voice to a whine.

I’m taking a sick day, he said

Now his editor raised his voice.

I can’t help that. Do what you have to do, he said.

The woman wouldn’t stop screaming.

Thank you for having me, Simon said.

Scott Blake packed up and made it back by deadline.

The editor talked with Scott when he was ready to go home after a 12 hour shift.

I’m sorry, the editor said.

I’ve worked here 17 years, Scott said.

New owners, new budget, the editor said.

The next morning the editor welcomed Brian into his office.

I can’t give you a raise right now, but maybe once the new owners get settled, he said.

Cool, Brian said.

You’ll take over where Scott left off, the editor said.

Whatever, Brian said.