Chapter 1

When we grow up- our parents tell us to be Doctors. Or Lawyers. Or CEO’s. The same gist. What’s funny is we respect the younger kids wanting to be firemen, or veterinarians, or mailmen. Life is strange when it bears its burden down onto us and we change.

I’m a successful man. I’m not going to lie. But I made my own way. My parents were not successful. I worked hard. I was still in school when my other friends were buying new cars and new houses. I played the game right. And even still I’m getting lapped by the guys that went a weird route. And that’s probably what I’ll tell my kids to do. Because I have one friend who grew mushrooms. Not psychedelics. But the kind you order for 12 dollars on the side of a steak. He’s a multi-millionaire.

Another friend started a cardboard box company. Right before a shipping giant moved to town. He has a jet now.

My third friend started a crematorium business. Do you how much money it costs to cremate a loved one? How about the new market for pets?? He tells me they are always busy and he can’t keep up.

He’s the one that called the other night. “Hey- come have a bourbon on the patio! Just put a new putting green in next to the pool!”

I was excited. Grabbed my putter and a bottle of wine to keep his wife happy- and headed over.

He has two Great Danes and two wiener dogs. Ha. Life is about balance.

We sat outside for hours. Bourbon made my blood warm and my head buzzed. He was telling me how busy he’s been and how wonderful life is. I thought nothing of it. And the putting green was awesome. We drunkenly bet 100’s and were walking in cursive trying to putt. Laughing and genuinely enjoying the night.

Hours later I woke up, and staggered to look for the bathroom in his massive compound.

I’ve been there before but he keeps adding on and the bourbon was still swimming in my brain.

I opened a door and it seemed to be a concrete floor with drains. I was still hammered to the point that I decided it was the same as peeing in a shower. So I dropped my zipper and let it flow. My eyes were slow to adjust. I sleep in contacts and I know I shouldn’t but a few seconds of blinking told me this room was wrong.

Adam isn’t a hunter. Or a fisherman. And this room seemed to be something I’d dream of. Metal tables. Tons of sinks. And a walk in cooler.

I could take my time breaking down a deer. Put a meat grinder on the side and make venison sausage and burger for my family. But it was immaculately cleaned. Bleached.

The walk in cooler was padlocked. But he does have 3 kids under 11 so I can understand. I turned to walk out, but in my half drunk stupor I slipped, reaching for god knows what I pulled a cord and out dropped the attic stairs. And I’m pretty sure I fractured my Coccyx. Pain reverberated through my elbows to my brain. From my ass-bone to my brain. And from…. Well my brain to my brain.

The single bulb attic light was on. I have no idea why but it felt like a good idea to go upstairs and see what expensive shit he may could hide. Inside was a trophy room. But not the kind I have.

It was awful.

Panties. Bras. Wigs. And pictures and pictures of women in various stages of torture. Humiliation. Sexual degradation. And death.

My friend smiling in some of them. He and his wife together with their playmate in others.

These people are big in the church. Big in kids sports. Support every fundraiser.

They were taking pictures as they cut these women up. Laughing and smiling as they cooked them. Putting their heads on plates and toasting expensive wine in the background.

How could they? Who the fuck are these people?

And I realized. What better way, to conceal their horrors… than to run a crematorium.