Here’s the deal, man, said Timmy Kelly.

Gino looked up from lacing his black high top Converse sneakers, having trouble reaching the laces over the bulging expanse of his belly that heaved from the minor exertion.

You sound like Joe Biden, he said.

Timmy Kelly did a jaunty Irish jig.

Exactly, he said.

Gino grinned his big fat grin that got him all the girls in high school when he weighed 100 pounds less and his face didn’t look like a doughy deep-fried Italian pizza fritta.

For whatever reason, maybe because each man thought he might get interviewed on national television, each morning since Election Day Timmy Kelly picked up his buddy Gino Maraschino and the two men drove the half-hour from their Minooka section of Scranton neighborhood through limited city traffic, singing along to their favorite best of Bon Jovi CD to walk for 15 minutes at the Green Ridge Little League field where Joe Biden played baseball as a kid.

News reporters had been flocking to the field for months to do flat color pieces about Biden’s flat childhood. Since the election, national and even international media competed to interview anybody from dull college students to creepy retired priests. Even guys stooping to pick up dog shit got interviewed on CNN.

Timmy and Gino knew each other since childhood sledding days but weren’t close. They played varsity football together at Scranton High School and got along well enough over beers and subsequent decades to be willing to share five minutes of fame if they got lucky and stumbled across a television crew from Sweden.

Timmy Kelly looked Gino in the eye.

Scranton voted for Biden because we want something, he said, a return on our investment. Little things, like private White House tours, selfies with Joe in the Oval office and low-level government jobs for worthless kids.

What do you want, Timmy?

I want Biden to endorse my candidacy for mayor.

Go on, he won’t do that.

He’ll have to, Kelly said.

Why?

Simple, I’m from Scranton.

So is your opponent, Gino said.

Yeah, but she married into the city. She’s from Oregon. Waving around that Harvard business degree and rubbing our noses in her poison ivy league education like she’s Caroline Kennedy.

She’s also the incumbent mayor, Timmy.

What’s incumbent mean?

Current.

For now she is, Kelly said.

You got a campaign slogan yet?

Timmy Kelly got so excited he stammered.

I… I… I sound like Joe Biden, he said.

Tell me, Gino said.

Scranton Lives Matter!

Now Timmy Kelly rose to full height.

You know what else I got?

Don’t tell me, Gino said.

A career.

Doing what?

I’m a Joe Biden impersonator.

You’re shitting me.

My first appearance is online Sunday. I’m Zooming a stand-up show as a fundraiser for the inauguration.

The Biden transition team hasn’t announced details about the inauguration, Gino said.

You know me, Timmy said. One step ahead of everybody.

The leader of the band, Gino said.

I got front row VIP swearing-in tickets to give away, too.

Where’d you get tickets?

I designed them on the computer last night.

How many you make?

A hundred.

I heard on the news that even though Joe and Kamala will be sworn into office on the steps of the Capitol, the inauguration planners want Americans to stay home, Gino said.

Tell that to the Green Ridge moochers.

You don’t even look like Joe Biden, Gino said.

Timmy pulled a pair of aviator shades from his pocket and slid the frames over his ears.

I been putting the whitener on my teeth so they’re bright as headlights. I bought a gray wig at my sister’s beauty parlor that flips up in the back like Joe Biden’s hair. I’ll keep repeating here’s the deal and look, man. I’ll repeat some of his dumbest quotes, like the one about not being able to go into a convenience store for coffee unless you got an Indian accent. I’ll say it in an Indian accent, too, like them call center scammers from Bangladesh who call you at the house.

Gino seemed concerned.

What if people drive all the way down to Washington for the swearing in and can’t get in?

I’ll tell them Joe called me personally and asked me to apologize for him. I’ll blame the Secret Service. Say they haven’t been right since Trump gave them the COVID. Then I’ll drop the bomb.

What bomb?

I’ll tell them Joe’s coming back to town for an invitation-only post-inaugural ball at the Cultural Center.

You got invitations for that, too?

Soon as I get the printer working again, I will.

You’ll be as famous as them Elvis impersonators in Vegas, Gino said.

Remember what Joe told Barack when Obamacare passed?

Gino drew a blank.

This is a big fucking deal, Timmy said.

Retired Scranton High School chemistry teacher Casey Weatherhogg rooted for the revolution.

Burn it down, start all over again.

But the revolution never arrived.

Filling out his mail-in ballot on Election Day, Casey hoped for the best, voting for Scranton native son Joe Biden. Actually, he voted for Kamala Harris, a strong West Coast woman of color who could take over if Biden got shakier. Casey never forgave Biden for lying about having an uncle who worked in the Scranton coal mines and later laughing about his scam on a late night television show, mocking local yokel coal crackers who bought his story hook, line and anthracite. Casey still wanted an apology. But what could he do? Refuse to vote knowing Donald Trump might win re-election and take us all with him on the road to the apocalypse? No, Casey sucked it up and went with the man Barack Obama called the scrappy kid from Scranton. Maybe one day Casey could get even.

COVID changed everything. Life didn’t go as planned. The world shifted even without the benefit of mind-altering drugs. Such cultural chaos was no malarkey.

At 75, Casey Weatherhogg weighed 172 pounds and stood 6-foot-4 in his Birkenstocks. Thin, frizzed gray hair fell below his shoulders. Tufts stiff as last year’s robin’s nest protruded from both sides of his head. Wearing nothing but a thin leather headband adorned with a silver peace sign, faded blue jeans and vintage T-shirts with classic rock band names emblazoned across the front, Casey threw on a stained fringed suede jacket whenever he went out. Since March he added a tie-dyed surgical mask he bought online from a vegan music commune in Maine.

Shoppers snickered at Gerrity’s Supermarket where Casey bought tofu. Smart-ass kids called him names like Space Dick. Casey danced his way through the aisles to the psychedelic music that always played in his head.

Other than his 95-year-old mother, Mabel, no other Weatherhoggs of ancient Anglo-Scottish breeding lived in Scranton. Mrs. Weatherhogg seemed to fit quite nicely into the established social order, though, being a proud Marywood College graduate and retired city librarian and all. Local business and political leaders viewed her eccentric yet obviously brilliant boy as just a cultural aberration. For the most part the Weatherhoggs minded their own business. People in town mostly ignored them.

Until the COVID hit, Casey took Mabel out to get her hair blue-rinsed each week and stopped at Cooper’s Seafood House for fried flounder and a bowl, not a cup, of clam chowder. Mom liked red; Casey liked white. Since the coronavirus, though, they became cloistered, isolated, housebound recluses who dug deeper and deeper into themselves, exploring internal grievances and trying to comprehend the meaning of life. Unmarried with no heirs, Casey stood alone, just the way he liked it. Mabel fussed over her baby like always.

Named after the downtown Hotel Casey where his parents conceived him after their wedding reception and overnight honeymoon, Casey longed for yesterday. Stories of shining streetcars, men in fedoras and ladies in dresses and white gloves seemed glorious. His own favorite memory of watching Bonanza in blazing color on 1959 television collapsed under the weight of an onslaught of so-called progress. Nowadays Casey felt doomed with the new spliced generations X, Y and Z, aimless cubs foraging through clear-cut forests of technology, a glut of menacing social media and teenage angst poisoned with attention deficit drugs, college loans, chronic unemployment, zero goals, low aspirations, foodie pretention, and TikToc obsession. Some of the current breed never heard of the Beatles. The Hotel Casey existed only in crusty photographs and memories cherished by an aging cadre of senior citizens. A snotty well-used Hilton stands in its place.

Casey’s long ago decade of California dreaming had provided unparalleled adventure. Yet all that remained of that radical trip was strategy, a simple yet ominous plan to take down whatever little piece of the establishment, what Casey called “The Power,” he could level. Casey plotted the best way to take out “The Man” and make a spiritual impact in the process. Right on, right on, right on.

Ecological injustice continued to run amok throughout Northeastern Pennsylvania. A stinking, sprawling, garbage-juice-spewing monster landfill loomed large in Dunmore, Scranton’s backyard. Elite political hacks like U.S. Sen. Robert Casey Jr. (who lived down the street from Casey) and Rep. Matt Cartwright only paid lip service to liberating the people from the pollution and economic slavery practiced by evil environmental masters.

Casey needed revenge.

Both the senator and the congressman stopped responding to his heartfelt landfill emails. Nobody from their offices returned his respectful phone calls. Ignoring his concerns, they marginalized his civic duty. They mocked his sincere activist existence. Neither of these officials would have pulled that shit back in 1968 when Casey went by the nickname “Molotov.”

Nobody knew his past, of course, not even Mabel. This once bold and now washed-up radical often thought about the free-wheeling subversive existence he relished when he majored in organic chemistry at the University of California, Berkeley, and blew up freeway rest stops along U.S. Route 101 in his spare time. Every Highway Patrol officer from Stinson Beach to Santa Barbara was on the lookout for Molotov, who truly expected to get caught. Casey still had an FBI wanted poster featuring his grinning mug that he stole from a post office in Santa Maria. But nobody tracked him down. Decades later, this former Weather Underground soldier who once helped Patty Hearst hide out in the Poconos, this veteran freedom-fighting bomb thrower, this hometown guerrilla, just chilled at home with his mother in Scranton, a couple of golden agers waiting for the end.

Both wanted to go down fighting. You wouldn’t know Mabel was capable of anything. Casey, too, craved one last mission to defend against “The Power” that would send him into the great beyond of clear consciousness where he became one with the universe.

The only question was exactly how much LSD to dump into the Lake Scranton drinking water supply. A little 21^st Century-style acid indigestion ought to throw open a few doors of perception.

Like Casey always said, you don’t need a Weatherhogg to know which way the wind blows.

Say hello to 75-year-old Casey Weatherhogg.

A retired Scranton High School chemistry teacher and 1967 University of California at Berkeley graduate, Casey once followed the Grateful Dead.

Now he follows Joe Biden into the White House as “The Power,” as writer Tom Wolfe called it, bears down on  Scranton, the birthplace and childhood home of America’s soon-to-be 46^th president.

Casey mistrusts Biden. Casey hates the system. Casey wants to spread truth and light in hard coal country but doesn’t know how… until he does, of course.

Man, does he ever figure it out.

Thus shapes the bones of Scranton Lives Matter! a scrappy kind of novel and free online serialization starting Monday at theoutlawcorbett.com website where I’ll post a new chapter every Monday and Friday until the end.

That sounds ominous because it is ominous.

The novel tells the tale of a city born of ashes and coal dust, a town always on the ropes in one way or another because of money and politics. Political corruption remains the lifeblood of the city.

Despite a hip new mayor, the city’s first female, The Power flows like the creature in The Blob, the 1958 horror movie that oozes sticky, clinging mayhem through every cultural crevasse of our town.

Professional Joe Biden impersonator Timmy Kelly wants his piece of The Power. Prison guard Gino Maraschino wants to cash in, too. Who knew Black blood flowed through Gino’s veins until Timmy Kelly laid out why the family pedigree mattered? Timmy’s sister, Shannon has already carved out her piece of The Power during a hot affair with married Lackawanna County President Judge Stanley “Stash” Dombroski. Federal penitentiary inmate and former Scranton Mayor Harry “The Ninja” Davies has a comeback plan as well.

Like her son, Casey’s 95-year-old pot-smoking militant senior citizen mother Mabel hates the Establishment, too.

Together, these characters provide an inside look at a city and a nation on the verge of greatness or implosion. Scranton is but a microcosm of the national chaos that now defines our republic.

Don’t miss chapter one in Monday’s news blog.

News?

Is this novel really news?

Is Joe Biden really scrappy?

Scranton Lives Matter!

My novels and short stories shove readers’ brains deep into the messy word world of cultural chaos and raw violence.

But, in most media interviews about Paddy’s Day in Trump Town, my most recent novel, I’ve focused on partisan politics and the distorted way too many people live in Northeastern Pennsylvania hard coal country.

And, yeah, we’re hard coal country whether you like it or not.

Nowadays, with no boss, living and creating in Scranton as an outlaw novelist, I’m a paperback writer whose words might offend more people than when I wrote news columns for the Times Leader in Wilkes-Barre or argued with blockheads on local wasteland radio for a decade.

That’s progress.

WVIA’s Erika Funke understands.

Unlike most media interviewers Funke comes with a well-informed artistic arsenal that recognizes fiction as power and words as weapons of societal self-defense. She gently prods and questions with the ease of the intellectual she is.

Erika Funke gets it.

Our recent conversation gave me a chance to share with her and WVIA listeners some of the method to my madness after transitioning from a decades-long journalism career to the novel world of my imagination where a thin line often exists between fact and fiction.

Funke is a senior producer, morning host of Classical Music, Early Birds, and other programs. “ArtScene”, her award-winning daily arts program, features interviews with creative individuals from the region, the United States and abroad, according to her station bio.

That’s me – a creative individual, a primitive and proud of it, from the region.

I respect and admire Funke.

More people need to understand how edgy, unsafe art, genesis that offends, disturbs and sets the stage for progress that best prepares an uncertain world for a visionary tomorrow. Originality and authenticity trump, no pun intended, the dull self-absorbed moderation of the masses who are too often asses.

So read.

Write.

Think.

Answer the Muse and be yourself by whatever means necessary.

As legendary Parliaments-Funkadelic intrepid traveler George Clinton said, “Free your mind and your ass will follow.”

Here’s the link to the WVIA ArtScene interview.

https://www.wvia.org/radio/artscene/

Like I said on the radio, “You better listen!”

¡Ay caramba!

Putting out the Scranton welcome mat to small business owners of color is one thing. Pulling the rug out from under their American Dream is another.

The affront is all the worse if city officials targeted one of an increasing number of people of Mexican descent in whose hands lies the future of the city.

That’s why the owner, employees and supporters of La Chingada at 512 Cedar Avenue in South Side should stand Scranton strong after the restaurant and so much more finds itself embarrassed and attacked simply because of its name.

City zoning board members Wednesday voted 4-0 to uphold a sign violation against owner Cristian J. Garcia Torres for displaying the sign because the name of the restaurant is a vulgar word that violates the city’s prohibition on obscenity or vulgarities on exterior signs, according to the Scranton Times-Tribune.

The owner said the word he chose for his restaurant’s name has other meanings in the Spanish language. While he acknowledged that one of the meanings is a vulgarity, he testified that the vulgar usage is not what he intends and not how his customers view it, said the Times-Tribune, whose editors failed to name the restaurant.

Whether board members and editors know it or not, the business brand is steeped in deep Mexican history and culture.

Like many words in many languages, “la chingada” carries many interpretations. Go to Italian-American Pittston and ask people if they know what “minghia” means. Ask if they are offended whenever somebody uses the expression of exclamation. Ask my Irish tribe if they know what bollix or bollocks means. Ask any pseudo Scranton hipster about the cute name borne by the now defunct food truck “What the Fork.”

The same goes for “la chingada.”

La Chingada is the name of an actual town in the Mexican state of Veracruz. Among numerous other meanings, the words also serve as an expression of exasperation, as in “go to hell.” The words can also mean “go fuck yourself.”

Can we help it if the Scranton Zoning Board has a dirty mind?

The concept of “la chingada” has been famously critiqued by  1990 Nobel Prize in Literature winner Octavio Paz in his book The Labyrinth of Solitude. Linguists and other scholars have weighed in as well.

When a restaurant with the same name opened earlier this year in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, here’s what Michael Hastings of the Winston-Salem Journal wrote in a February 14 article: “Claudia Valdez, a native of Sonora, Mexico and a teaching professor of Spanish at Wake Forest University, said that though expressions containing “chingada” can have negative connotations, the typical reaction from a Mexican or Spanish-speaking person will not be negative.

‘My husband and I are both linguists, and when he told me about it, we both thought how interesting and smart a title. My attitude was totally positive,’ Valdez said.

An internet search revealed that other businesses, primarily restaurants, have used La Chingada as a name in such cities as London; Paris, Toronto; San Jose, Ca.; and Scranton, Pa.

Many sources attribute the origin of the negative, vulgar connotations to a historical reference to La Malinche, the Indian mistress of Spanish conquistador Herman Cortez.

Valdez said that the word ‘chingada’ and its root ‘chingar’ have generated so many slang words that they have their own dictionary called ‘El Chingonario.’

‘The meanings change with the context, different syntax, even the intonation,’ she said.”

So will we Scranton gabachos (another interesting Mexican word you can look up) discriminate against our new neighbors? Do the people of a city that once welcomed countless white immigrants, including my grandfather who spoke Irish and English, shun other languages, cultures and traditions? Do we lash out in ignorance?

Or do we raise high the banner of free speech, liberty and justice for all?

By the way, “ay caramba” is a Mexican curse so innocent that TV cartoon hero Bart Simpson used the phrase regularly. Loosely translated, caramba is a euphemism that means penis.

Hoist that on a flashing neon sign and see if anybody complains.

Seriously perplexed, Mikey Hoyle stood in the corner of the bar by the pool table.

We won, right?

Wilkes-Barre Mayor Spuds McAnus snapped like a moody red setter.

Of course we won, said McAnus, who also served as Irish Guys social club president.

Jesus, that’s a relief, said club vice president Hoyle.

If Biden doesn’t steal the election, that is, McAnus said.

Mikey Hoyle stopped drinking his beer in mid-chug and stared at his cultural mentor.

But I thought…

You think too much.

Thanks, mayor.

Bad things happen in Philadelphia, McAnus said, remember in 1985 when those Africans holed up in their houses and the mayor had to bomb the whole block to get them out?

That MOVE gang, like George Jefferson moving on up on TV reruns, right?

Then this year the Democrats took down the Frank Rizzo statue, McAnus said.

Next thing you know they be pulling Rocky down the Art Museum steps like he’s some Confederate general, Mikey Hoyle said.

So the libtards are rigging the election in Philly, he said.

Fake votes, McAnus said.

Can’t we do something?

Mr. Trump knows we’re standing by.

For what?

We’ll know when we get there.

Should we protest?

And look like antifa socialists?

Mikey grabbed his crotch.

Yeah, feel this burn, Bern.

Money talks, Mikey.

So we keep donating to Mr. Trump even though the election’s over.

It’s never over for us.

Especially if Mr. Trump gets arrested after the Dems rob the election, Mikey said.

We got time, at least until inauguration day.

I got an idea, Mikey said.

This should be good, McAnus said.

You know that place up in Scranton where Biden goes, that Hank’s Hoagies?

I saw him posing there on the news.

We can drive up and moon the lunch crowd.

What are you, Mikey, 14?

What’s the matter with that?

We’re adults, McAnus said.

Listen to the guy who blew up a dozen condoms and pasted a picture of Biden’s face on them.

We called them dickhead balloons and sold them outside the Trump rally for twenty dollars a pop, McAnus said.

I still think mooning Hank’s Hoagies is a good idea.

At least Mr. Trump won Luzerne County, McAnus said.

Mikey threw his arms into the air, flashing two thumbs up.

Victory, he said.

Irish Guys never lose, McAnus said.

Mikey Hoyle put on that grin his aging mother hated.

Some things never change, he said.

You vote yet?

After lunch.

Irish Guys Vice President Mikey Hoyle loved talking about food a lot more than talking about politics.

What are you having?

Large ham hoagie, said Irish Guys President and Wilkes-Barre Mayor Spuds McAnus.

The doctor says I have to cut down on red meat.

Your doctor trying to turn you into a homosexual?

What’s that supposed to mean?

The libs, gays and the socialists mostly, want to take away our guns and our chops.  

I didn’t know that, said Mikey Hoyle.

They had it on FOX, McAnus said, I’ll bet Mr. Trump’s excited about today.

You think he’s scared?

Of Joe Biden?

I seen Biden on the TV up in Scranton this morning at his old house, Mikey Hoyle said.

Mr. Trump is having a party tonight at the White House.

You think he might lose?

Biden?

No, Mr. Trump.

Mayor McAnus closed his eyes.

Bite your tongue in half, Mikey Hoyle.

I’m just asking.

Mr. Trump never loses and he’s never been captured in Vietnam.

But what if he does lose? What do we do then?

McAnus spoke through clenched teeth.

We don’t talk about that.

Biden says he’ll get us better health care, Mikey Hoyle said.

What’s wrong with what you got?

I don’t have any.

Mr. Trump has a plan, McAnus said.

He got the COVID, too.

Where are you going with this?

Even with his gold standard medical coverage he caught the COVID.

You see how he came out of it, though, didn’t you? Better than ever.

So I should catch the COVID to get stronger.

Just like Mr. Trump.

I feel better already, Mikey Hoyle said.

Election Day was looking up.

Throwing his arm around Mikey Hoyle’s shoulders, McAnus knew he and his buddy were in this together.

You want a ham hoagie, pal?

Mikey Hoyle pulled away with a serious question.

Who’s paying?

Bowing his head, Mikey Hoyle spoke in reverential terms.

Twelve Pack Flynn died.

Mayor Spuds McAnus’ mouth sprung open quick as a gallows trap door in the Molly Maguires’ movie.

He didn’t.

He did.

He never did that before.

The COVID got him, Mikey said.

It’s no wonder, McAnus said, did you see the size of him?

His wife said he was bigger than the ventilator.

He did put on some weight.

And that was before he won the hot dog eating contest at the bar.

So Twelve Pack died from a heart attack instead of the COVID like the lib doctors want us to believe, McAnus said.

Did he have a chance to vote before he passed I wonder?

I got his absentee ballot right here in my pocket, McAnus said, I got a dozen or so from the senior center to drop off after the rally with Mr. Trump at the airport.

Can I get a ride with you?

I’m going up on the Irish Guys’ bus from the bar. We got a half keg for the ride up and back.

I told you Mr. Trump wouldn’t forget us, Hoyle said.

The mines still aren’t open, though, McAnus said.

Let the Mexicans did coal, Hoyle said, I’m putting in an application for a security job at the federal courthouse.

Cleaning services for me, McAnus said, speaking as president of the ghost janitorial company I’m starting.

That’ll be the life, Hoyle said, sick days and everything.

Mileage, too, McAnus said.

That Socialist Biden and his colored girlfriend don’t have a chance.

They don’t, do they?

Go on.

Mikey Hoyle led the pledge of allegiance as vice president of the Irish Guys social club then got down to business at the emergency meeting.

Can we wear our MAGA caps when we protest Joe Biden landing Saturday at the airport?

I bought a new one special for the occasion, said Irish Guys president and Wilkes-Barre Mayor Spuds McAnus.

Holding aloft their MAGA caps the guys in the bar backroom all cheered.

A shaky Mikey Hoyle seemed particularly nervous.

Won’t security stop us?

Some of our guys are working security, the mayor said.

I don’t want to get arrested again, Mikey Hoyle said.

A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.

My probation officer says I should stay home.

He’s just another turncoat riding with Biden, the mayor said.

His mother’s a Democratic committeewoman who bought him the job with the county.

He’s like a looter taking something that shouldn’t belong to him, the mayor said.

Biden isn’t even coming to Wilkes-Barre city, is he?

Biden’s going where all those libtard suburban housewives live near Dallas borough, the mayor said.

You think Biden will think he’s in Dallas, Texas instead of Northeastern Pennsylvania?

There’s a Puerto Rican and almost no Mexicans living in our Dallas, McAnus said.

The killers and rapists are all locked up at the state prison near there.

The Blacks are here, though.

They moved here from Philadelphia to take our affirmative action jobs in the prison.

There can’t be too many of them.

No, you always had to be white to be a state prison guard here and have a good reference from somebody like me. I got lots of Irish Guys jobs working out there.

Good state benefits at the prison, Mikey Hoyle said.

Except for those people.

You know they catch the COVID more than anybody.

Super spreaders, McAnus said.

Probably a colored White House waiter gave it to Mr. Trump, Hoyle said.

Biden wants to throw open the cell doors and let them out.

You think that’s why Biden’ coming here tomorrow, to spring the coloreds?

Mr. Trump won’t do that.

Yeah, Mr. Trump would never free the slaves.

No, said Wilkes-Barre Mayor Spuds McAnus.

We could make money for our Notre Dame Fund by packing in the Irish Guys here at the bar, Mikey Hoyle said.

I’m boycotting the debate because of what they’re doing to Mr. Trump, McAnus said.

Open up the Coal Hole at 5 for Happy Hour and offer drink specials when Mr. Trump and the Scranton Scrapper kick off at eight, Hoyle said.

Fake news, McAnus said.

C’mon, mayor, we can make a killing taking bets, having a look-a-like contest, turning the debate into a regular circus.

It’s already a circus.

So what do we do?

Can we have classic rock karaoke when it’s over?

You’re on, Hoyle said.

OK, we watch the debate, McAnus said.

Mikey Hoyle perked up.

Who you betting on?

Mr. Trump has to knock him out to win, McAnus said.

Like Rocky, Hoyle said.

Mr. Trump needs a KO to pull this off because the lame stream media is against him. That why NBC’s got that colored girl as the moderator? So she can cut off Mr. Trump’s mic, the mayor said.

Another man-hating feminazi, Mikey Hoyle said.

I heard she’s Carmella Harris’ sister, McAnus said.

Go awn.

Seriously, she’s adopted.

You’re making that up.

Do you doubt Mr. Trump when he says something you never thought of before?

Mr. Trump tells it like it is.

Mayor McAnus loved sharing breaking news.

Carmella Harris and debate moderator Kristen Welker are some kind of Indians, right? And Welker’s father was one of them ganja smoking, gun-toting, reggae rapping Rastafarian California college professors, I heard.

No, that was Carmella’s father, Hoyle said.

Maybe they’re twins.

They all look alike to me, Hoyle said.

So-called journalist Kristen Welker changed her name to keep from being found out that they adopted her in Jamaica, the mayor said.

What’s her real name?

Christian, not Kristen. She’s embarrassed she’s named after Jesus so she changed it.

Trying to throw God-fearing Irish Guys like us off the track.

We’re too smart for that, Mikey.

Disguised her name but we recognize her as the atheist she is, Hoyle said.

Probably a Socialist, too, the mayor said.

We have Socialists in Wilkes-Barre, mayor?

Nah, they all moved to Scranton when the coal mines closed.

What kind of work they doing now?

Professional voter fraud.