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Books cover reveals Read the First Chapter of A.J. Hackwith’s Goblin Market A heartfelt fantasy arriving October 2026 By Reactor | Published on February 11, 2026 Photo courtesy of A.J. Hackwith Comment 0 Share New Share Photo courtesy of A.J. Hackwith A goblin changeling caught between the human and fey worlds must find a way to save her home… We’re thrilled to share the cover and preview an excerpt from A.J. Hackwith’s Goblin Market, a new fantasy available October 20, 2026 from Penguin Random House. Being a changeling is hard enough, but Toast was older than most changeling children when her goblin parents stole her back from her human family and returned her to the harsh, bustling world of the Goblin Market, where anything from your fondest dream to your strongest talent can be bought—or sold.Nearly a decade later, Toast has grudgingly cobbled together a life there as the Market’s guide for mortal visitors. But when the next arrival is her long-lost sister and the ancient beast whose magic the Market depends on disappears under strange circumstances, everything starts falling apart.Now the Market itself is dying. With the Summer Court of noble fey plotting to claim the weakened Market for themselves, Toast, her friends, and an infuriatingly charming fey knight with an agenda of her own must negotiate their differences to make the trade of a lifetime and win back the Market’s future. To do so, Toast will have to decide what home—and the flawed community within—is ultimately worth. Cover art by Charlie Bowater; Design by Adam Auerbach Buy the Book Goblin Market A.J. Hackwith Buy Book Goblin Market A.J. Hackwith Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget A. J. Hackwith (she/they) is a queer writer of fantasy and science fiction living in the woods of the Pacific Northwest with her partner and various pet cryptids. Chapter One Extra potatoes for dinner. That’s all Toast heard when the boy began negotiations with the foolish offer of his first-born daughter. Even now, watching him haggle with Silver, she could see he was barely more than a child himself. Not in the cherubic, soft limbed way, really. But in the slouched curved of his spine, the dull polish of disappointment beginning to wear down his edges. He had learned the world would not love him back, but not yet that it could strip him bare if he let it. He still had the ambition of his dreams. Otherwise he would have never found the door that lead nowhere. The door that leads to the Goblin Market. “I’m never having kids anyway,” he announced, with all the bravado of someone who’d convinced himself he’d meant it. “It’ll be like getting it for free.” “What a cunning negotiator you are, peachfuzz.” Silver’s skin was pale with the luster of old jade, smooth in places where age should have made a busy map of lines. Goblin years don’t draw wrinkles, just deepen the secrets in the eyes. Though the name alone told Toast she was one of the oldest merchants in the Market. Goblins earned their common name based on the first successful deal they ever struck. Silver had evidently dealt in raw coin, at one point. And so far back that her name was ‘Silver’ rather than penny, dollar, or credit. “Has anyone tried bitcoin?” Toast only realized the daydream question was said aloud when Silver shot her a look to peel bark from a tree. “Henry.” Silver flicked a thumb in Toast’s direction and another man, who had been idly polishing the dream-glass, tucked away his rag. He was dressed in too tight pants and a blousy teal shirt which could have been from several decades of history, but was gaudy in all of them in Toast’s opinion.  Henry offered Toast a candy from a rather stale looking silver bowl. “Mint?” Henry may not have been a goblin, but as Silver’s indentured assistant, he was as market-blood as Toast. And like any market resident, Toast knew better than to accept a gift. Especially one shaped like a smile.  “What are they? Honey words?” Toast eyed the glistening candies. Her crossed arms made it obvious she wasn’t biting, so Henry sighed and set the bowl down. “Delirium drops,” Henry admitted, with no remorse on his lazy smile. “Imported fresh from the Summerlands.” “High Fey sweets don’t interest me.” Toast gave him a flat look even while keeping an eye on how Silver’s negotiation was progressing with the human mark. He was, as Toast had expected, getting tidily fleeced by Silver’s talented omissions. The boy was petting a battered pair of gloves with an awe that bordered on enchantment. The finder fee that was due to Toast from the deal would be decent, maybe even enough to pay for a few deals of her own. (After the potatoes.) “I wouldn’t expect a simple goblin like you to appreciate the finer things,” Henry shrugged, selecting one candy from the bowl himself to languidly pluck at the glossy wrapper. “Suit yourself.” God, Toast couldn’t stand the addicts. She had never bothered to learn Henry’s particular story, how he’d come to find the Goblin Market or what initial deal he’d made, but anyone could guess how he’d become stuck working for Silver. Henry was a goblinfruit addict, one of the many humans that lived–if you could call it that—within the Market, doing any demeaning job or fey bidding they could to win them another taste of the sweet fruit called goblinfruit. It was a delicacy unique to the Market’s goblin community, and known to be pleasant to fey of all kinds, but addictive to the point of possession for humans.  The fruit didn’t kill you. It just made you forget why anything else ever mattered. Once you’d tasted goblinfruit, your every waking thought was devoted to securing the next portion. Henry was a case in point, serving as Silver’s ever-present lackey in exchange for a steady but meager supply. Fey never hesitated to take advantage of us—no, of humans. Humans. Not us. Toast berated herself again as she watched Henry drop the faint, cerulean delirium drop on his tongue and slouch against a crate of goods. “Ach!” Silver twisted around and delivered a faint smack to Henry’s shoulder. “Foolish boy! What have I told you about sampling the merchandise? You’ll owe me for that.” Toast could imagine the groveling Henry would do to preserve his ration serving of goblinfruit, but he was already too far gone, a drippy smile on his face as the candy of glazed emotion melted through his brain. “You could have bothered to stop him,” Silver turned her frown on Toast. “Could have. Didn’t see the fair trade.” Toast shrugged. That earned her a narrow look, but no retort. Toast was secure in the fact that Silver couldn’t even hold it against Toast her. Fair trade was the lifeblood of the Market. If the goblins and low fey of the Market had a religion, it was the cosmic concept of fair trade. Not that there was ever anything equitable in the promise of ‘fair’. There were always winners and losers in the market. And when a human was involved, they always played the loser. Toast focused her attention on the boy she’d escorted to Silver’s booth. He was still lost in fascination, staring avariciously at those stupid gloves. “You…” Toast wavered, but a sharp raise of one brow from Silver was enough to tip her over into a sigh. “…if you are satisfied, I can walk you back to the door,” she said to the fool who barely heard her. Toast wanted nothing more than to back out of the tent and let the Churn’s crowd sweep her along, but her own sense of ‘fair’ didn’t allow it. Even foolish boys deserved to find their way home. The boy was too enchanted with his new purchase to answer, but Silver frowned at the contents of a drawer before pulling out a handful of pebbles whose surfaces gleamed like oil slicks. She counted five into Toast’s waiting palm. “Bezoars, again?” Toast let her annoyance carry. Silver shrugged, indicating the currency of payment and Toast jostled them in her palm before putting them away. The oily, dark feel said they were from the belly of a Nightmare, or possibly even an Omen. It was a generous fee, not that she’d ever admit that to Silver. She tugged on the boy’s sleeve and nudged him into the dim bustle of the Churn. The Churn was the Market’s backbone. A cavernous space with a large main thoroughfare of tents and booths perched beneath the ruins of pillars that jutted out of the wall in impossible geometry. The lighting came from twine-strung lanterns which swayed without wind. Nothing about the Market was straight: not its rooms, not its wares, not its people. But at least the Churn, at least, pretended to stay still. Deeper in, the Market turned feral, hallways slipping and folding, rearranging themselves like rebellious memories.  By the time they reached the stairs, the lanterns had guttered low. Toast managed to drag the boy back up the switchback to the entrance hallway. “Right. Pleasure meeting you, yadda, yadda, yadda—” “Yes…” the boy agreed absently. But then he managed to pull his gaze away from the bauble he’d just sold his firstborn for. “Wait, what if I need to come back?” Toast kept her skepticism off her bland expression. Fey from elsewhere were regular visitors of the Market, but typically humans only stumbled in once, and whether by fate or failing, they were not seen again. She pretended to consider it with a shrug. “How’d you find the door, again?” “I…” his expressive face folded into confusion. “I remember it was end of semester, and I had a shit-ton to drink and then there was this weirdo at the bar that…I can’t remember what they said.” “Oh, that’s normal,” Toast reassured. Her stomach dropped and pity sunk in despite her best efforts. A wandering trickster had sent him here, or worse. There were enough creatures out there that who rarely visited the Market themselves because they made such a tidy meal of other’s desperation. “You understand what you paid today, right?” She shouldn’t be asking, but at least it did serve as a distraction. The boy’s face bloomed into a prideful smile. “Yeah. Whatever. Basically free.” “You said as much back there. You understand that’s forever, right? Even if you change your mind or there’s an…uhm, accident.” He was already nodding in an arrogant way that made Toast feel less sympathy, but then there was a hitch in his expression. Toast’s heart sank. “No judgement, but have you had some…” She paused and pulled the words from a memory she’d bought last month. “…a one night stand?” The blank anxiety on the boy’s face was answer enough. Oh, he really was an idiot. Toast clenched her jaw and shoved his lanky legs toward the door. “Anyway, the Goblin Market appreciates your business. Never come againokbye!” He made some blustery objections, but the enchantment took hold as he touched the brass doorknob. The frame of the door always remained the same—creaky and crooked, with mismatched carvings at the corners. But the door was always unique to the guest. This one was a wide, artful mahogany with an ornate latch that reeked of old money. How someone who had so much could still fill his heart with so much envy that they called a door to the Market, Toast would never understand. She was halfway down the stairs before the click finished echoing in the empty hall. At least she had the coin to wash the bad taste out of her mouth. She stopped by her favorite shops, using some of the bezoars to buy a spicy skewer (extra potatoes) and another on a goblinfruit hand pie. After a bit of haggling, she handed over the gleam from her hair for a pint of weak ale, and swapped last week’s dreams for a new blanket that was heavier than the old one and stitched with runes to keep out the chill and regret. There was a new draft in the abandoned closet that she called home. She’d manage. Still better than the week she spent sweltering at night because the closet had been relocated directly over a boiler room. The ever-shifting secret space which hosted the goblin market was just referred to as the Market, by everyone Toast had ever spoken to. It gave the impression of a dilapidated, nonsensical forever-house. It was not, of course. No architect could or would dream up such a sprawling, illogical maze of dead-end hallways, stairs to nowhere, bottomless pools, or dusty rooms. A door could open on a decaying Victorian parlour one day or a hurricane-thrashed stairwell the next. It just depended on the Market’s mood. The whimsy made the Market treacherous to navigate, if you didn’t know the secret as Toast did. As she climbed a spiral staircase, she noticed it was the one made of bone that she’d already seen twice on the way in this morning. She touched each brass knob and lever of every door as she sped down the hallway, other arm loaded with her dinner. It never hurt to stay acquainted with the Market, her fingertips memorizing the feeling of cold, tarnished metal memorized under her fingertips like breadcrumbs to follow out. When she reached her door, she exhaled. Still there. Inside it smelled of dry cloth and old paper. It looked like a supply closet, like the ones where that the teacher had always kept the precious craft supplies in when she was in grade school. Toast pretended it smelled of crayons and Elmer’s glue, the way Ms. Luchsinger’s closet had in first grade. One of the good days when their teacher pulled out fresh crayons. A fantasy that she was back at Middlevale elementary, and when she emerged in the morning she’d be 12 years old again, and human, and loved and cared for without expectation of payment or debt. She laid out her meal, spread the new blanket, and settled into her next nest. She nibbled on the hand pie as she pulled out a sad looking notebook. The pages were nearly black from scribbles—dream fragments, old sketches, the memory-ghosts of horses, because of course she’d been a horse girl once.  Ten years ago. Ten years since she’d woken in her bed, not yet changed or claimed, only to find a green-skinned creature, Silver, at the foot of it with eyes like flint and a voice like a sealed contract. She’d screamed, of course. But no one stirred in the house, not her parents or her baby sister, already under Silver’s temporary enchantment. There had been no dramatic rescue. Only Silver’s voice, calm as paper: You are not theirs. Toast had run, of course she had. She’d managed to reach her parents room, screaming for help. Her mom kept a baseball bat under the bed. She’d—she’d drive this nightmare away. Toast had thrown herself on her parents bed, but. But her mother only shifted fretfully in her sleep, brow furrowing then smoothing again. She still remembered the scent of her mother’s sleep-warmed skin before Silver pulled her away. She probably tried to explain it all kindly, if Toast was being fair. But she Toast had been so confused, so scared, that the facts might as well have been incantations: that Toast was a changeling child, a goblin pretending to be human. That her ‘real’ parents, also goblins, should have fetched her long ago but–here, Silver paused, unnaturally evasive–they had been delayed, forcing Silver to complete the errand. But that didn’t prepare Toast for the icy water feeling of some magic sliding off her skin. Did not stop her from wailing as she looked in the hallway mirror and saw a wretched green-skinned stranger staring back. A creature her size with big, tear-filled red eyes and giant, fawn-like floppy ears that came to points and fluttered like broken wings as she cried. That door had shut. And the Market had opened on her new life. She learned quickly. Goblins believed a community raised a child. Well, they believed humans should raise goblin children up through that helpless, sticky period, then the community raised a child. Most goblin children were brought back to the Market by age six as their changeling disguise wore thin. Young enough to adapt well, but old enough to be useful. Toast had been eleven, too old to be pitied, too young to be feared. Silver helped just enough to keep her from starving. When asked, Silver had given her only a perfunctory answer as to why they’d waited so long. She said her parents were absent, like Toast had been an appointment they’d penciled in their planner and forgot. Whenever Toast pressed further, complicated wrinkles formed around Silver’s closed mouth. Whatever the reason, Toast never forgave them for it. She was gathered into some orientation and adjustment guidance by well-meaning aunties. Sitting hunched over next to kids half her age, many of whom seemed to have either convinced themselves this is was some fantasy adventure, or comforted themselves with crying constantly. Toast had no more tears. After that first night, she held herself to the resolution to not cry again. If this was home now, Toast would make it a home no one could take away from her. Let no one close enough to rip another comfort away. If Toast was a goblin, then she’d be a goblin. As fierce and nasty as any of the monsters who’d ripped her away from her human dream. It wasn’t that easy, she learned. All the traders knew that fresh changeling kids were easy targets. Merchants seemed to take endless amusement using the old fey “may I have your name?” trick on changelings. Her first trade had been a desperate, hungry bargain: the memory of her hometown for a slice of fried bread. Toast. She might have picked something else if she’d known goblins take their first Market acquisition as their name for the rest of their life. She didn’t even remember how it tasted now, and she’d never remember the way back again. She couldn’t go home even if she’d wanted to. She had been Toast ever since. The post Read the First Chapter of A.J. Hackwith’s <i>Goblin Market</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Books Backlist Bonanza Backlist Bonanza: 5 Underrated Works of Asexual Speculative Fiction In a month dominated by romance, we’re making space for SFF on the ace spectrum By Alex Brown | Published on February 11, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share Allos, I love you, but sometimes you exhaust me. Having spent my life surrounded by allos, you’d think I’d be more used to your urges and passions, and yet I still have to pester my allo group chat with questions about why you do what you do. I remain convinced that allosexuality is one big conspiracy theory—or at the very least that all y’all are under some sort of mass hysteria. Either way, I’m reclaiming this month for the aces. Now, where’s that cake? City of Strife by Claudie Arseneault (City of Spires #1 — self-published; 2018) Chances are, if you’re looking for asexual and/or aromantic speculative fiction, you’ve come across recommendations for Arseneault. She’s been a staple in queer and in particular ace and aro speculative fiction for years, and has carved out quite the reputation in self-publishing. Her books center platonic relationships between a wide variety of queer characters, often of the shades and intersections of queerness that rarely make it into traditionally published books. You could pick any of her books, but today I want to highlight the first in the City of Spires trilogy. Arathiel returns to Isandor after more than a century away. He makes friends with a crew in the poorest neighborhood in town, then suddenly one of them is accused of a high-profile assassination. His only hope may be Lord Diel, but he’s busy trying to manage an envoy from the cruel Myrian Empire. A sprawling story of political intrigue and high fantasy unfolds through a large cast and lots of high stakes moments. And there are several asexual and aromantic characters! Not just one! The Sound of Stars by Alechia Dow (The Sound of Stars #1 — Inkyard Press; 2020) As far as I can tell, Alechia Dow is the only author writing Black young adult science fiction with asexual spectrum main characters. (She’s also one of only a handful of Black authors who are traditionally published in YA SF at all… it’s a slim field.) There are three interconnected books in this series, with The Sound of Stars being the first. All feature protagonists on various spots of the asexual spectrum. This book opens two years after aliens known as the Ilori invaded and conquered Earth, slaughtering a third of the population in the process. They banned music, art, and books, but 17-year-old Ellie has a secret stash in Ilori-controlled New York City. M0Rr1S (aka Morris), a lab-born being that looks human, discovers her private library, but is so fascinated by her music that he breaks the rules and doesn’t turn her in. They set off together to escape Morris’ family, and the groundwork they lay sets the stage for the rest of the series. This is one of those trilogies I think would kill as a streaming TV show adaptation. It’s wild and charming, sweet and romantic, and full of space opera adventure and teenage melodrama. What We Devour by Linsey Miller (Sourcebooks Fire; 2021) This was one of my favorite young adult books of 2021, and one I often still recommend to teen readers looking for dark fantasy. Set in a fantasy world where humans overthrew their gods and devoured them—literally—this book explores power and class. Lorena is the descendant of one of those devourers, but she’s special; she has magic from both gods, Noble and Vile. Because of her power, she’s forced into an indenture to the Vile crown price. He needs Lorena’s help to keep the Vile on the other side of the Door, lest the world be consumed. Lorena is morally gray and generally unlikeable, the ideal YA antihero in a bloodthirsty world. She may have magical power, but it’s curbed by political power, so she must find other ways to make the world a better place. Unfortunately for her victims, those ways often involve a lot of killing and pain. In this house, we love a complex protagonist. The Bruising of Qilwa by Naseem Jamnia (Tachyon Publications; 2022) Firuz and their family are Sassanian refugees from Dilmun struggling to build a new life in the Free Democratic City State of Qilwa. A plague decimated their homeland and drove them and hundreds of others into tenements in the poorest neighborhood in Qilwa, and now Firuz, a weaver of blood magic, works at one of the few clinics that cater to Sassanians. That’s when this fantasy story turns into a medical mystery. A strange, new disease spreads across Qilwa, and the refugees are blamed. Firuz has to not only find the source of the plague and stop it before it decimates their new home but also quell a rising swell of xenophobia and help a relative deal with body dysmorphia exacerbated by their relocation and loss of magic. The novella tackles a lot of topics with depth and nuance. Jamnia delves into oppression and subjugation, colonization and recolonization, and the diaspora and being a refugee. Small Gods of Calamity by Sam Kyung Yoo (Interstellar Flight Press; 2024) Something I’ve noticed with a lot of asexual fiction written by acespec authors is that we tend to just let our characters be ace. There’s not much hemming and hawing over our identities. Other characters might have strong opinions about the protagonist’s asexuality, but they are happy with who they are and just living their life. That’s what you get with Han-gil, the protagonist in this urban fantasy novella. Han-gil is a police detective in Seoul as well as someone who can communicate with spirits. Oh, and he’s ace and bi. We meet him as he starts investigating a spate of suicides that he soon realizes are part of something much bigger. This is a fast-paced, tightly-plotted mystery with a ton of worldbuilding and character work happening in under 150 pages. I hope we get more from Kyung Yoo soon! Small Gods of Calamity is a stunning debut.[end-mark] The post Backlist Bonanza: 5 Underrated Works of Asexual Speculative Fiction appeared first on Reactor.

After the Grammy Awards aired live from Crypto.com Arena in Los Angeles before 12,000 attendees and millions of viewers worldwide, the one speech that has resonated most centered on faith and redemption, delivered by a man named Jason DeFord, better known as Jelly Roll. As DeFord stepped up to accept his Best Contemporary Country Album award, he spoke through emotion about the long road that carried him from the criminal justice system to the very stage where he now stood. And in a moment when the spotlight could have been used to lecture half the country for thinking differently, he chose instead to speak with grace, faith and gratitude, the kind of perspective that only comes from someone who has truly found the peace of redemption. “They’re going to try to kick me off here, so just let me try to get this out,” DeFord said. “First of all, Jesus, I hear you, and I’m listening. Lord, I am listening, Lord. Second of all, I want to thank my beautiful wife. I would have never changed my life without you. I would have ended up dead or in jail. I would have killed myself if it wasn’t for you and Jesus. I thank you for that.” He went on to note the inspiration behind the album “Beautifully Broken,” which was being honored. “There was a time in my life, y’all, that I was broken,” DeFord explained. “That’s why I wrote this album. I didn’t think I had a chance, y’all. There were days that I thought the darkest things. I was a horrible human.” He then held up a little red Bible, saying, “There was a moment in my life that all I had was a Bible this big and a radio the same size, and a 6-by-8-foot cell. And I believe that those two things could change my life. I believe that music had the power to change my life, and God had the power to change my life. And I want to tell y’all right now, Jesus is for everybody. Jesus is not owned by one political party. Jesus is not owned by no music label. Jesus is Jesus, and anybody can have a relationship with Him. I love you, Lord.” It was obvious the ceremony would follow the same script it has for the past quarter-century—not merely political, not just tilted one way, but loudly moralizing and entirely predictable: another stage crafted by the entertainment industry to remind viewers that if you backed Republicans or their agenda, you were not welcome in Hollywood’s good graces. Nearly every star on the red carpet sported black-and-white pins that read “ICE OUT.” It kicked into high gear with Bad Bunny, the Puerto Rican singer and headliner of the Super Bowl halftime show, who, when accepting the award for best musica urbana album, placed politics before faith and said, “Before I say thanks to God, I’m going to say, ‘ICE out.'” Throughout the night, singers used their moment to echo that sentiment. Billie Eilish, when accepting the Song of the Year award, said, “No one is illegal on stolen land,” then went into a stream of blunt profanity that was censored from at least the network broadcast. Jelly Roll is a man who has been through hell and back, and he will be the first to admit he made many of those choices that put him in harm’s way. He is also a man who has felt the power of redemption because he embodies the way it has transformed him from being lost to finding the capacity to embrace faith and love. So when he won, the moment wasn’t about himself at all. He turned the spotlight toward his faith, his family and his fans, offering them the grace of recognition. On a national stage built for individual glory, he chose the language of “we,” not “I.” When reporters later asked why he hadn’t waded into politics, at least during his time in the spotlight, he spoke with the easy freedom of someone who places faith, whatever form it takes, above the worldly idols society often elevates, including politics. He said he genuinely didn’t think people should be concerned with his political opinions: “You know, I’m a dumb redneck, like, I haven’t watched enough. … I didn’t have a phone for 18 months. I’ve had one for four months, and I don’t have social media. I hate to be the artist that’s aloof, but I just, like … I’ve become so disconnected from what’s happening.” He hinted he might have something to say about rural politics and survival in the future, something he would speak about loud and clear, but not on this night. Not when he wanted to do what many Christians would do when they were grateful: take the shine off themselves and place it on the faith and the family and the people who supported them to earn this award. There was an abundance of focus by the leftist elite on what was said during the ceremony, but what was heard in the middle of the country and resonated there was Jelly Roll being an example of a restored life, of a man who is grateful and in that grace shares his gift of redemption so that others know it is there for the taking for them too.COPYRIGHT 2026 CREATORS.COM We publish a variety of perspectives. Nothing written here is to be construed as representing the views of The Daily Signal. The post Faith, Not Foul-Mouthed Scolds, Shined at the Grammys appeared first on The Daily Signal.

Hotel California: Sam Darnold Can Check Out Any Time He Likes, But His Money Can Never Leave

YGTBFKM: LA County Just Started Rent Relief Fund for Wildfire Victims and...People Avoiding ICE

Ancient Greco-Roman texts discuss the use of excrement in medicine, but this is the first direct evidence we've found that confirms the written descriptions.

We are willing to forgive the Solar System after last summer’s parade now.

The cameras also captured the rare Annamite striped rabbit, which has only been recorded a handful of times.

Despite his position as a Hollywood elite, ABC’s Jimmy Kimmel likes to think of himself as a man of the people who cares for the little guy, but on his Tuesday show, Kimmel made the strange claim that illegal immigrants are “raising your children.” While talking about Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick’s congressional testimony where he was questioned about his appearance in the Epstein files, Kimmel sarcastically declared, “But this was encouraging. Congressman Lisa McClain, a Republican from Michigan, is speaking out and loudly against Epstein's co-conspirators.”   After a clip of GOP Rep. Lisa McClain at a press conference lamenting, "And you know what the Democrats want to do? Let's release them into your communities. And let's celebrate the criminals. Let's villainize the ICE agents and celebrate the people who are raping your children,"… pic.twitter.com/jP9SbPxxtV — Alex Christy (@alexchristy17) February 11, 2026   A video of McClain then showed her at a press conference lamenting, “I don't get it. I've got to share with you, I don't get it. These folks are monsters. They're criminals. They murder. They sexually assault young women. Minors.” Kimmel then teed up the second part of the video by reacting, “What's that? Oh, that wasn't about the men in the Epstein files? Who was she yelling—oh, immigrants. Oh, no.” The McClain clip then continued with her adding, “And you know what the Democrats want to do? Let's release them into your communities. And let's celebrate the criminals. Let's villainize the ICE agents and celebrate the people who are raping your children.” Kimmel again reacted, “I think she meant to say raising your children? I mean, listen, could you imagine how ignorant these people are screaming about pedophiles and rapists while members of their own party seem to be doing everything they can to protect the pedophiles and the rapists in the Epstein files.” According to the not-at-all conservative American Immigration Council, 6.7 percent of childcare workers and 4.1 percent of all child day care workers were illegal immigrants in 2021. While numbers are hard to find for Kimmel’s Los Angeles specifically, 39 percent of California’s child care workers are immigrants—either legal or illegal—higher than the national average of 21 percent, and a disproportionate number of them live in LA. For the overwhelming majority of Americans, and especially those who live outside of areas like LA, Kimmel’s remarks simply aren’t true.   Here is a transcript for the February 10 show: ABC Jimmy Kimmel Live! 2/10/2026 11:44 PM ET JIMMY KIMMEL: But this was encouraging. Congressman Lisa McClain, a Republican from Michigan, is speaking out and loudly against Epstein's co-conspirators. LISA MCCLAIN: I don't get it. I've got to share with you, I don't get it. These folks are monsters. They're criminals. They murder. They sexually assault young women. Minors. KIMMEL: What's that? Oh, that wasn't about the men in the Epstein files? Who was she yelling—oh, immigrants. Oh, no. MCCLAIN: And you know what the Democrats want to do? Let's release them into your communities. And let's celebrate the criminals. Let's villainize the ICE agents and celebrate the people who are raping your children. KIMMEL: I think she meant to say raising your children? I mean, listen, could you imagine how ignorant these people are screaming about pedophiles and rapists while members of their own party seem to be doing everything they can to protect the pedophiles and the rapists in the Epstein files.