All Harry Davies could do was watch in horror as hundreds of cases of bogus COVID-19 tonic he needed to deliver to pre-paid cash customers whose money he already spent went up in smoke. No doubt some anti-Christ Antifa terrorist had torched the truck Harry Davies had hotwired and driven from the U-Haul lot.

Who would commit such a sacrilege against Scranton’s favorite former mayor?

Mabel.

The militant senior citizen had to act when Zerelda told her about Harry Davies’ tap water tonic scam. All it took was four Molotov cocktails to do the trick. Mabel guzzled the beer before filling the bottles with rubbing alcohol she bought by the barrel for her arthritis. Then she cut an old pair of Casey’s undershorts into strips (the ones imprinted with faded pictures of Cheech and Chong), stuck the tattered pieces into the bottle necks, threw on a bright beret and headed to the future crime scene to light a match.

Harry Davis later called the cops on his cell phone.

Some old broad named Mabel left a note confessing to the crime on behalf of the Feminist Purple Panthers and calling me a dick, he said.

The cop on the desk asked Harry if he owned the flaming truck that took the Scranton Fire Department two hours to extinguish.

Yeah, I rented it from where I took it.

You mean stole it?

I borrowed it.

You can turn yourself in if you like or we can send a hungover SWAT team for you, the cop said.

WHHHATTT?

All that survived the blaze was two oil drums full of what the police suspect is LSD, the cop said.

I don’t know about LSD, Harry said. The last trip I took was to the Mohegan Sun casino on the interstate.

The desk officer quickly lost patience.

That old broad as you call her is a well-respected librarian who read me children’s books when I was a kid, the cop said. She also said she’ll testify against you in court if she has to. She opposes the death penalty but says in your case she might change her mind. And if you try to escape, she’ll forgive me if I execute you.

That night Harry Davies sat alone in his cell at the Lackawanna County Prison, a flea-bitten joint loaded with guards more crooked than the inmates. Donald Trump couldn’t save him now. Harry’s public defender said Harry realistically faced about 163 years in prison for the LSD because the sentencing judge had experienced two unexpected bad trips (the side effects still made the judge feel like an amoeba) and wanted to get even with the Scranton Welsh drug cartel the judge was convinced Harry Davies headed up. As a result, Harry got the worst case of acid reflux in the history of modern medicine. President Biden wasn’t about to grant a pardon in this case.

When Casey brought back the trout from his fishing trip and couldn’t find the charcoal for the grill he called for his mother.

Your mother’s freshening up in the bathroom, Zerelda said.

Freshening up for what?

She wants to leave for California in the morning.

When Mabel came out of the bathroom she wore a worried look.

You can’t dose the Scranton water supply with LSD, she said.

Aw, mom, Casey said.

Innocent people might not be able to handle all those tabs and microdots, dear. Babies, especially. Lucy in the sky with diapers just doesn’t cut it, Mabel said.

Cool, Casey said.

Pulling a flip phone from his jeans, Casey dialed Gino’s number.

The caper at the lake is off, he said.

Gino sighed.

Probably for the best, he said.

If you ever get to Berkeley give me a call, Casey said.

Same goes for Myrtle Beach, Gino said.

Of course the two men’s paths would never cross again. Nor would their Scranton legacies ever matter to anybody except the rare nerd chemistry student who considered Mr. Weatherhogg the best chemistry teacher ever.

When we get to California I want to drink 1,000 glasses of pinot noir, Mabel said.

I want to dance on the corner at Haight-Asbury, Casey said.

Do Chinese qi gong breathing and stretching exercises overlooking the Pacific Ocean, Zerelda said.

I want to meet Grace Slick, Mabel said.

Meditate until my navel falls off, Casey said.

Be happy, Zerelda said.

Zerelda couldn’t control herself and had to ask.

So we just split?

We just split, Mable said.

When Gino arrived at his favorite Lackawanna River fishing hole, another fisherman had already staked out the spot. Gino set up about 15 yards downstream, sneaking sideways glances at the other angler who sang classic AM radio oldies songs out loud to himself as he reeled in and cast and reeled in and cast again. Turning with a wave, he shouted a greeting to Gino.

What’s happening, bro?

Gino ignored the man he pegged as an escaped mental patient. After about 15 minutes of sneaking peaks at the old-timer haul in fish after fish, Gino had to say something.

What are you using for bait?

Marshmallows.

I’m serious, Gino said.

I’m Casey.

Gino wasn’t sure if the old coot was putting him on or not.

You’re pulling in a lot of brown trout.

They like garlic with donuts, too. How about you, brother? What are you using for bait?

Hellgramites. Most people never heard of hellgrammites, Gino said.

I forgot they existed, Casey said.

Been around for a few million years.

Longer than me, Casey said.

I’m Gino.

Pleased to meet you, amigo, Casey said.

I’m not Mexican.

Day of the dead, dawn of the dead, Grateful Dead, what’s the difference?

Aren’t you that retiree Harry Davies hired to deliver his COVID tonic?

Scranton holy water right out of the tap.

I’m so sick of his bullshit, Gino said, and that goes double for that nutcase Pastor Earl with those militia bullet heads who want to take over the world.

I heard Earl passed, Casey said.

Gino shook his head so hard his Elvis sideburns wiggled in the wind.

He didn’t pass, he failed.

Went right over the edge, I heard, Casey said.

Rest in pieces, Gino said.

Casey perked up.

Maybe we should retire, man.

I already did but Harry Davies pulled me back into the crooked Scranton hustle.

I can do the Scranton hustle, Casey said.

Now he boogied like a disco dancer, shimmying to his left and shimmying to his right.

Shake your booty, Casey said.

Gino tried not to laugh and then got serious.

Wouldn’t it be great to fish whenever you wanted wherever you wanted? I’d love to fish up there at Lake Scranton, he said.

I swim naked at the lake all the time and fish whenever I want to, Casey said.

It’s illegal to drop a line up there at the reservoir, Gino said.

The trout swim naked, right?

Gino gave Casey the fisheye.

Establishment laws only let the government control our bodies, Casey said.

I’m thinking about moving, Gino said.

Me, too, Casey said.

Where to?

California here I come, Casey said.

Myrtle Beach for me, Gino said.

You married?

My wife died, Gino said. You?

My dear old mother wants to see the Pacific Ocean before she crosses over to the other side.

I never been to the West Coast, Gino said. Never been anywhere really except the Jersey Shore a couple times on the casino bus. Born and raised and spent all my life in Scranton.

Where did that ever get you?

Scranton.

Harry Davies symbolizes everything wrong with this place, Casey said.

Earl did, too.

One down, Casey said.

We ought to do something about it, Gino said.

If you’re serious you can help me set things straight, Casey said.

Gino’s pulse raced.

Casey danced a little more of the Scranton hustle.

Have a marshmallow, he said.

Gino gobbled up five fat ones.

We better get ready for our trip, Casey said.

Jen bellowed with revulsion.

Josh did a joyous touchdown dance in the middle of the living room, knocking over an end table in the process.

Did you hear her? Did you hear her?

Jen started to cry.

Baby Jen dribbled spit down her chin.

Our little girl said her first sentence, Josh said.

Baby Jen said it again.

Fuck, I dropped the hammer, she said.

My mother’s going to be here soon to take her for her walk, Jen said.

This moment hung huge in their lives, especially for the most beautiful two-year-old on the block. With cheeks rosy as a sun-kissed McIntosh apple, Baby Jen’s black hair hung in a mini-pageboy to her ears. The corners of her mouth turned up just so, turning her smile into a soft band of delicate grace.

Innocence and style created a baby beautiful enough for a national diaper commercial. Actually, Jen would turn down a magazine diaper ad because of the shitty connotation that would follow her little darling through her life like a frenzied stalker, turning Baby Jen’s otherwise spotless image into a coast-to-coast poo poo joke.

Josh ran for the kitchen and returned with a jar of banana custard pudding.

Don’t you dare give her a reward, Jen said.

Look at her face, he said.

The child had stopped smiling.

She thinks you’re mad at her, he said.

Oh, princess, Jen said.

Baby Jen smiled again.

Fuck, I dropped the hammer, she said.

Jen screamed again.

She must have heard those goddamn construction workers next door, she said.

Fuck, I dropped the goddamn hammer, Baby Jen said.

Josh fell on the floor laughing.

The doorbell rang.

Hiya kids, Jen’s mother said.

Oh, Mommy, Jen said.

Baby Jen tried to talk but the words came out garbled because she had a mouthful of runny banana pudding.

I want a divorce, Jen said.

Mom spun and faced Josh.

What did you do?

There you go, just like your daughter always blaming me, he said.

Now Josh had gone too far.

Mom shot her words with the intent of a firing squad facing a doomed prisoner, raising her voice above the din of the construction crew next door who continued pounding, yelling, laughing and cursing.

Look at you, she said.

Jen jumped into the act.

Yeah, Josh, look at you, you worthless slacker, you.

Mom followed up with a vicious verbal barrage. Jerking a thumb to the construction noise outside, she pointed at the musical instrument Josh had lovingly placed on the sofa when he finished practice.

Instead of working like real men you’re home all day on the couch playing that violin of yours, she said.

Baby Jen‘s ears perked up.

Fucking violin, she said.

Idling outside the bar, the yellow Scranton School District bus sat driverless and empty. Each morning the driver stopped for a bottle of Miller High Life and a shot of Old Grand-Dad bourbon whiskey. After delivering the neighborhood Catholic hooligans safely to their teachers he always made the same statement

Little bastards, he said.

Earl first met the driver at the saloon that opened at 7 sharp each morning while on a recruiting trip for his armed militia and church. The driver was good material since he hated all people of color.

This morning Earl had a plan.

That one’s on me, he said.

The driver beamed, as in Jim Beam.

Get him another when he’s ready, Earl said.

Praise the Lord, the driver said.

Then Earl excused himself to go to the men’s room. Instead, he slipped out the side door and jumped behind the wheel of the bus. Adjusting the mirror he checked his teeth and winked at himself.

U.S. Capitol here I come, he said.

The militia should already be waiting outside the church for pickup. Earl spent most of the night cleaning the guns, grenades and a used World War II flamethrower so the tactical gear would be ready to throw in the bus for the trip to Washington. The congregation should be willing to die for freedom although Earl told them they’d emerge from this mission as winners.

Earl could no longer contain himself so he screamed.

Yeah! Storming the Capitol! Yeah!

Nobody waited as he pulled to the curb in front of his ramshackle church. A stray dog trotted up and peed on the front tire. Earl fumed. Running into the building where he once saw God he grabbed the flamethrower, strapped a bullet belt across his shoulder and stuck the three grenades he bought at the farmer’s market from a deranged West Side National Guardsman into his fatigue jacket pockets. He grabbed a shotgun and a Glock, and a family-sized bag of Pennsylvania Dutch potato chips for the drive down. No Fritos for Earl. Earl hated illegals.

As he entered the Interstate 81 on-ramp and headed south, Earl envisioned the coming firefight. Screaming like Daniel Boone at the Alamo, he’d slam the bus at high speed into the fence. Coming out like Al Pacino in Scarface, he’d open up on the ill-equipped guardsmen or guardswomen or transguards or whatever politically correct woke libs call themselves these days. Rolling the first grenade under the first cop car he saw he’d yell “post time” as he crouched like one of them Chinese kung-fu fighters. Check that. He hated Chinamen for giving America the lab flu virus. He’d spring into action like a one-man Panzer division, Rommel the Desert Fox himself going after Chuck Schumer and his lap dogs that only eat kosher dog food.

Earl growled.

Grrrrrr.

Then he’d open up with the flamethrower, clearing his way all the way to the Capitol steps screaming, “Fire in the hole!” as he ran through the door looking for the Senate to take over on behalf of his nation yearning to be one nation under God invisible with liberty and justice for just us.

Screw that Zerelda, too. She stood him up. Didn’t make the bus trip. Too smart for her own good. Not nubile enough. Goddamn woman! Screw God, too. His boy didn’t motivate Earl’s congregation enough to make the trip and defend the country, so what good is either one of them long-haired freaks? Do unto others? He’d do onto others. What’d God name the kid Jesus for, anyway? Name a Jewish baby after a baseball player from the Dominican Republic? Sure, that makes sense. Earl, Travis, Clayton or Wayne would have been better.

Around Hazleton, a one-time coal baron capital for capitalist coal barons, Earl slowed the bus. Flashing orange lights on a Pennsylvania Department of Transportation sign warned him to reduce his speed. Earl stepped on it. No government sign was going to tell him what to do, how to live, who among his cousins to marry.

Fifty turned to 60. Sixty turned to 70. Earl laughed. Yeeehaw! God bless America. Check that. Earl bless America. Joe Biden’s wife wears combat boots. Scranton Lives Matter! That last line stuck in Earl’s head ever since he heard Timmy Kelly yelling it when he was drunk and campaigning for mayor. Had a nice ring to it and since Earl now lived full-time in Scranton his was a life that mattered. All lives mattered, but Scranton lives mattered most. White Scranton lives. Christian Scranton lives. Male Scranton lives. Let my Scranton people go lives.

Now the lights warned Earl to slow even more. Seventy turned to 80. Road out, said the sign. More lights, red this time with bigger black letters that said, “ROAD OUT!”

Earl turned up the radio and sang along with a man with a rebel accent belting out a tune about loving his pickup truck more than his wife, more than his mother, even. He warbled about drinking warm beer with his blind hound dog. About how deer season was better than heaven and that there’s everything right about marrying your dead brother’s divorced sister.

At 80 Earl broke through to the other side, crashing through wooden sawhorses and going off the edge doing about 90. He didn’t miss a lyric as the descent began. About 100 feet before impact it dawned on Earl he was in trouble.

Oh, shit, he said.

Police found Earl’s denim jacket dangling from a tree branch. After the explosion, all that remained of his dream was a little flag in the left breast pocket he planned to wave for the TV cameras once he took over the Capitol.

The flag said, “Trump Lives.”

In 2005 a man we’ll call Artist X never missed a day in court during Michael Jackson’s four-month-long child molestation trial.

Picking up his pen one day in a California courtroom, the artist opened a reporter’s notebook to a clean lined page. Never taking his eyes off Jackson who sat pale as a grim zombie, Artist X began to sketch. When he finished, a ghostly image stared back.

Artist X foresaw the death of Michael Jackson. Four years later Jackson died. The legendary pop star would never reclaim his luster. Today all that remains of Artist X’s premonition is that lone dark sketch, the Michael Jackson Death Mask.

Jackson personally posed for the sketch whether he knew it or not – and he knew the eyes of the world were on him in all his tortured glory. Unlike legendary courtroom artist Bill Robles and other professionals who sat in that courtroom, Artist X never before sketched anyone. Other than tracing comic book covers when he was a child about 60 years ago, this stark drawing was his first. He vows it will be his last.

Artist X has never publicly shared this story. Now he offers the drawing that looks like a cross between a Picasso and a John Lennon lithograph. Now he offers a one-of-a-kind picture of life and death that captures a cultural icon unlike any other.

The original sketch is missing. About eight or so copies he created on an office copying machine are missing as well. Only one print remains. That portrait breathes. Michael Jackson exists in those vibrant black lines.

The search continues for the original as well as the missing copies. Circumstantial evidence indicates they all might one day be found. If that happens, the owner will possess all that remains of the mask. If the items go mislaid, the mystery grows stronger.

Either way, the owner of the sketch stands to benefit from any and all displays of this sacred image. Like the Shroud of Turin, the Michael Jackson mask holds meaning for true believers. Even now it’s fair to say the late King of Pop still possesses more true believers than does Jesus.

Marketing for everything from bath towels to t-shirts, posters and mugs will grow from this eerie likeness. A greater investment than the sequined glove and red leather Thriller jacket, the power of this supernatural image lasts eternally to be copied over and over again.

Artist X is parting with his work because the burden of this creation is simply too much to bear. Artist X plans to retreat into deep reflection as he writes and ponders his own mortality and the existence of the planet.

Michael is gone but his spirit lives forever.

I am Artist X.

One million dollars secures all rights for this nostalgic work of exquisite, raw art. To view the sketch, potential buyers should contact me at steve.corbett51@gmail.com

Celebrating the Friendly Sons’ banquet crash over whiskey sours at the dining room table, Mabel held up her glass in a toast.

I always said I wasn’t going to wear a bra to the dinner, she said.

You sure showed them, Zerelda said.

In more ways than one, Mabel said.

The women hugged.

When Casey came home from a reconnaissance mission to Lake Scranton they finished the whiskey. Then they smoked a joint. Then they watched a Cheech and Chong movie and smoked another joint.

Casey broke up the fun with a serious question for his mother.

Are you relieved the judge sentenced you to community service in court this morning instead of jail?

Yes, dear, but poor Judge Dombroski seemed fuzzy and distracted in court, Mabel said.

Casey had an answer for that.

People gossiping in the courtroom said the police almost had to lock him up in the vegetable bin again after his loony performance at last night’s Friendly Sons’ dinner. My far-out homemade acid hit the spot, he said.

Mabel’s eyes looked like the green shooter marbles she used when she knuckled down as a girl and beat all the boys in the neighborhood.

It was on the news that a couple of other judges had to talk him down from the chandelier and paramedics took him out hog-tied and wrapped in a green tablecloth, she said.

I’m surprised he was back on the bench at 9:00 for your hearing, Casey said.

A dedicated Scranton public servant, hungover or crazy, the show must go on, Mabel said.

That man is a clear and present danger to himself and others, Zerelda said.

Aren’t they all? Mabel said.

Community service isn’t so bad, Ma. If you remember I did a couple of them myself, Casey said.

Mabel beamed with pride.

You were such a role model prisoner they let you off early for good behavior, she said.

Now Casey beamed.

A role model political prisoner, he said.

I was surprised the judge agreed I could plant pretty flowers around Joe Biden’s homestead for my sentence, Mabel said.

Zerelda loved flowers and grew excited at the news.

What kind of flowers are you going to plant, Mabel?

Reaching into the pocket of her apron Mabel pulled out a handful of plump pot seeds ready to burst with potent mind-blowing THC.

These babies seem perfect, dear.

Meanwhile back in the Irish Minooka section of Scranton, tears the size of baby sweet peas welled in Timmy Kelly’s eyes.

What do you mean I can’t run for mayor?

Former Scranton Mayor Harry Davies smirked.

Even I knew I had to file petitions with signatures to get eligible, he said.

Timmy Kelly panicked.

What petitions?

Harry Davies double smirked.

See what I mean?

The filing deadline had come and gone a few weeks earlier. Had Timmy Kelly known even the night before he would have filled out the petitions himself and made sure they got to the clerk on time. But, of course, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything about running for office except how to announce he was running for office which he did with flair and the usual stage-Irish gusto for drama that defined too many no-account men in his Irish-American neighborhood.

They can’t do that to Joe Biden, he said.

You’re not Joe Biden, goddammit, Harry Davies said

Desperate, Timmy Kelly tried to defend himself.

Ask Major Biden if you don’t believe me, he said.

Now Harry Davies seemed disoriented.

Who’s Major Biden, some distant Biden relative in the army?

Major Biden is my faithful German Shepherd, Timmy said.

The punch took Timmy Kelly off his feet, knocking his aviator glasses across the room.

When he awoke, Harry Davies was gone.

Timmy Kelly swore he’d get even.

Looking up from polishing her mother’s silverware, Mabel confessed.

I don’t want to crash the Friendly Sons’ dinner.

Aw, c’mon, Zerelda said.

Let’s boycott instead, Mabel said.

Casey already left to spike the COVID Miracle Cure with LSD for our number one Friendly Son, Zerelda said.

Mabel pulled a fresh bottle of Paddy Irish whiskey from under the couch cushion.

Instead of hacking into the online virtual banquet and video bombing those snakes St. Pat drove here from Ireland, why don’t we just stay home and drink?

You told me I could paint a protest sign across my chest.

Yes, dear, I did, Mabel said.

I already painted them.

Let me see.

Zerelda lifted her shirt to show the words “THE FRIENDLY SONS ARE BOOBS” written in orange, white and green body paint across her bosom.

I beat you to it, Mabel said.

Mabel lifted her shirt to show her protest message that read FREEDOM OR BUST.

Those pale penis people will faint, Zerelda said.

Especially the bishop, Mabel said.

At least he’s allowed to bring his boyfriend, Zerelda said.

Mabel opened the bottle, took a healthy slug and passed the whiskey to Zerelda who took two slugs.

You’re right, young woman, Mabel said.

Showtime, Zerelda said.

When the event went live, the camera showed Lackawanna County President Judge Stanley “Stash” Dombroski sitting at the center of a long table. Wearing a dashing black tuxedo with a brilliant green bow tie, his eyes seemed glazed as he stared at the leafy shamrock centerpiece that graced the dais.

The master of ceremonies’ voice echoed in the background.

Good evening gentlemen, he said. Welcome to the 115^th annual Friendly Sons banquet, a grand gala affair that brings proud Irishmen from hard coal country into the same room for our time-honored traditional no-girls-allowed-to-be-members hooley.

Canned applause played softly in the background.

This year because of the Chinese we’re relegated to a computer celebration but we’ll be back, by God, next year, hopefully with that one-and-only scrappy kid from Scranton Joe Biden as our featured speaker.

More applause erupted as the video picture froze. Mabel now appeared in the picture although nobody knew it was Mabel because she wore a black fatigue jacket and matching balaclava mask with the eyes, nose and mouth cut out.

Listen up you pack of dicks, she said.

Zerelda, also wearing a combat field jacket and mask, now glided into the picture.

Yeah, listen up. Women gave birth to you male chauvinist Paddy’s pigs and women’s liberation will one day be the death of your primitive ideas, you pack of weenies, she said.

Judge Dombroski, immersed in a psychedelic cloud of jiggling hallucinations from Casey’s LSD, seemed taken by the two political statements. Man of clout that he was, the judge knew power politics as well as anybody. Not able to control himself he rose and proceeded to offer a rousing standing ovation.

Unfrozen now, the camera turned on him.

Despite the lovely fashion statement he made in his bow tie and tails, Dombroski wore no pants and had painted his dangling private part a deep emerald green. At that, Mabel and Zerelda pulled open their jackets with the ease of Green Berets pulling the pins on hand grenades.

Kiss me I’m Irish, the judge screamed.

Look, Mabel, Mr. Potato Head’s waving his shillelagh at us, Zerelda said.

Ah, it’s a great day for the Irish, Mabel said.

Leftover painkiller bottles from dental work, statins, blood pressure, cholesterol medication and baby aspirins provided the plastic pill containers former Scranton Mayor Harry Davies filled with 100 percent Scranton tap water.

The big spenders with all the cash get the first servings of my Miracle Cure COVID Tonic, he said.

Gino shook his head.

You really believe they’re dumb enough to think it’s really a COVID cure and not just water?

Harry Davies gave Gino one of them what-are-you-nuts looks.

OK, never mind, I just answered my own question, Gino said.

Twenty bucks a pop, Harry Davies said.

You dump that truck load of hijacked vaccine on them Injuns?

They’re not Injuns, Gino, they’re Indians, like from Pakistan.

How they gonna sell it?

In their convenience stores like Timmy Kelly was saying, right up front on the racks with the synthetic spice marijuana and beef jerky. And if the cops get involved and the Indians rat, which they won’t, I’ll blame that old coot I hired to deliver the newest merchandise.

Don’t you feel guilty taking advantage of the elderly?

What did they ever do for me?

Your mother is elderly.

Mothers don’t count, Harry Davies said.

So who gets the first miracle doses?

Judge Dombroski just got out of the loony bin and I saw in the paper he said he’s feeling good enough to celebrate Paddy’s Day by going to the Friendly Sons’ virtual dinner. Those stupid Micks made him one of the featured speakers, so we’ll slide him the first couple of shots. He can talk up the COVID cure during his speech. Then we’ll dump a few on that hillbilly Earl. Maybe that crazy Zerelda and the old bat, too.

I’m afraid of that gang, Gino said.

Don’t worry about them or the old bird doing the delivering.

Earl said he believes the earth is flat. Then he named some planets I never heard of. Told me to prepare for the Ascension, Gino said.

Going up?

Yeah, he said like when Mr. Trump came down the escalator that time to start his campaign for president. This time we’re all going back up with him to heaven. We can take our pets and see deceased loved ones and stuff.

Ex-wives up there, too?

Yeah, but Earl says there’s no trouble in Paradise. We’ll have all the free ammo and guns we can carry while the Democrat pedophiles are burning at the stake in Hell around the clock and we’re sucking on all the chicken wing bones we can eat and drinking all the beer we can drink and never getting so drunk we pass out. We can sing along to the radio in tune rather than off-key when we’re screaming country songs coming home from hunting in the truck.

Earl said all that?

He’s got answers for everything, Gino said.

Sounds like Earl needs to get miracle cured, Harry Davies said.

Gino wouldn’t shut up.

Earl says he’s a recovering alcoholic who can’t wait to drink in heaven.

So our ex-wives won’t hassle us up there, huh?

Nope. And we can have all the wives we want in heaven, Earl says. Jesus even got wives up there.

What color are they?

Whatever color you want, Earl says.

Can I live in a white neighborhood if I want?

Earl says so.

No Italians, either, right?

Gino felt like he walked himself right into a corner. Earl isn’t the only public menace who needs cured, he thought.

Permanently.

Steam lifted from scalding mugs of tea as Mabel, Casey and Zerelda took time to talk and sip.

The Three Musketeers used to say “all for one and one for all,” Mabel said.

Zerelda seemed embarrassed.

Who?

Mabel took a soft tone.

Alexandre Dumas wrote a famous book in which the three main characters stood by each other through thick and thin, she said.

I don’t read very well, Zerelda said.

We can help you with that, Casey said.

He, too, took on a soft tone.

Mabel dropped three sugar cubes into her tea.

Casey clapped his hands like a 10-year-old at a birthday party.

Use all the sugar you like, Ma, I’ve got tons of cubes in the cellar, he said.

Mabel took both Zerelda’s hands in hers.

We can be like the Musketeers, dear, loyal to each other and while remaining individuals, believing each other’s abilities, unstoppable when we’re together.

Casey settled down.

Yeah, unstoppable like you crashing next week’s Friendly Sons dinner, he said.

Mabel cackled a laugh that made her pet parakeet squawk.

That dirty Joe Biden never answered my letter asking him to be my dinner date, she said. Neither did his kiss-ass staff. So Zerelda’s going to escort me.

We’re going to Zoom bomb that virtual dinner and boil a few potato heads, Zerelda said.

Casey jumped.

Whoa, did you see that?

A shadow, dear, Mabel said.

Looked like a leprechaun, he said.

You got Irish on your mind, dear, Mabel said.

Do I ever. I can’t wait to spike some of that COVID miracle cure vaccine Mayor Harry Davies has me delivering to a few of his Friendly Sons buddies. After a few hits of my homemade LSD they’ll be taking their trips to the old country without ever leaving Scranton.

Now Mabel clapped her hands.

We all in?

We’re all in, Ma.

All for one, Zerelda said.

So let’s get down to business, Casey said.

Shoot, Zerelda said.

No guns, Mabel said.

Again Zerelda looked embarrassed.

Earl likes guns, Zerelda said, I was always afraid of them.

It’s OK, honey, Mabel said.

Casey started to fume.

You see that stiff Joe Biden on the TV last night promising the country would be dancing the Pennsylvania polka for the Fourth of July? They’ll probably hold a big barbecue block party up in Green Ridge at his old homestead.

Not smart to hold a super-spreader event, Zerelda said.

With all those variants flying around, Mabel said.

Zerelda looked like she might cry.

Why can’t people just wait? Too many people in Scranton still don’t wear masks. Now Biden’s promoting special celebrations like America’s back to normal, Zerelda said.

That’s when the new problems start, Casey said.

Problems started in that lace curtain Greed Ridge swamp long before they brought that little bundle of fibs home from the hospital, Mabel said.

Casey began to pace.

Just one question, he said.

Zerelda and Mabel waited.

What about my infrastructure?

Zerelda and Mabel exchanged looks.

So Casey said it again.

I said what about my infrastructure?

What do you mean, dear?

My pipes! And I’m not talking about bagpipes. Where am I supposed to pee? When a man my age got to go, a man my age got to go. Ask Joe Biden. All dribbles don’t take place on the basketball court. I just know they won’t have public toilets at the Green Ridge Independence Day block party.

Now I understand, honey, Mabel said. Wee wee isn’t just for the French.

Urine trouble now, Joe Biden, Zerelda said.

I bet Joe goes all the time, Mabel said. Bet he wears a rubber hose stuck down his suit pants that leads to a hot water bottle strapped to his leg.

Like one of those snakes St, Patrick drove out of Ireland, Casey said.

Everybody laughed.

Sounds like a good reason for a pee-pee protest march at Joe Biden’s homestead, Mabel said.

But you’re out on bail, Ma.

At least I’m not wearing a hose and a hot water bottle strapped to my leg, she said.

They looked alike, father and son. Both adults wearing scraggly beards and suspenders with baggy work jeans, from their outward appearance they sure didn’t look like the kind of guys to own labradoodles. On walks the big black dogs bounded this way and that as the pair tried to keep them under control. The dogs seemed more intelligent than their masters, but not by much. Like father, like son.

I spotted them through the living room window when they stopped at the corner where I live.

Sure enough, Dad let the clumsy mutt jump around before he settled in to squat on our tree lawn grass covered with dirty, icy-crusted snow that would hopefully disappear in the next few days. The meteorologist on TV said temperatures would rise into the high 50s.

I try to take care of my corner. This winter I shoveled snow on seven different days, two hours after the biggest storms and an hour each time after that. I also shoveled from the back steps to the gate and dug out the Subaru, actually clearing a space for the car after pulling it forward and moving it back.

The landscapers handle summer work, cutting and seeding the grass in the front and sides of the house, raking and hauling leaves, spreading mulch beneath the rhododendrons which they trim as well as clipping the Japanese garden in the back. I used to do the work but they’re professionals and I like their look better than mine. Some nights I stand across the street after they finish and look at our house. I’m happy here, comfortable and secure.

I don’t know where Dad and his boy live but I believe they’re nearby. I’ve seen them a few times on our walks, when my wife and I hike through the neighborhood to mindfully stretch our muscles and consciously breathe the air. We live in the Hill Section of Scranton, a historic and supposedly civilized place.

I didn’t wait to see the dump, so when I got out on the porch I tried to de-escalate the conflict with reverse psychology.

I appreciate it when people pick up after their dogs, I said, not shouting or accusing them directly.

Dad must have thought I witnessed his transgression.

Diarrhea, he said.

I couldn’t and didn’t want to see evidence.

A confession would do.

I try to take care of my corner, I said.

The men started to walk away. I had to say something.

You can’t do that. You should clean that up. It’s against the law.

The adult son looked pained. They kept walking.

I can file a complaint if you want, I said.

File a complaint, Dad said.

The son looked more pained.

If I went to the magistrate they’d lose. They’d pay a fine. They’d be inconvenienced. But I’d have to go to the magistrate’s office and expose myself to coronavirus and who knows what other kind of societal upheaval.  The first time I went out during the pandemic a woman pulling out of a McDonald’s slammed into my car and drove me into the center passing lane. Nobody suffered injuries.

Why couldn’t people just leave me alone to live in peace?

Because a labradoodle has the runs, that’s why.

You’re a bad neighbor, I said.

File a complaint, Dad repeated, I’ll pray for you.

In the old days that would have set me off. But, at almost 70 I’m a new man.

Somebody needs to pray for you to show some kindness, I said, sounding like St. Stephen.

Dad must have had second thoughts. Looking again through the living room window, I saw the son trying vainly to clean up the mess. Then he left alone, talking to himself and holding a bag of waste as Dad awaited his return on the corner. He came back shortly and they eventually left together.

The stain on my now filthier snow-packed tree lawn is bad enough.

The smear on neighborliness by a couple of shitheads is worse.