BY STEPHEN LANGLOIS (as NICK) & BUD SMITH (as DOUG)
Hell Hunter: slayer of demons, killer of psycho clowns, fearless destroyer of creatures born from utter blackness/bleakness of bottomless pit nightmares
SKILLS: cool, awesome hair, good with machine gun or cross bow, looks good in leather jumpsuit, can stand on roof of moving vehicle going at super high speeds down bumpy ass road, dirt road or otherwise with crazy giant winged serpents from satan's hell castle or wherever circling overhead and shrieking like assholes
MUST HAVE: working vehicle (6 cylinder or better)(no station wagon or minivan owners need apply), high school diploma or GED, credit score of 500+, no fear of death (not including melted slowly by acid--we get that one), must have some cash saved up at least to cover bullets, beer, pizza and self burial costs
MEET UP: TO BE REVEALED AT A LATER DATE IF YOU PASS THROUGH THE SIX PHASES OF OUR LABYRINTHIAN PROCESS SCREENING THING!
Looking forward to hearing from ya!
I am writing in response to your ad seeking a Hell Hunter and would very much like to be considered for this position. During Year One I served as an assistant to the Third Quadrant Ogre Exterminator--the late Stuart Weitzman--who had been my supervisor at JC Penny prior to the events of The Occurrence. My responsibilities included cataloging the number of infant children consumed by each Ogre, facilitating the evacuation to the Capitol of refugees from infested areas, and aiding the Exterminator in sawing off his preys’ heads so that they might not be allowed to reproduce via mitosis or some other means. Skills acquired during this period included the proper handling of a net-launcher–which functions much like a cross-bow–so that the Exterminator could be free to utilize his array of electroshock-armaments. Were it not for our fatal encounter with the Colossus of the Greenstone Slate Quarry--the only living member on record of the legendary cannibalistic Si-Te-Cah clan--I would happily provide the Exterminator as a professional reference.
Year Two has been spent primarily as a scout upon a twelve-person Anti-Incubi Unit, a job for which patience, multi-tasking, and the ability to think upon one’s feet is necessary. While many Incubi are easily identifiable by the bat-like wings and unnaturally large genitalia detailed in ancient Sumerian texts, others are quite human-looking. As a scout it is my duty to survey the ruined neighborhoods of Quadrant Three with night-vision goggles and shock-bombs in order to determine whether those figures spotted copulating with the remaining female refugees are indeed of the preternatural variety. Once an Incubus is properly identified and dispatched by the Unit’s marksmen, it is also my duty to determine how many instances of copulation have occurred and whether the victim might be impregnated with the being’s seed and in danger of birthing any cambion (i.e. half-human offspring). Please see my attached resume for further details.
As for transportation, I have kept the Exterminator’s Dodge Dakota in working order despite functioning motor parts being nearly as scarce--even here in the Capitol--as unrotted meat, potable water or steady WIFI signal. My education includes a high school diploma as well as a Bachelor’s degree in Comparative Literature. My hair, while neither traditionally “cool” nor “awesome” could perhaps be enhanced in some way via the use of bandanas.
Regarding a leather outfit it just so happens I have recently obtained one for myself. Allow me to elaborate: There has been a recent appearance of Succubi in Quadrant Three nearly equal in volume to that of the Incubi previously mentioned. Not only have many male refugees fallen victim to these fiendish seductresses–most of whom initially appear as beautiful young maidens before revealing their hideous bird-like talons and thereupon forcing their captives to perform cunnilingus for hours at a time–but so, too, have certain members of the Anti-Incubi Unit with which I am currently employed. My leathers are intended as a preventative measure against the hellish caress of the Succubi, though I fear such apparel will not be enough to save me. I therefore hope you understand my eagerness in setting up an interview and possibly transferring to your Quadrant before I myself am made to sacrifice my semen for some nefarious purpose.
Awaiting your reply,
Nicholas J. Singer
Just finally had some time to review your resume. Insanely great resume.
So good, maybe you should forget about hunting evil things and go and teach resume writing at the community college or who knows, maybe even State Universities …
I’m impressed. (Remind me later to ask you more about The Occurrence).
I just sent a Mail Chimp newsletter to all the rejected applicants based off your last email. Gotta say buddy, you’re in the running real good for our primary new hire Hell Hunter.
I feel lame because of my slow response, but I got a little bit distracted because some really crazy shit just went down in my town. I had a suspicion for a while that the entire police department had been replaced by some kind of Slime or some kind of Pod Peoples. But turns out I was totally blowing some parking tickets out of order. Long story short, looked the chief of police in the eyes till he finally blinked, paid the tickets, here we are--bright shiny day.
Your qualifications sound amazing. Half the weapons and half the beasts sound totally foreign to me. But that’s a good thing.
Like I could name all kinds of weapons you’ve never heard of, such as:
1. Cobalt Spear Catapult
2. Werewolf Neck Grenade
3. Long De-Skuller
Also: here’s some beasts:
1. Creature of the Tear-Filled Lagoon
2. Demon Hate Coach
3. Mr. Darkness III
See? We’ve all been running long distance on the demonic foot path, bro.
A lot of what you said about the Succubi made me feel real low down about some problems I had with my girl V last year before we split. It wasn’t so much the cunnilungus you mentioned or the talons, but what made the alarm bells go off, was the mention of how much she hated the leather jumpsuits.
V hated my leathers. She also worked in the lingerie department of Sear’s in 2008. Totally unrelated … I think we should meet up.
*Meet Up Details Revealed*
MEET UP: Third Tuesday of the month behind Sicklerville post office at the stroke of midnight. (Update...so that's technically Wednesday morning but most people don't think of it that way...sorry for the confusion)
^^^ Coincidentally, that’s tonight … Would be chill as HELL if you could come to the lot and we could discuss face to face next steps ….
What a pleasure it was to finally meet each other in person. To think you reside a mere thirty miles away from the Capitol in the Fifth Quadrant. If only we hadn’t been forced to cut our interview short and evacuate the parking lot upon the appearance of what you declared to be a “psycho clown,” but which upon further reflection I believe to belong to the Djinn family. Certainly I don’t wish to cast any aspersions regarding your powers of observation, though it’s worth noting that while the Djinn are said in Islamic theology to have been created from smokeless fire by Allah they often take on human-like form and are known to delight in trickery and deceit. It’s even possible certain members of the police department with which you mentioned having difficulty are an offshoot of the Djinn. I wonder for instance if you have ever witnessed one of these traffic officers levitating, mimicking the voices of the deceased, briefly taking on the guise of a vulture or consuming human bones?
In any case, I certainly enjoyed the opportunity to survey the large array of weaponry you’ve stockpiled. The “Long De-Skuller” was particularly impressive. It shows a level of ingenuity I haven’t beheld since my days spent alongside the Exterminator. In fact, one could hardly discern its origin as a mere Roto-Rooter. As for “The Death-Bringer,” as you referred to your Ford Econoline, this, too, displays a great deal of ingenuity in the way you’ve customized it to suit the needs of a proper Hell Hunter. The galvanized spikes affixed to the hubcaps, the steel bars covering the windshield, and the coyote skull which you have attached to the van’s grill are all quite impressive.
That many of the particulars of the events surrounding The Occurrence elude you should not in any way give you pause. In fact, a sort of amnesia has befallen quite a number of the refugees I’ve encountered in the Third Quadrant. There are even those here in the Capitol–the remaining scientists and medical professionals–who speculate a dissociative disorder of this magnitude is an inevitable byproduct of something as seemingly senseless and far-reaching as The Occurrence. I’d certainly be happy to discuss these issues further and am very much looking forward to our first mission together. Though we have yet to discuss salary, scheduling or any other such details of my employment, I have submitted my letter of resignation to the head of the Anti-Incubi Unit and am entirely at your behest.
First job went perfect in my opinion. And props to you for the idea of ripping the limbs off in four separate directions and then lopping the heads off with a silver ax. Wouldn’t want those things regenerating again. Did what you said with my two, buried them in a really remote place, deep in the earth with a sprig of chicory root placed in their mouth, stones covering the head in its pit, and stones covering the arm in their respective pit, legs, torso, same way so on. No one will ever find the body parts. We’re chill as fuck with this.
BUT! Damn, I can hardly type … My hands are still shaking. What the FUCK was that thing? Something terrible flying over my van right before dawn as I drove.
On the way home from the job (by the way, fun times, nice job with that group of Incubus sitting outside the ice skating rink at 3am on that picnic table… boy that wasn’t suspicious) I distinctly heard the voice of my dead mother come from above The Death-Bringer. Some winged thing was flying over the van as I sped home down the darkest road of my life. I never caught a glimpse of it, but I know I’ll have a nightmare tonight thinking about it.
The faster I drove, the louder the voice screamed, saying all kinds of insane things like “Turn yourself in! The police will understand!”
I think I need you to tell me everything you know about the Occurrence. I can’t remember anything about the Occurrence and that makes me so nervous that they already ‘got to me’.
As I bleached all my weapons, and burnt my clothes in the pit behind the trailer, I nearly burst into tears. I haven’t cried since her funeral. And I don’t think I’ll be going to work today, I just think I need to chill out here and think about things for a while.
PS: Tried to go to work, Death-Bringer wouldn’t start. Then it did start and there was fluid and smoke everywhere. Yahoo Answers says it’s a blown headgasket. That’s it for the Death-Bringer. Taking it to the junkyard today anyway … after what happened, it’s probably best for it to be crushed to get rid of some of the evidence. Don’t even know if I should be writing this email. If the police department in this town contain levitating, voice-mimicking, bone eating killer Islamic clowns created from smokeless fire they’d jump at the chance I’m sure to pin the slayings we did last night on us as something that wasn’t beautiful and for the good of mankind.
PPS: I’m wondering a little bit if some of the recent stuff on TV about police brutality, evidence planting, and non-convictions stemming from blatant assassinations of innocent civilians--some even children--tell us something bigger about them and what we should do about them?
PPPS: Found a bunch of old pictures of me in my leather jumpsuit on Myspace and I’m now convinced that the problem wasn’t V, and her possibly being a Succubus (PLEASE DO NOT VISIT HER AT THE ADDRESS I SUPPLIED. I TAKE THAT ONE BACK). I think that I was just heavy back then and depressed, too much Taco Bell and beer because it was hard, first my mom getting a double mastectomy and them saying the cancer is all gone and then surprise surprise, it comes back in the stomach. I just dug the leather jumpsuit out of the closet and it fits like a glove now, I can even zip the whole thing up, which gives it a totally different look than just bare chest sticking out with chest hair all tangled and knotted. I bet if V could see me now in this suit, she’d probably change her mind about me. Wonder what she is up to. But, I’m comfortable with her being gone. We weren’t good for each other. Dude, I’m drunk, my heart hurts. I’m going to sleep. Don’t know if I’ll make work tomorrow either.
I hope you’ll agree our second mission somehow surpassed the first in both scope and proficiency. Attaching the spotlight to the roof of the Dakota’s cab and the Net-Launcher to its bed was quite savvy on your part, and though fastening the Catapult to the driver’s side door so that you might launch your stock of Cobalt Spears while still behind the wheel caused you to nearly steer the truck into the drainage ditch alongside 104 I do not wish to question your competence or undermine your command. Besides which I only fell out of the back of the Dakota twice and if the leather of our jumpsuits can’t ease the sting of concrete against one’s flesh surely nothing can. Still, perhaps next time I can drive?
With respect to our count I’m quite pleased with our total of nineteen confirmed kills–nearly doubling that of our first mission–especially considering the majority of these demons appeared to be of a variety belonging to that of the fallen Seraphim and Cherubim as mentioned in the Book of Revelations. The horns, cloven feet and blackened skin of these creatures were unmistakable, as was the horde of flies by which they were surrounded and which in a moment of revulsion nearly caused me to fall from the back of the Dakota a third time before I was able to launch the net and thereafter utilize the Long De-Skuller. In fact, I believe we may have contended with Asmodeus himself–undoubtedly you noted the giant bat-like wings and goat head referenced in the Testament of Solomon–and I am grateful you were able to defeat him before his powers of lust were able to fully twist our sexual desires. Surely you felt the same stirrings as I?
Regarding the giant floating head we encountered behind Bennigan’s it seems to me, upon further reflection, to have been similar in origin to the Leyak of Indonesian folklore--particularly if one is to consider the entrails streaming behind it--and it is this I think which is key to understanding the Occurrence. As I explained to you on the drive back, the Occurrence was essentially like an abrupt and irreparable tear in the fabric of what we, as mankind, had previously considered reality. Out of this tear came the most hellish and destructive forces imaginable, and while many refugees still cling to a rather traditional eschatological view of this event it is the mix of Eastern and Western theology in this force’s manifestations that cause some to consider other possibilities.
There are those in the Capitol’s scientific community for instance who have likened the Occurrence to a cosmological event similar to that hypothesized in the Big Crunch theory wherein the average density of the universe is so great it might very well cease the expansion initiated by the Big Bang and contract to such a degree that it collapses upon itself into that of a singularity before reforming itself via a second Big Bang. This scenario in which the universe is cyclical in nature is difficult to reconcile with the second law of thermodynamics--as I’m sure you yourself know--and yet one can’t help but wonder if we are indeed living within an entirely new cosmos dictated by an entirely new set of precepts.
I myself can only speculate about such matters. It is more pertinent I think to mention that after dropping you off I was victim to an experience much like that which you yourself described after our first mission. That is to say I sensed the presence of some colossal winged beast above me, clinging to the roof of the Dakota’s cab with what I can only assume were a set of terrible barb-like pincers.
“You’re worthless,” it told me via thought-transference. “You’re useless. You’re shit,” it told me. “You’re less than shit. You’re an imbecile and everybody knows it. You think they don’t see you for what you really are every single time you set foot in the Capitol? You think the refugees in Quadrant Three aren’t all laughing at you behind your back? You’re just a big doofus,” it told me and it was then I realized the voice–if you can call it a voice–was that of the Exterminator, my former supervisor at JC Penny, the late Stuart Weitzman.
I think we should be on our guard not only physically but also mentally. There is a long history of demonic possession not only in Catholicism but also in Buddhism and other religious traditions. Such events often begin with the sort of hateful, unwanted thoughts we’ve both experienced and continue to include bouts of fainting, erasure of memories, epileptic fits, the sudden appearance of lesions. On an unrelated note, I wonder if you’ve had an opportunity yet to review my W-4.
Hey man, oh damn. Still not feeling so good today.
Don't know what it is, just in general really--
LEECH GODDAMN LEECH!
--bogged down and tired.
The TV is on but it sounds like animals being tortured and I can see Seinfeld on the screen.
You are worthless. You should kill yourself. Gouge your eyes out with the nearest rock.
I'm a bad driver? All ambulance drivers should drive the ambulances off a cliff and let me eat the bodies. You'll be in there too, dead and cold. Lesions? You think lesions are a bad thing? I look better this way. I've smashed the mirrors out and I've put the glass in my mouth and crunched down and with the blood I've written all over the walls NICHOLAS IS A TERRIBLE EMPLOYEE I HAVE NOT REVIEWED HIS W4 BECAUSE HE’S SLIME AND I HOPE HE SETS HIMSELF ON FIRE...
A winged creature was attached to your vehicle? Yes. I know all about it. That was me. I've taken up transforming and flying around all kooky, slurping up souls, devouring hope. Don't close your eyes. I'll be there. To pull you into the wood chipper of my doom.
Your Pal MICTIAN
I don’t know exactly how much of our third mission you recall given your current state. We had reached a suitable midday kill-count of 14 hellions when we decided to stop for lunch beside the waters of Elderberry Pond out of which emerged a six-legged being, screaming with the full force of its rage. I now believe it to be the Bukavac of Slavic mythology and I must thank you of course for disemboweling it before it had a chance to leap upon me and asphyxiate me as such beings are known to do.
However, I wonder if upon the appearance of the second Bukavac we were somewhat hasty in our decision to evacuate the scenic parking area. In the ensuing melee the Catapult was shaken loose from the driver’s side door--as I feared it might one day do--and dropped to the pavement with such impact the Dakota was made to buck and swerve and finally be sent into the drainage ditch alongside 104. I had already been thrown out of the Dakota’s bed by this point while you were flung about the truck’s cab and your head made to shatter the small ceramic statuette of Mictlantecuhtli we had discovered at a previous battle site and which you had insisted on affixing to the dashboard.
As we both know Mictlantecuhtli–or Mictian for short–is, according to Aztec mythology, king of the northernmost section of the underworld where he governs the souls of the dead and occasionally possesses those of the living in order to carry out his evil deeds upon this plane of existence. Unfortunately, none of this occurred to me until after I had managed to back the Dakota out of the ditch, return you, half-conscious, to your late-mother’s trailer, slip you from your leathers, clean and dress your wounds, and lay you to rest upon the couch. Truthfully, it wasn’t until receiving your previous missive I understood Mictian’s spirit may very well have been released in the course of the accident and chosen to inhabit your corporeal self.
Now of course it is possible demonic possession is not the explanation for your uncharacteristic behavior. It could for instance be some unknown form of psychopathy induced by the horrors we’ve witnessed together on a day-to-day basis. In fact, there have been numerous cases of possession since the Occurrence began--so many so that some in the Capitol have begun to speculate such cases might be but one more manifestation of the dissociative identity disorder of which I earlier spoke. There are even those who view the Occurrence solely through the lens of the philosophy of mind–specifically that of non-physical monism in which consciousness is said to be all that exists. If this is true then these demons, ogres, incubi, and other such monstrosities we’ve encountered are naught be mere delusion. There is no physical reality at all which further begs the question who are you? Who am I?
I can only say with certainty that when I arrived at the trailer following receipt of your missive I did indeed find many foul and / or indecipherable phrases written upon the walls in what appeared to be blood and in some instances fecal matter. As for you, Douglas, you seemed quite irate upon my entering the trailer, alternating between violently assailing me and scampering away with imp-like indignation whenever I tried to approach with the afghan from the couch in hopes of subduing you and covering your naked body. When finally I was able to wrestle you to the kitchen floor and wrap you in the blanket you clawed at my face and spat upon me and barked and thrashed about and smashed a nearby mug and hissed gibberish at me.
“Around my neck I shall wear a strand of human eyeballs plucked fresh from the sockets,” you hissed with a hot, sour breath. “In my lobes there shall be earspools made of human bone.”
Naturally, I had filled my Nalgene with holy water and here dumped much of its contents upon you, though this had no discernible effect other than to cause you to thrash about some more in apparent irritation. The crucifix and rosary beads with which I had armed myself were equally useless and I wondered why I should ever have believed the icons of Catholicism would be effective against an entity of Mesoamerican origin. In the deepest, most authoritative tone I could muster I commanded Mictian to leave your body, but still this was not enough.
“I am not Mictian. I am nothing,” you hissed at me in a shrill, discordant voice I took to be that of your deceased mother’s or possibly V, your much lamented ex-girlfriend. “You are nothing. We are all of the void and this cannot ever be undone.”
Though I have no formal training in the practice of exorcism, I do understand that a lack of fear is integral to such endeavors as demons are known to feed off of fear. Love, too, is an important factor here and while I do not wish to overstep the boundaries of the employee / employer relationship I should say it is the very real affection I have developed for you which gave me strength enough to continue wrestling with you despite your terrible hissings and convulsions. Even when you arched your body in some inhuman fashion I managed somehow to pin you back to the linoleum.
“Your resume’s a joke,” you hissed at me then. “You even proofread that thing? I counted eight typos. Detail-oriented? I don’t think so,” you hissed and it was here I understood you had adopted the voice of the late Stuart Weitzman, the Exterminator. “You’re a joke,” you told me in his voice. “A goddamn idiot. A nincompoop. You can’t multitask for shit,” you hissed and you arched your back once more. I was thrown from your body and my head was made to strike the side of the counter whereupon I was knocked unconscious. You might also have begun vomiting live scorpions at some point, but I cannot say for sure.
When I finally came to–hours later–you were gone and my shirt had been removed and carved into my belly with a shard of the damaged mug was the word SEVERANCE. I was otherwise unharmed, though very much distraught. No amount of searching has been able to reveal your whereabouts and I have since returned to the Capitol where I have applied for a position in the Relocation Bureau. It’s a desk job--far different in nature than the sort of work I’ve done in the past--and entails assisting refugees, many of whom have been blinded or maimed, in the process of filing for Temporary Asylum. Should you ever re-emerge from whatever infernal region in which you’ve found yourself I hope we can possibly renew our friendship. If not, I hope at the very least I may be permitted to list you as a professional reference.
Nicholas J. Singer
Thank you for all you have done. I have been trying to get in contact with you but the staff has repeatedly told me you do not exist. I told them you told me they would tell me that kind of thing, they said, cognitive dissonance, ain’t it a bitch?
So, effective immediately, if you do exist or you don’t exist, you are hear by terminated. I have ceased all professional endeavors in relation to any kind of Hell Slaying. I’m just a normal dude.
A few weeks ago the head doctor came in and said, “Do you think I’m a demon?”
I said, “No way.” He said I could have back my leather jumpsuit if I wanted it. He set the jumpsuit on the bed and left the room. I’m in a better place.
From my window I can see the edge of a lake that goes on for miles and leads somewhere positive. I know it’s positive. I like to watch the white birds swooping down from the little sliver of sky visible through the trees, little winged messengers buddies looking for bugs.
I called V from the payphone and said, I’m on these pills now, I feel calm, zen, better at chess, probably. I told her that I’ve been doing clapping pushups. I tell her I’m hot like Sarah Conner in Terminator 2, remember how ripped she was? V tells me her new boyfriend can change into a wolf and the sex makes her howl at the moan. But she’s just kidding. I say goodbye and she tells me to get all the way better, or pretend to be all the way better. She says pretending is the only way anybody gets through the hard stuff. Howling at the moan.
I eat my meals at the picnic table behind the rec area. Wednesdays are the nicest because the crews mow the grass around the home and then it everything stinks like fresh cut grass. Most afternoons we have hamburgers that the biggest toughest orderly cooks on a grill that’s never cleaned. That adds to it. Smell of fire and brimstone. The smoke. Sometimes I still see his face change into a spider. But, fake it till you make it.
Once or twice when I first got here I thought I was melting.
I woke up in my room slick with sweat and wondering if it was Hell.
Well it was not. Well it is not.
I’m perfectly balanced, and my hair is getting awesome again. I am like a man walking with arms extended, one foot in front of the other across a wire stretched between my old life and my new life. They let me practice my martial arts with a bo staff yesterday. I knocked the head off a scarecrow outside by the soda machine and everybody thought it was pretty cool. And it was. They made it so he was holding his own head, haha.
We sit around in a circle where we sit and talk about what is real, and what is not real. Turns out I was wrong about a lot of stuff. But one thing I can’t overlook, is the lead orderly’s Camaro. I know the old days are behind me, but if there was ever a car to outfit as a weapon against a force of supernatural terror, I’m telling you, that’d be the one. I had a dream last night that I got my hands on a blowtorch and a welding rig. Wow, you should have seen the beast that car became. The sheer firepower! The sheer speed!
So, okay, here's my last thing to say about all of this:
I would like to officially endorse you for further employment somewhere else, consider this my official stamp of approval to you. I'm glad that you're moving on. It's better for the both of us. Please don’t contact me again. We can stay friends lost in the world.
I'm not supposed to talk or think about quadrants or capitols or occurrences or even your dodge Dakota. I'm not supposed to think about Jesus or Satan or any of Satan’s buddies.
Here's what I am supposed to think about: love. I am supposed to think of a clear lake, and I’m paddling out across the clear lake in a canoe I’ve carved with a hatchet. They have me repeat this thought mantra: A tree has fallen and I’ve made the fallen tree into something positive and the positive thing is carrying me farther out into the lake and I can look down and see the fish moving by like small submarines. I am supposed to think about my mother out there on the lake, in another boat, one she has carved too. She’s not alive or dead. She is just a good memory. She is in her canoe and she is waving to me and she is beautiful and she loves me. I paddle closer until I am at her side, and in our separate canoes we lean so that we can both hug. While we are hugging, though, I can’t help it, I feel her back for wings that may be hidden under her blouse, and she gets weird about it and hits me in the head with the oar. And then while I’m hurt, she paddles off towards happiness and I paddle back to the shore with my head bleeding like a gusher.
I hate treatment!
But I consider myself lucky to have survived myself. And consider myself lucky to be here with people that want to help.
Because I cannot contact you in any tangible way, I will tear this notebook page out and I will place it in my mouth and eat it. In that way, I'll be saying goodbye. I will chew and chew and then I will swallow the terror, the hate, the fear—I will swallow the inky night sky trying to obliterate the lemon cookie moon. Then I’ll finally slip the leather jump suit on, and get the fuck out of here. The guards are watching pay per view, their cloven hooves hidden in oversized Air Jordans. You saved my ass. You saved the world’s ass. Farewell, baddest dude I ever knew. It’s time for me to disappear for real.
Stephen Langlois is a discarnate entity whose words have been transcribed here by a medium via a combination of channeling, the use of a spirit board and a series of loud raps on a wooden table. Further transcriptions from the nonphysical realm can be found at www.stephenmlanglois.com.
Bud Smith died in a fire on a night just like this, oh my, actually ... actually it was tonight. Tonight is the twenty fifth anniversary of his death 👀. He's on dead twitter: @bud_smith