The Wishbone-Gate Scandal (or “Down & Out in Diamond City”)

BREAKING NEWS

Wilkes-Barre, PA – Residents take to the blizzard-frozen streets in protest after controversy in the defeat of a local champion during annual Thanksgiving Day hobby-horse races. In what is being called the “Wishbone-Gate Scandal”, two out-of-town grifters are wanted for questioning. 

The Fatzer They Come, The Harder They Fall

Luzerne County hobby-horse legend, Fatz Falzone, has been defeated! Results disputed!

Not is all that it seems according to many concerned members of the Diamond City Fire & Supper Club following a surprising result at the annual Thanksgiving Day Hobby-Horse Race. Competing in the Under-18 race for the final time was 17 year old Fatz Falzone, the 5 time winner of the competition known for his relentless stamina, high-top Reeboks, fancy gallop and effective hip-check. Per PAHA, the Pennsylvanian Hobbey-Horse Association, Fatz had been undefeated when competing in his age bracket. That streak ended on Thursday when the unthinkable was thought: Fatz went down. Townsfolk were crying foul on Black Friday, convinced two suspicious outsiders were involved with fixing the race in what is being called “the Wishbone-Gate Scandal”. 

“Fatz Falzone is the greatest of his generation.” said Chumbo, a Pottsville volunteer fire-fighter and wedding DJ. “And now? You saw them sprained ankles. Boy may never giddy-up a stick horse again.”

Eastern Pennsylvania has a history of fire company social clubs dating back to the 1736 founding of the Union Fire Company in Philadelphia by Ben Franklin. Today, there are hundreds – if not dozens – of fire company social clubs throughout the state. Membership traditionally is open to fire-fighters & their families, but often allows for the inclusion of respected citizens paying expected dues. Benefits of club membership include unlimited cheap beer, beef jerky & pickled-eggs, as well as a vibrant social scene. Wilkes-Barre’s Diamond City Fire & Supper Club was founded by Toots “please just call me Ed” Mackee in 1956, who began this holiday fundraising tradition of a Thanksgiving potluck while gambling on both adults and children racing hobby-horses. This year, the fundraising event ended with a boy in tears and a community in outrage. 

“Don’t like the smell of it.” said Nan Fiddler, who sells discounted Peppermint Patties at the Wyoming Valley Mall. “I’m just glad Toots wasn’t alive to see it. Toots would’ve never let those out-of-town lowlifes into the club. They said they were from Chicago, but might as well’ve been Timbuktu. Never liked the smell of them. Especially the older one, Beefeater Bill. Smelled like honey-baked ham and gin. He offered me five dollars to scratch his back. I wouldn’t do it. Not for nothing less than a twenty. And he never paid up. Just disappeared. Along with my scrapple pan.”

When asked to elaborate on what a pan has to do with the game of Scrabble, Ms. Fiddler responded, “What’s wrong with you? You got dicks in your ears? ‘Scrapple’. S-C-R-A-apple. You put meat scraps in corn meal, make a loaf and bake it. That’s scrapple. And someone took my pan!”

An investigation was launched by Diamond City Fire & Social authorities after suspicions emerged the tragic fall of Fatz Falzone might be blamed on a floor slickened with mechanical grease. They expected to find inconsistencies with the credentials provided by the out-of-towners. What they discovered was no records of the credentials could be found.

“They says they were Chicago firemen, but they were posers.” Said JT Schnauzer, bartender & bouncer of the Diamond City Fire & Supper Club. “Talked to my guy at the North End Slovak’s Club and this Beefeater Bill fella lied his way into their bar too. He got 86’d over there for hustling at the pool table. Slovak club members first thought him fishy when Beefeater Bill kept joking, ‘never thought you people were a good solo act; I liked you better as Czechoslovakia!’ When no one laughed at his joke, Beefeater Bill said ‘Czech please!’ but never settled the tab once delivered.” JT Schnauzer further theorized, “I’d also guess he’s the reason Janette Debicki is missing her crockery.” 

When reached for comment, Janette Debicki, Miss Anthracite Beauty Pageant Queen of ’87, she confirmed, “I brought sauerkraut & kielbasa to the Diamond City Fire potluck. My dutch oven went missing. Just up & went. Gone.”

Missing cookware is a common story post-potluck in any town, but what evidence of wrong-doing was there of the hobby-horse race? When asked if there was any proof the outsiders, Beefeater Bill or his associate, had in interfering with the race, JT Schnauzer said, “What? You expect one of our legitimate members did it? Nah, I’d bet the rent it was one of them dirtbags.” JT Schnauzer went on to elaborate on the competition, “It’s a gentleman’s sport, horse racing. There exists a bond like between man and animal. With hobby horsing, it’s same, but there ain’t no animal. Just a broom stick with a horse face on it. It’s different, you see.”

The alleged grifters were tracked down to the Holiday Inn Express where a front desk clerk, on conditions of her anonymity, confirmed their identities as William Patterson aka “Beefeater Bill” and Vic Neverman. “They were not even supposed to be here during Thanksgiving”, Kimber Wallace, the front desk clerk and 27 year-old single mother of 1701 Westchester Street in Bethlehem, PA, explained. “They were supposed to fly out of Wilkes-Barre Regional before the holiday but then the blizzard shut down the airport. They came back here and reserved a few more nights until their flight could be rescheduled.”

Vic Neverman agreed to an impromptu interview from his Holiday Inn Express hotel room as he packed for his new departure. Neverman referenced the stack of empty beer cans when explaining, “I don’t want you to think I am a glutton or anything. I went to the package store to pick-up a 6-pack of beer and, because of the law of the land, I was forced to buy a case of thirty. I figured it was a sign from God. If not Yahweh, Himself, a sign from His little brother, Yuengling. 

“It was never my intention to be stuck here for Thanksgiving.” Vic Neverman said. “Why would I want to be here? It’s Valley-fucking-Forge out there. This town is long past it’s glory days. Instead of ‘Diamond City’, I have heard the WB called ‘Amish Alabama’, which… sure, but I actually like Alabama. Is it true Wilkes-Barre is the town Billy Joel wrote the song about? And he named it ‘Allentown’ because it rolls off the tongue with less gagging? I think I read that somewhere…

“Point being I never wanted to be here. Of course, my girlfriend back home believes otherwise.” Neverman continued. “She’s not responding to my text messages because, in her infinite paranoia, she believes I orchestrated the whole event. The blizzard, the canceled flights, all of it. Why? She thinks I wanted to avoid going back to Chicago to help her prepare Thanksgiving dinner. And she is starting to suspect I am seeing someone else, a Pennsylvania side-piece. Which is ridiculous. Sure, I’m a little friendly with the front desk clerk. But that’s nothing. Don’t get me wrong: Kimber is alright for a Lehigh Valley girl. She keeps her hair nice and the continental breakfast tidy. And Kimber can really work the waffle-iron…, but no. Nothing to text home about.”

When asked of the role he and Beefeater Bill may have played in the downfall of the undefeated Fatz Falzone, Vic Neverman insisted on his innocence. “Nothing to do with it. I wasn’t gambling. Why would I want to fix a race I had no stake in? Talk to Bill. He’s a professional fleecer. A conman with project manager certifications.  He lied to them, the fire club, to get us in the door, saying we were fire-fighters back in Chicago. He’s a jackass, but very convincing. Just ask the fire club. They bought it, hook, line and sunk. Trust me, if Beefeater Bill and I did not work together, I’d have nothing to do with him.”

Anonymous Holiday Inn front desk clerk, Kimber Wallace, a virgo & registered Republican, when asked about Vic Neverman, described him as, “Not too weird or anything. I think he’s warm. And pleasant.” When asked of Beefeater Bill, Kimber paused to smile before saying, “yeah, warm and pleasant too. But warm in a sweaty fried-bologna kind of way. And pleasant in a… well, he was pleasant in a bad boy way. He had a dirty nicknamed for me he used when he came to breakfast each morning.” Kimber eventually admitted Beefeater Bill called her, “Legs Akimbo.”

“Definitely sweaty.” Janette Debicki confirmed when asked of Beefeater Bill. She described his appearance at the Diamond City Fire & Social Club, “He was wearing a business suit which looked like he slept in. And he had taken off his neck-tie to stuff it in a pocket, only to remove it to dab his forehead. Most of the town is shutdown from the snow storm but this man is sweating…” When asked of Vic Neverman, she said, “Normal. I mean square. Back in the day, we’d call him ‘Rubick’. He’s so square he’s a cube. I noticed the two of them kept drinking the dollar Rolling Rocks. No self-respecting Pennsylvanian drinks Rolling Rock anymore. Not since the AB takeover when they took the processing out of state. These days, Rolling Rock tastes like next-day enema runoff. Must be that St Louis pond water they use. So yeah, I think it is possible these two Midwestern devils rigged the horse race. They probably work for Anheuser Busch too.”

Vic Neverman remained insistent of his innocence. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Not yet. The only crime I have considered attempting is the murder of Beefeater Bill. Of course, I would want it to look like an accident. After an informal polling around town, I learned the most common causes of death in Luzerne County are black lung, opioid overdose and/or a deer running in front of your car. Triggering a deer to leap-out at Beefeater Bill would be difficult. Plopping fentanyl into his egg-drop soup and rolling his portly body into a mine shaft is much more reasonable. Not enough opium to kill him, just introduce him to hell as he descends into earth. It’d be easy enough to obtain the drugs in town, but who’s got the time and the snowshoes to find a subtable old mine? Instead, I am plotting for somewhere more convenient. Like the parking lot.”

Vic Neverman went into the hotel closet where he withdrew an old rotary phone from behind a can of WD-40. He explained, “I’ve considered at least thirteen blunt instruments to thunk him over the head with. Primary criteria when choosing a thwacking device is something that is going to leave a mark most resembling a parking curb. That way it looks like Beefeater Bill was walking to his rental car and slipped on ice.” Vic Neverman patted the phone. “I settled on this beauty I bought at Giant Eagle. I paid for it in cash. While wearing sunglasses. Snow cap pulled low. Grew a beard. Pretended to have a limp. Once Beefeater Bill is dead, I will leave his body in the parking lot and toss the murder weapon into the Susquehanna. Assuming it hasn’t iced over yet.”

When asked why he hasn’t murdered Beefeater Bill yet, Vic Neverman responded, “There’s one catch to my perfect murder. I need him alive long enough to approve my expenses. He is my project manager, after all.”

Vic Neverman expressed surprise when told Beefeater Bill had already checked out of the hotel. “I guess I need to find my own ride to the airport. I don’t know where he went, but now that the roads are clear, he’s probably venturing further out. In the aftermath of the snowstorm, we couldn’t drive or rent sled dogs, so we kept to bars close enough to stumble home. Beefeater Bill did attempt to steal a zamboni to drive him to the Mohegan. You might look for him playing the slots there. Or check for him at Huns 99 Cafe. He’s also a sucker for Cracker Barrel. But I doubt you’ll find him at Diamond City or any other fire company social club. Word’s out on him.

“Good luck getting anything useful out of Beefeater Bill, if you do find him.” Vic Neverman said. “He’ll talk, alright. Beefeater Bill’s spirit animal is a leaf-blower. You just won’t get anything other than spoon-bending nonsense. And if you do see Bill, ask him to check his email. I recently submitted my expenses.”

Beefeater Bill was not found at the casino or Cracker Barrel. A follow-up call with Vic Neverman after he arrived back in Chicago provided clues to Beefeater Bill’s last moments in Pennsylvania. “I found him at Wilkes-Barre airport.” Neverman said. “Beefeater Bill arrived six hours early. He was sleeping on the floor, using his suit jacket as pillow. He said he was very eager to get home, but I think he went to the airport early knowing the Diamond City firefighters weren’t going to axe their way through TSA security to get at him and the money he owes. Whatever Beefeater Bill is guilty of, he got away with it. Almost all of it. If there is any justice in the story, the airline did not allow him to travel with his crockpot. Somewhere he had picked-up a dutch oven and was trying to carry it on. He had to leave it in the terminal.”

RETRACTION:

It has been learned the police sketches seen above were not actually of Beefeater Bill or Vic Neverman, but instead they are the police artist’s attempt at tracing classic Baroque images, Pasta Eater by Luca Giordano and The Cardsharps by Caravaggio. Witnesses still attest to the likeliness.