The man, his arm hanging limply at his side and his Monopoly Man hat spinning in his hands, smiled at me. I tried hard to return a grin, but I lost all hope. There was STILL a dead prostitute’s skeleton in his closet. Still.
A mayor isn’t supposed to hide behind a desk in his office and tell everyone, “Oh, yes, everything’s fine!” when really there’s a prostitute’s skeleton in his closet and wads of cash stashed in her rib cage, not the bank.