S10 Ep13: S10E13 - "Pay it Forward" - Drew Blood

If you're tackling a home project, check out Angie.com.

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pros who do such a good job you might trust them to do other things.

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Don't actually ask them to do those things, just let them get the job done well.

Angie, the one you trust to find the ones you trust.

Find a pro for your projects at Angie.com, that's ANTI.com.

Why have we asked our contractor we found on Angie.com to be our kid's legal guardian?

Because he took such good care when redoing our basement, that we knew we could trust

him to care for our kids.

The late of them should something happen to us.

Are you my dad now?

No, sorry, I do basements.

Connecting homeowners with skilled pros for over 30 years, Angie, the one you trust to

find the ones you trust.

Find pros for all your home projects at Angie.com.

Why have I asked my electrician I found on Angie.com to bury my pet hamster nibbles in our

yard for me?

Because I was so moved by how carefully he buried my electrical wires, I knew I could trust

him to bury my sweet nibbles after his untimely end.

Nibbles gone too soon, may he scurry in peace.

Hey, sorry about your pet, but I just wire stuff.

Nibbles would have loved you like a brother.

Connecting homeowners with skilled pros for over 30 years, Angie, the one you trust to

find the ones you trust.

Find pros for all your home projects at Angie.com.

Hey friends, it's me again.

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Pop in and give me a thumb.

Say hi while you're at it.

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All right there, let's hop on that crazy train.

On the bed!

Oh, shit.

Hey, welcome back, friend.

It's a very special night to night.

I've got not one, but two stories for you.

This is, of course, in service of International Medical A's on day.

Do you have any idea what that is, Chester?

I mean either.

But that never stops me from celebrating.

Come on in, friend.

Let's party.

No cigarette tonight.

Night's celebrating shit.

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Well, to not friends, we welcome back a good pal

in International Medical A's on PD Williams.

In this one, we joined four traveling blues musicians

on their way to Clarksdale for a gig.

Needless to say, they get sidetracked a little.

So without further delay from author PD Williams.

I give you long way.

August 19th, 1936, somewhere between Utica and Clarksdale, Mississippi.

The summer was unbearably hot, even for Mississippi.

The hateful heat shriveled crops and evaporated ponds and streams,

turning their beds into curled cracked mud.

People felt like melting candles as they languished

in the mosquito-laden land along the Mississippi Delta.

The late night air offered no respite.

It was thick and humid.

Breathing it was like sucking in sludge.

The cramped interior of the Ford Model A

stink of still cigarettes, corn whiskey, and foul sweat.

The four exhausted musicians, known as the Bama boys,

set pressed together like sardines in a tin.

They had just played several one-hour sets

at a dilapidated blues bar in Utica, Mississippi called Willie Shack.

All they had to show for it were blistered fingers and $30,

barely enough for gas and supplies.

Earl Calhoun, the driver, served as the group's piano player and manager.

The others called him Earl the Pearl,

because of the silky sales pitch he used to book gigs and dispel trouble.

Also, as the only member who owned the car, he provided transportation.

He had bought to use 1928 Ford from a white store owner in Mountainville, Alabama,

who had lost his general store to the Great Depression.

The man had taken the money and joined the exodus of miners and farmers

in search of opportunity, or whatever might lie at the end of the rainbow.

His bad luck was the band's gain.

With the black cat, as the quartet called it,

lumbered along a narrow backwards road,

churning up clouds of ten dust that coated the car's black frame like cheap paint,

the combination of the dull colors making it look like an orange diloppy.

The small trailer behind appeared to have a will of its own,

swimming back and forth like a palm tree in the breeze.

It pulled like a stubborn dog against its leash upon acceleration

and brought about strained necks with each jolt and stop.

Deep shadows towered on either side of the desolate ribbon of road they were navigating.

A pale silver moon and the short beam of the headlights illuminated the lightless lane.

It created an eariness that unsettled Earl.

The band's upright bass player, Issa Doord Jackson,

slept in the front seat, his heavy snoring rumbling like a freight train.

For the life of him, Earl couldn't figure out why the man wore a suit and had in mid-summer.

He had asked Issa Doord about his curious choice of clothes and wants.

Issa Doord, a devout Baptist, had said that he wore his Sunday go-to-meet and clothes for the sake of convenience.

In the deep south, being the black man meant he was always in danger.

He figured that if he met with a violent end at the hands of a good old boy,

his family wouldn't have to bother dressing him for his funeral.

Earl glanced at the rear-view mirror to check on the backseat riders.

Keefus Montgomery, the guitarist, lay slumped against the car door.

Keefus didn't talk much.

No one could be sure if it was because he was a shy man by nature,

or if it was self-conscious about his several missing teeth.

At a juke joint a few years prior,

Keefus had nearly gotten himself arrested after an altercation with a drunk patron,

who had called him no-Teefus-Keefus.

By the time Keefus had tucked a straight razor back into his sock,

there had been little left of the loud mouth, but a puddle of blood in a cheap pair of loafers.

The unconscious man using Keefus's shoulder as a pillow was the band's drummer,

Joseph Lemoncake McCoy.

The moniker had come about because his wife always packed him several slices of her legendary

Lemoncake for the road.

A common phrase he used was,

All this man needs his good loving and occasional jar of shine in my sweet baby's Lemoncake.

Despite the occasional jostling from the hidden potholes lined and weighed along to the

thirded stretch of dirt, all three passengers remained as dead to the world as Abraham Lincoln.

As for Earl, he was fighting to stay away.

The rhythm of the road lowland him closer to sleep with each passing mile.

The group would have benefited from it not at a motel,

but all of the accommodations were reserved for whites only.

For the same reason, the car also served as their diner.

The menu was simple, baloney and bread.

On rare occasions, Lemoncake would share some of his wife's delicious dessert.

The band didn't want to draw and wanted attention to itself,

something unwise and states below the Mason-Dixon line.

They only exited the car to buy gas, food and cigarettes if they could afford them.

To quench their thirst, they frequently passed around a gallon jug of corn whiskey.

The Bama boys were two hours into a six-hour drive to their next gig in Clarksdale,

a pinprick town not far from Memphis that ran along the Sunflower River.

It was near Clarksdale, legend-had it, that a mediocre blues guitarist named Robert Johnson

had cut a deal with the devil.

The infamous meeting had taken place under the Midnight Moon at a crossroads where Highway 49 and 61 converged.

The deal involved the exchange of Robert's soul for greater talent,

something he lacked at the time.

Afterward, Robert seemed to have fallen off the earth.

It is said that when young Mr. Johnson showed up a year later,

he had mysteriously become a gifted musician without peer.

For a short while, he had gotten what he bargained for

until a jealous husband poisoned his drink.

He had likely died knowing that if you dance with the devil, he's always going to lead.

Where's we?

Set a voice from the back seat, startling Errol.

Dang, let me cake.

You about to skip me a half to death.

When he settled down, Errol said,

I reckon it's about four hours or so from Clarksdale.

Let me cake set upright and loosened his neck with a crack.

Hmm, how long was I here?

I don't know, maybe two hours.

Give it down so you don't wake the others.

Oops, shawry.

Lemon cake whispered.

Too late.

Keifah said his tired eyes remain in shut.

Shawry man.

Lemon cake said.

That's okay.

My soda was starting to ache a mic.

Keifah's grunted from the effort that it took to propen his weighty eyelids.

He eased to a full sitting position,

smacking the sleep from his lips.

Say, Errol, you want me to drive for a while?

I imagine you can use the rest.

Yeah, thing.

I'm starting to see double.

How much further we got to go till Clarksdale?

Well, like I was telling Lemon cake, maybe another four hours.

No, that's cool.

Just pull over and I'll take it from here.

We can ask news once we hit the town limit.

Sounds like a play, my man.

Errol was relieved to be getting some rest.

Yet over and bobbed at Willie's shack,

but that's how it worked sometimes.

Patrons who were grinning greased and gassed

would often buy beer for the band.

The guys always accepted their generosity.

It helped to lessen the sting from making next to nothing from the bar owner.

Hey, there's a place up ahead on the ride.

Lemon cake pointed out.

Just as the black cat was approaching the spot, it lurched.

After a few sputters, 16 rolled from under the hood.

It jerked forward one last time before giving up the ghost.

Oh, Lord, no!

Errol moaned, slamming a fist against the steering wheel.

What you think it is?

Lemon cake asked.

Bad to be the radiator.

Keefe said.

This dog going heat his hell on an engine.

Errol closed his eyes inside.

My hog old keggy there.

Y'all sit tight.

Lemon cake chuckled.

Where else are we going to go way out here in the boonies?

Errol opened his creaky cart door and climbed out,

slamming it loud enough to wake Isidore.

Then he went to the front of the vehicle and opened the hood to inspect the damage.

Hmm.

What's up?

Isidore asked groggily, shaking the alertness back into his head.

Radiators shot.

Keefe explained.

Isidore leaned his head out the window and took in the dark, empty landscape.

Man, they ain't nothing out this way.

It ain't the edge of the world, but you can see it from here.

Errol slammed the hood shut and went back to inform his passengers of his unfortunate assessment.

Sorry, boys, but she didn't go.

Yes, this is what we give for naming the car after an animal that brings bad luck.

Looking like we might be walking from him.

Who is your crazy?

Lemon cake asked.

They ain't nothing but miles of back roads and cornfields all around this part here.

Maybe one of us could walk to the neck town and find the mechanic to tow us through a garage.

Keefe is offered.

Isidore snickered, shaking his head.

Oh, yeah, and I showed this a nice white boy here in the sticks who will start dancing

the jig when the Negro asked him to tow his car back to town.

He's right.

Errol lamented.

As whom and we find somebody to help us out, he's probably going to want some money up front.

I don't think it's smart for one of us to go walking around some cracker town with money

in his pockets.

That's a good way to get yourself beaten and robbed.

Keefe has perched his lips, his dour expression displaying a lack of enthusiasm.

I hate to say it, but Earthright, let's roll up the windows, lock the doors and hope nobody

breaks into the trailer and makes off with the instruments.

Lemon cake soaked.

Looks like we're taking ourselves a little midnight stroll, boys.

Sound like it.

Isidore groaned, leaving his comfortable seat behind and stepping from the car.

He caught up with Errol who was well on his way.

Lemon cake joined the party followed by Keefe's.

Keep your head on the swivel, ain't no telling what might get after her.

Errol warned.

The lane was all but lightless, safe for a slice of moonlight.

The men shuffled wordlessly, the only sound being cricket songs and the crunching of packed

earth beneath their feet.

How long y'all reckon for we find a town?

Isidore asked, breaking the silence.

Open soon, lemon cake said.

These shoes feel like they're getting tied about a minute.

Errol halted, a look of concern on his face.

The others continued a few steps further before stopping as well.

Sup, Errol?

Keefe is asked, looking back.

You look like you don't seem a ghost.

Y'all hear that, Errol asked.

Hear what?

Isidore replied.

I ain't heard nothing but the crick.

And unnatural quiet hung over them like a heavy cloud, choking out all other noises.

Where'd the crickets go?

Lemon cake asked.

I never heard that many crickets just stop all of a sudden.

Keefe is muttered.

Man, this just got strange.

Errol felt disquieted as well, but as did the facto leader, he felt responsible for

keeping the others calm and focused.

They stopped worrying about them bugs and get moving.

We got a show in Clark's field we got to get to.

I agree with Errol.

Keefe said.

We got bigger fish to fry.

Lead the way down.

Isidore said.

They had gone a mile or so when a loud rustling sound emanated from a cornfield on their

right.

The group frozen their tracks.

Just pounded and boned shook as they turned to face the mysterious movement.

Suddenly it ceased.

No one spoke.

Seconds became like minutes as they waited for the rustling to resume.

Y'all see anything?

Errol whispered.

Over there.

Lemon cake stuttered, pointing the shaky finger at the army of cornstalks.

Look, about 15 feet in, 10 feet to the right.

At first no one else saw it.

Then Errol spoke up.

Oh my Lord, look there near the ground.

Two small white dots close together pierced the shadows of the field.

Is dim a dog's eyes?

Isidore asked.

Might be a cat.

Life is said.

Errol was about to dismiss the matter and get them all in their way again when his blood

frosted.

The points of life climbed until they reached a height of 12 feet.

They narrowed as if the being they belonged to was angry and filled with terrible intentions.

The dark demon's eyes were terrifying.

Its gurgling hiss was worse.

The astonishment held tight to the men, as several more glowing eyes rose on other

sides.

Their unseen sores emit in the same soul-freezing hisses.

Lemon cake shrieked.

Everyone took off as if they had been fired from a cannon.

The hard dirt crackled like popcorn as they stand peated further into the night, leaving

behind them controls of dust.

They ran until their leg muscles burned and their lungs were red.

The group bent over, hands on knees, pulling in dank country air and deep gulps.

What in heaven's name was?

What's the thing?

Keith is asked through deep pants.

I don't know, but I think we lost them.

Isidore said.

First took charge again.

Let's catch our breath, and then we'll move on.

Make sure to keep the noise down.

We don't want them hanging catching up with us.

We might not be so lucky next time.

Once everyone had rested, they continued their journey towards civilization, no matter

how small or far it turned out to be.

The next several miles passed without incident.

Still everyone remained vigilant.

Earl was about to call for another rest when he saw a large yellow glow in the distance.

Y'all look beyond the crossroad up ahead.

I think we might have found a town.

I think it's on.

Isidore said, joined by a chorus of Amiens.

Amiens!

Earl grinned widely.

All right, boy.

Let's get to it.

They took only a few steps before stopping.

The distant light turned from yellow to blue, rising several feet in the air.

Small horizontal bars of red peeked through the blue light and began flashing.

Within seconds, a large spinning disc hovered above them.

Aside from a mild hum, it emitted no other noises.

What's going on around here in this devil's place?

The light intensified, causing the men to fear being cooked alive.

However, instead of creating a blood-boiling heat, the being produced a coldness that made

their skin prickle and their breath plume.

A blind and ray of white light encompassed them, forcing them to shield their eyes.

Soon they felt weightless, floating towards something that held immense power.

Each man heard the other screaming and terror.

Their hot pitches matched only by his own.

Every hair on their body stood upright, as static electricity hummed all around them.

Ozone permeated the air, producing a sickening sweet smell of rotten fruit.

As the celestial hostages sank deeper into the ship, the sounds of clankin machinery

and low buzzes increased.

After a few more horrifying minutes, everything went black and silent.

Then, nothingness.

Why have I asked my electrician I found on Angie.com to bury my pet hamster nibbles in

our yard for me?

Because I was so moved by how carefully he buried my electrical wires, I knew I could

trust him to bury my sweet nibbles after his untimely end.

Huh, nibbles, gone too soon, may he scurry in peace.

Hey, sorry about your pet, but I just wire stuff.

Nibbles would have loved you like a brother.

Connecting homeowners with skilled pros for over 30 years.

Angie, the one you trust to find the ones you trust.

Find pros for all your home projects at Angie.com.

Why have we asked our contractor we found on Angie.com to be our kids legal guardian?

Because he took such good care when redoing our basement that we knew we could trust him

to care for our kids.

The late of them should something happen to us.

Are you my dad now?

No, sorry, I do basements.

Connecting homeowners with skilled pros for over 30 years.

Angie, the one you trust to find the ones you trust.

Find pros for all your home projects at Angie.com.

Later, in what seemed to them like mere minutes,

the quartet found themselves on the side of a dirt road in brilliant daylight.

Around them, birds sang melodies of wonder.

Wild flowers undulated in a warm summer dance.

The men sat up and looked around at the bucolic setting,

confused but enchanted.

Their eyes turned to one another, hoping someone could account for the lost time.

Keif has found his voice and spoke first.

Are y'all okay?

I think we might have all passed out.

Earl stood and began slapping the dust from his clothes.

They're my only one who remembers what happened last night.

No, sure.

Lim and Keif answered, sitting up.

Either we don't lost our dang full mind,

or some big old machine shook us up into it.

Does any of y'all remember what happened while we was up there?

Is the door stood and stared into the distance?

I don't remember anything after that light pulled me up,

and I don't want to either.

In fact, I ain't never going to speak a word of this to nobody.

Y'all would do well to keep this to yourselves, too.

Each man looked to the others for either agreement or disagreement.

I'm with his door, Earl said.

None of us can be sure what happened,

so we should just keep this little escapee to our cell.

Agreed.

The others nodded.

My right thing, let's get to walking.

Hopefully, we didn't end up too far from a town.

Sweet relief washed over them.

When after only a few miles, they entered the dusty town of Clarksdale.

I don't know what that thing was,

but it sure was nice of it to give us a ride in a town.

Lim and Keif said, smiling.

You got that right, brethren?

Keif has said it.

Earl noticed a bent old man sweeping the wooden porch of a small store

across the dirt road.

Hey, he yelled to the man.

We're from out of town.

We're playing tonight at a juke joint called Big T's.

Can you tell us where it is?

The man leaned his broom against the wall and crossed the street.

Y'all must be them boys from down south of here.

Now here, y'all pretty good jazzed me.

No, brother.

Earl chuckled.

We play blues.

Smooth blues.

Is the door added?

The sweeper rubbed his chin and thought.

Bluey, huh?

Well, I thought Big T booked a jazz band.

No matter.

Looks like y'all traveling light.

Where's y'all's instruments?

We had some car trouble back up that road there.

Earl explained.

If y'all got a mechanic round here, we need him to fetch our car.

It's hard to play without instruments.

The man grinned.

Oh, you ain't got to worry about that, no?

Big T's already got some instruments set up.

Y'all can borrow him till Mac can tell you car.

That works.

Is the door said?

And the jazz they got to stand up basing there.

They got that and some other instruments to boot.

We come across him almost a year to the day back up that same road

y'all broke down on.

Said just an empty car with the trailer hits to it.

There wasn't no sign of the owner, so we hauled it back.

Earl's stomach churned.

Don't suppose there was a name on the trailer was there.

Shown of was?

The man said.

The man my boy.

Despite the morning heat, a frigid gust passed through the befuddled frightened men.

God help us.

Where we been for the last year.

Kief has asked his voice trembling.

The man snickered.

Sound kind like with old Robin Johnson said when he come to town.

While the others stood mute and petrified,

lemon cake put it all together.

How come I think we're going to be a whole lot tighter?

Oh, that four-model lay broke down on a nowhere.

Dirt red lane.

We was late.

We was hungry.

Mosquitoes are knowing our names.

Then the sky swung open like a tavern door on stock.

We left Mississippi, gravel woke up, thumb and rise on Mars.

Kief has said you hear that.

Earl said that ain't no train.

Here's a door drank more moonshine.

Lemon cake got down to print.

Up we went slow spinning.

Heads floating off our heads.

I promised every sane I knew.

I'd quit my blues in bed.

I lied.

Oh, that one-model lay broke down on a nowhere.

Dirt red lane.

We was shaking.

We was praying.

Trying to bargain with our names.

Then the sky swung open like a tavern door on stock.

We left Mississippi, gravel woke up, thumb and rise on Mars.

Then green folks poked my suitcase.

Asked what's this wheelin' wood.

We played on three set numbers.

They clapped like angels wood.

They said y'all boys got rhythm.

But this road ain't your scene.

Next blank we stood dumbfounded.

Right at that town's canteen.

Now that four-model lay still broke on a nowhere.

Dirt red lane.

But we made it to the doorstep was placed just on our strings and chains.

So when folks ask how we got there we just grin and tip our head.

Say baby we took the long way got abducted.

And brought right back.

After a whole lot looser.

I've heard what those aliens do.

Anyway that was long way by author PD Williams y'all.

In the next one we're joined by Jared.

I want to be an influencer looking to cash in on compassion by feeding the hungry.

So without further delay.

From author PD Williams.

I give you.

Kind.

Jared wasn't feeling it today.

He invoked people for whom kindness came naturally.

He found he had to crank the handle until the engine turned over.

As an aspiring content creator he had tested various methods of self-promotion.

But random acts of kindness had proved the most profitable.

What didn't matter if it was real or manufactured.

A need was being met.

His was a product purchased by Arden consumers who preferred to delegate their compassion to someone with the camera in the microphone.

Jared's livelihood depended on that need.

As did his insatiable desire for positive attention.

His first streaming project, rescue and abused dogs had been a miserable failure.

He would drive around inner city neighborhood searching for skinny dogs locked behind chain link fences or tied to trees.

After making sure the coast was clear, he'd strap on his head cam and try to lure the lonely animal with a dog biscuit.

At the same time he'd record himself talking about how much he cared about helpless animals.

The first two episodes went well, although the second dog's burly owner chased him away with a baseball bat.

Unfortunately, the third alleged victim of human cruelty belonged to a gang banger who had taught his dog to shred anyone who came onto his property.

Several stitches in a series of rabies shots later had put an end to that faux altruistic endeavor.

Jared's second attempt at celebrity involved con in local florists and to give him free roses to pass out to female residents at retirement homes.

Things had been fine until one recipient turned out to be allergic to roses and went into anaphylactic shock.

As if the old bad had much longer to live anyway, he thought.

Jared had remained depressed for weeks after the two fiascos.

He had poured a lot of the stop in his wealthy parents afforded him into top of the line recording equipment and edited in software.

Now he had nothing to show for but another reason to disappoint them.

He'd gone online to find a new strategy to gain an audience before giving up on his dream.

That's when he found the footage of a man in Oregon who had put together a strong media presence by claiming to feed homeless people.

The editing was choppy, the logistics implausible, but the act was really in a lot of views.

Pay attention, Jared, he said to himself. This is how the pros do it.

A few months later the clarion call was bearing fruit.

He had amassed over a million followers of generous GoFundMe account and public recognition.

However, as it often is with spoiled children who get what they want, he became jaded.

Now he was sitting in his polished Lexus SUV in front of a small family restaurant called Good Stuff, working to find his mojo.

Come on Jared, he said, hoping to encourage himself.

Time to fake it till you make it.

Once he felt inspired, he exited the SUV, switched on his head cam and made his grand entrance into Good Stuff.

What's that delicious looking food you're serving?

Jared asked a harried server who was trying to get past them.

Why do you have that weird camera apparatus on your head?

Are you recording this?

The young woman asked.

Yes, I am. So what's on those platters? They smell amazing.

The server, Nell, was her name, became impatient.

They're salmon tacos and at 1350 a plate.

If you want a place in order to take a table and I'll get to you as fast as I can.

It's pretty hectic in case you haven't noticed.

Jared had only a few days to prepare the latest footage, so we needed to expedite the process.

Look, as long as you're here, I'd like to buy one hundred of those taco platters.

Therefore, the homeless, I'm a champion of their cause.

Nell was familiar with Internet idiots chasing followers and sponsors,

and would have mounted to little more than a vanity project gone awry.

Dude, this is a small family business.

Does it look like we have the staff and product of Fillin' Order that big?

You don't seem to understand sweetheart.

I'm a popular kindness influencer who's helping bolster local restaurants

and help needy people at the same time.

Is the owner or manager here?

Nell glared at Jared as if he were a cockroach who had scurried from under a table.

The owner's name is Joe. That's him at the counter.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm trying to feed the hungry too.

Nell pushed past Jared. The weight of his oversized head cam almost causing him to topple.

Gee, thanks Nell. He muttered.

He walked a short distance to the counter where a heavy-set man was ringing up a customer.

Hey, are you Joe?

That's right. Who are you?

Jared straightened his spine and extended his hand.

I'm Jared, but most people know me as Lil J.

You may have seen my stuff online.

I come into small restaurants such as yours and purchase large orders of food to feed the homeless.

I'd like to order a hundred of your salmon taco platters.

Joe's expression allowed his skepticism.

Are you only up enough?

You really want plays that many orders?

I sure do.

The homeless population right here in your own backyard will love and appreciate a taste of your amazing cuisine.

Let me think.

Joe said, crunching figures in his head.

First, you're going to be looking at 1350 for the meals and around a hundred in sales tax.

That brings you to 1,450.

I'll have to pay my line, cooks overtime to work all night.

Pay extra for a rush delivery of ingredients, and buy a lot of to-go containers.

That's another two grand at least.

Your totals now up to around four grand.

Do you have a truck and some assistance?

If not, I can provide both for an extra 500.

For that kind of cost and labor, I'm going to need you to pay up front.

It's the best I can do.

Jared switched off the head cam.

Here comes the bait followed by the hook, he thought.

That's pretty pricey I have to say.

How about if we work something out that's beneficial for both of us?

Something that'll cost us very little.

Go on, Joe said, taking the bait.

As I've said, I've been working this gig for a while.

I've amassed over two million followers.

If you do me a solid, I'll promote your restaurant on my social platforms.

The Goodwill National Exposure and Additional Business Generated will far exceed what it's

going to cost you.

Plus, my fanbase love a feel-good story about a local hero who helps to downtrodden.

A lot of entrepreneurs like you have seen their revenue sore because of my media influence.

What do you think?

Want to help people and increase brand awareness at the same time?

I'm telling you, social media is the best way to advertise.

Come on, Joe, I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine.

Joe's wearing this remained.

Hmm, sounds a bit sketchy to me.

Looks like you stand again the most from this.

Like a seasoned salesman, Jared knew the script on how to overcome objections.

Listen, Joe, I can help your bottom line, or I can convince over two million viewers

that you're a self-centered douchebag who shouldn't be allowed to stay in business.

One way or another that sign of yours out front is going to be featured in my next post.

You tell me how you want to be presented.

Joe's scaled. His dark eyes radiate in malice.

You got some nerve coming into my place and threatening me.

Is that a no- I'm hearing?

Look, we're both professionals.

Wouldn't you like to at least hear my pitch?

Joe softened.

It seemed like he had very few options.

This creep had his number.

Okay, I'm listening.

This was the part that required Jared to carefully position the hook.

Here's how it works, he explained.

I turned the camera on and pretend to ask you for food for the local homeless.

You pretend to recognize me from my heartwarming posts.

Next, you thank me for my good works and how you'd love to help me change the world one empty belly at a time.

I'll order 100 taco platters.

You pretend to jump at the opportunity.

Now here's what I call the smart part.

Cut to you bringing out what appears to be the last bags of the huge order.

You'll say something like, I hope the needy folks in our town enjoy them.

God bless you for your kindness or some other crap like that.

Joe interrupted.

But we don't have that many homeless people in the entire city.

More like a hundred tops.

Besides, won't your father was realized that the excessive amount of food becomes inevitable after traveling in the heat all afternoon?

That's a lot of perishable to be handing out.

You and I might end up getting sued.

I have a lot to lose here.

Details, Joe.

Jared scuffed.

Mere details.

Stay with me on this.

I offer to pay for the grub, but you insist on donating it because you want to join with a great person like me in a noble cause.

I thank you for your generosity and then you and Nell offer to help me with the bags.

Once we go outside, I record us pretending to load the last of the order into my vehicle.

Then, and this is the best part.

I get a shot of you standing in front of your restaurant sign while I plug the crap out of your amazing menu.

That's where your party ends.

The money shot will come a short time later when I arrive at an encampment a few blocks from here.

I'll record myself handing out the stuff you graciously donated to the one society has forgotten.

But good old Joe remembered.

I'll do some clever editing, add some poignant music, post a video, then caching.

You get great publicity.

I gained viewers and that brings sponsors.

It's a win-win, Joe.

You win?

Joe wasn't entirely at peace with the idea or was it a scheme.

Either way, it felt exploitative.

I'd only have to give away 50 orders and you handled the rest.

And we're real in another beauty.

Jared thought with a smug satisfaction.

That's all you have to do.

I'll go grab a seat while you get busy with the tacos.

And say, as long as I'm waiting, how about having Neil run me out of complimentary order for myself?

What's another free meal between partners, am I right?

What the heck is this mess?

The disgruntled vagran-asked Jared.

It's salmon tacos.

Jared beamed.

They cost quite a lot.

But the smiles on your faces make it all worthwhile.

By the way, could you guys turn those smiling faces toward the camera?

The small group of the dragled bombs crawled from tents and weathered appliance boxes

and made their way toward the scent of fresh food.

Oh, I know you.

Set a female.

You were over a chestnut in 26 last week passing out food.

Let's bring us today.

It says it's salmon tacos.

Said the first taker, picking up the lukewarm meal.

It will smell more like unwashed tuna taco if you ask me.

Hey, crack a boy.

What's that gizmo on your head?

Another vagran-asked Jared.

Looked expensive.

How about you keep that stinky fish, males, and give me that camera instead?

Yeah.

Another man said.

I can enjoy more stuff with what I can get for that thing than I can with this nasty food.

See, who the hell want a fish taco anyways?

You couldn't bring us no real tacos.

You could have hit the drag through a taco bear and saved yourself the money.

Now they know how to make a proper taco.

As if on cue, others began throwing the still-pungent food on the ground.

Ungrateful pricks, Jared thought.

He was hoping to have another video ready for the coming weeks post.

He needed to salvage the project.

But how?

Inspiration struck.

He turned off the head cam.

I cannot believe you guys don't want these tacos.

I had no idea that you kind of people had such discriminating palettes.

Is there anywhere else I can take this stuff?

I need to pass it all out before it spoils.

A man next to him chuckled.

It was soft and sinister.

Don't you do it, Melvin.

Don't you dare send that boy down there.

A woman said to the man.

Jared saw hope.

Wait, what?

What do you know, Melvin?

If you're bound and determined to record yourself handing out this crap.

I can steer you in the right direction.

It'll cost you $20 first.

I'm thinking a new SUV.

Another man said, gazing at Jared's luxury vehicle.

Ignoring the threat, Jared placed the bribe in Melvin's outstretched palm.

All right, you've got your money.

Now then, where's this place you're talking about?

Hurry up.

I've got better things to do.

What you want to do is hang a ride out of this here, Ali.

Try five miles.

Then make a lift on what a brute drive.

Yeah, a few blocks down.

You'll see an old culvert on your right.

Follow it.

And you'll come to a tunnel partially hidden by Kutsu.

I hope you ain't in love with them nice sneakers you got on because you have to walk a good ways in.

As you go along, make sure you let them know you're coming.

And that you ain't there for no trouble.

Yeah, that crew is a little rough in tumble.

But there's need for there's any other homeless folk around these parts.

But I wouldn't worry too much.

Just flash them that big, beautiful smile of yours and tell them heaven sent you.

Anything else I oughta know?

You're going to want to park that sweet ride your daddy bought you out of sight.

It didn't kiss from the neighborhood season.

It's as good as gone, feel me?

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I hope the cavemen you're sending me to appreciate this pricey child more than you drags did.

Jared sniffed.

Melvin Grand, revealing his broken meth teeth.

Oh, don't you worry about that rich little white boy.

Then people eat anything.

Good love.

Jared turned and stomped back to his SUV, slamming his door so hard that it startled some of the campers.

He cranked a massive motor, then left in a spray of gravel.

Why'd you have to do that?

Asked a woman who scolded Melvin earlier.

He was just trying to help out.

Melvin sneered, spitting on the busted Styrofoam container of spoiling fish at his feet.

No, he wasn't.

His time never does.

Why have I asked my age back guy I found on Angie.com to change my grandpa's trachea tube?

Because I was so amazed by how quickly he replaced our air ducts.

I knew I could trust him to change poppups too while I was on vacation.

Make a quick young man.

Ah, see?

Poppup trusts you.

I think we should call it doctor.

Connecting homeowners with skilled pros for over 30 years.

Angie, the one you trust to find the ones you trust.

Find pros for all your home projects at Angie.com.

If you're tackling a home project, check out Angie.com.

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Like pull out your tooth or be your kid's godfather.

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Craftsmen a couple of bags filled with styrofoam containers.

Jared took a few steps into the black tunnel.

We immediately regretted wearing his $350 custom-air Jordans.

A shallow river of muck from a recent rain made the endless tuba darkness smell musky,

like wet clothing, festering in the hamper.

He aimed the head cams lied into the tunnel, finding only trash and bottles.

Nothing sketchy about this place.

He chuckled.

He listened for movement, voices, anything, but only an eerie silence greeted him.

Hello?

Nothing. He sought about leaving.

However, the short drive had been filled with thoughts of how much drama interacting with tunnel dwellers would bring.

Their struggles were far greater than those of dumpster divers.

Time to go. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes, literally.

About 25 yards in and Jared detected movement ahead.

Train the ray of light down the wet trail and saw lines of rad scurrying.

Their skittering feet sounded like fingernails clacking on a computer keyboard.

He cringed as his second thoughts became possible final thoughts.

Hey! Is anyone there?

He yelled. His nervous hands holding tight to the bags of still mushy tacos.

He waited, listening.

After a moment, he called out again.

I brought you guys some free food.

Is it okay if I join you?

That sounds great.

Came to reply.

Jared jumped at the sound of the booming voice.

You kind of gave me a start.

I'm coming your way now.

Soon Jared saw a soft flickering glow.

A campfire perhaps.

As he neared it, he noticed a lone figure wearing a hoodie huddled next to a burn barrel.

His face obscured by shadows.

When the person spoke, his words carried authority.

Remaining more focused on the flames than Jared, he said.

My name is Malcolm. Welcome to my world.

What do they call you?

My name's Jared, but my state's name's Lil J.

Good to meet you.

Malcolm said, given the stranger a quick glance.

What do you have there?

Jared held out the bags from Malcolm to see.

There are salmon tacos, the expensive kind.

Malcolm granted his approval.

That's wonderful.

They'll add some variety to our diet.

Sewer rats lost their lure after a while.

He and Jared shared a brief laugh over the humorous remark.

Then he continued.

However, I do harvest some concerns.

It's such as?

I appreciate your charitable spirit.

But I've learned that most outsiders have ulterior motives that are often self-serving.

What does it you want from us?

Please do me the courtesy of honesty.

The media master once again bated the hook.

I do have another reason for being here.

But it's something that would be to your benefit.

I'm what's known as a kindness influencer.

I inspire others to pay my generosity forward.

I want to record our interaction to post on my social media accounts.

It sounds as if you were asking us to perform for our food.

I find the idea of degrading the manipulative.

Jared bristled.

Look, dude, I'm doing you people a favor by being here.

It's dark, cold, and it stinks to high heaven.

Do me a solid and you get free food.

Easy peasy.

So can I film this or not?

Malcolm considered the offer.

I suppose that's reasonable.

Jared smirked.

He reeled this one in with less effort and expected.

Super!

Now, here's how this works.

When I say action, you call your friends.

I want you all to face the camera and smile nice and big.

I'll tell you about myself and why I'm here.

And then you'll thank me for my generosity and concern.

Then I'll hand out these bags of food.

If you all play nice, there's more where that came from.

Once we're finished, I'll edit the video to make you look desperate but grateful.

And then upload it to social media.

My followers eat this stuff up.

After seeing your situation, some of them might help you out.

Money, food, money, more money.

That's a lot of cracking booze, amigo.

Now then, let's do this.

Jared set the bags of food down and pressed the head cams record button.

Okay.

Get ready to be a star.

Action.

Jared began his routine.

Wow.

I'm so glad I found out about you guys.

It breaks my heart to see people like you struggling to survive.

I brought some hot delicious specialty food with me to hand out.

Why don't you round up your friends?

My loyal fans and I can't wait to meet them.

Upon hearing Jared's self-aggrandise and set up, Malcolm reconsidered.

Are you certain you want to meet my loley tribe?

They aren't as polished as you and your ignorant bleeding heart fans.

Fact is, I don't think you know the first thing about people like us.

Malcolm's hard words coupled with his obstinacy irritated Jared.

For crying out loud, now I have to edit that out.

If you want to help your cause, get your grubby friends out here right now.

Otherwise, you can keep dining on the rats.

Have it your way.

Malcolm and Groud then gave an ear split and whistle that made Jared win.

Everyone come out.

We've got a fella here who wants to feed us.

Jared heard the echoes of footsteps from the tunnels on either side of them.

As they moved forward, the cavernous space filled with the smell like human waste.

It brought to Jared's imagination a boiling cauldron of rotten animal guts.

Pinching his nostrils, he said.

Good grief. Are you people bathing in the sewage?

Slunt silent figures walked out of each of the tunnels.

Six from the left, three from the right.

In the faint fire lie, Jared saw they were naked from their waist up.

Their skin caked with black grime.

Their skinny frames were pale from lack of lie.

And their breath raspy with flim.

They clustered behind Malcolm like loyal subjects supporting their great shadow king.

In the dimness, Jared struggled to make out their faces.

I need you to come closer so I can get your gratitude on record.

You are grateful, right?

Of course they are.

Said Malcolm.

That's what I thought.

All right, let's begin again.

And action.

So who wants some of this awesome food courtesy of Little J?

Malcolm remained in place as the others shuffled toward Jared.

Their stench growing stronger as they closed the distance.

When they stepped into the lie, Jared felt his body go numb.

To his harbor, he found himself surrounded by gruesome creatures.

If they had ever been human, it was ages ago.

Greasy, matted hair grew past their shoulders.

Beards fell to their chests.

Their fingernails and toenails were like talons, blackened from years of digging and filth.

Their hot, sour sweat coupled with rancid breath, sickened Jared.

Despite his fraud, he realized it was time to become a salesman again.

You guys seem hungry.

I feel so honored to provide you with some great food.

Who wants the first package?

The tight group drilled with hunger and need as they waited for Malcolm, their leader,

to give them permission to partake.

Jared's nerves danced as his hubris fled him.

Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.

How about I leave the food here and go in peace?

I'll leave the rest of the food outside the tunnel.

You can eat it at your leisure.

Jared's fear amused Malcolm.

He turned away from the burn barrel and slowly approached Jared.

As he drew closer, he said,

Do you really want to leave?

This won't make good viewing for your fans.

Don't you want them to see for themselves our plight?

That's part of why you came here correct.

He stepped into the headcam spotlight and removed the hood of his jacket.

Jared gasped.

Now he could see the man he had been negotiating with.

As terrifying as the ones who had flanked him were, Malcolm's appearance was worse.

Much worse.

Bright yellow eyes peered out of his distorted face.

An ear drooped down to cheek level as if the side of his head were melting.

Jared dreaded Malcolm's mouth the most.

Its menacing grin revealed jagged teeth splotched with.

Was it human flesh?

His bladder betrayed him as hot urine flowed down his pant leg.

He feared the worst.

If you please, Malcolm said,

snatching the camera from Jared's head and placing it on his own.

Hello, fans.

He said with theatrical flair,

new J is about to feed some very hungry people.

Isn't he a champ?

Stepping back to offer a fuller view,

he told the hiss and tunnel dwellers,

Devin.

Jared screamed in agony and terror

as the creature stripped away his flesh,

using their claws and fangs as tools for gorging themselves.

Malcolm moved in closer to recorded devastation

of Jared's once-handsome face as one ghoul plucked his eye free

and another chewed his tongue off.

The social media horror's arms made loud wet pops

as two others janked them from their sockets,

unleashed door rivers of blood from the ragged holes.

Malcolm panned the camera to allow Jared's followers

to witness their selfless hero making good

on his promise to feed the wretched rabble.

As the cannibals laid Jared's half-eaten body on the ground

for further consumption,

Malcolm continued addressing the imaginary viewers.

Speaking for our camp,

I'd like to thank the amazing and generous little J

for taking the time to fill our bellies.

We hope this motivates others to help us.

As Jared would say,

pay the kindness forward.

As the rest of the pack dined on Jared,

Malcolm removed the head cam.

Don't forget to save me the bones.

He told the ravenous group,

there's nothing better than fresh marrow.

He turned and walked a short distance

past the burn barrel,

coming to his tent.

Beside it was a stained and battered cooler,

using his foot, Malcolm opened its lid,

then tossed Jared's head cam in with the others there.

He, don't you love free food,

he mused.

Speaking of which, he said,

before turning to the others,

dibs on the ribs!

And that was kind by author PD Williams.

I think we should eat all the influencers out there.

Which one would you eat first, Chester?

Hmm, not a bad choice.

And I'd eat her too.

A little about the author, friends.

PD Williams is an author,

musician, songwriter,

and medical liaison to the stars.

His music project,

featuring Americana and Indie Country,

is called Cowboys of the Amazon.

Are we being serious here?

This is...

Well, that's pretty cool.

But you never know with PD,

whether he's fucking around or not.

Anyway,

seeing here his songs and videos

on several streaming platforms,

like Spotify, YouTube,

our radio, iTunes app,

one others.

His alternative Christian Rockcat log,

called,

said the cat,

is available.

Is this bullshit?

Is this gotta be bullshit?

Well, I'm just gonna read it.

It's here.

His alternative Christian Rockcat log,

called,

said the cat,

is available on the same platforms.

His new collection of horror shorts.

Horror shorts?

Yeah, I've got some horror pants.

I ain't never had no horror shorts, though.

Anyway, it's called,

Shards of Bone.

It's available on Kindle,

on Amazon,

on Goodreads,

and on other book outlets.

Oh, and Craig and Lorna

send their hellos.

Hopefully,

they'll be back to see y'all again soon.

Hey, thanks, PD.

And do old Drew Blood a favor, wouldn't you?

Subscribe to his podcast,

wherever you do your listening,

and leave him a five-star review,

and a kind word,

even if you're listening on YouTube.

He needs soldiers in all fronts to win this battle,

and he appreciates it.

To hear a premium ad-free edition

of the Nights and All the Other episodes,

visit simplyscarypodcast.com today,

and click Patrons in the upper menu.

You'll find yourself at ChillingTailsForDarkNights.com,

where you can become a patron

for as little as $5 per month,

and get access to their entire audio archive,

all ad-free,

and available to DownloaderStream.

Thank you for your time,

and for supporting our sponsors.

When you support our sponsors,

you support this show.

If you happen to use Facebook,

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you can follow and subscribe

to ChillingTailsForDarkNights there,

where you'll get all the latest updates

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and have the chance to interact

with them each and every week.

Oh, and you can find Drew Blood on Facebook and Instagram,

and sometimes Twitter.

The Drew Blood's DarkTails podcast

is accepting submissions, friend.

If you've got a story or two

you'd like to be featured on the show,

send it to Drew Blood Horror at gmail.com.

If selected, you'll get the full treatment,

ten bananas.

Well, I guess this is where we part ways, friend.

At least till next week, maybe.

So grab a drink for the road,

and if you miss me out there

on those Lonesome Roads,

visit patreon.com for a slash Drew Blood

and hang out with me, Paul, and Jeff for a while.

I've got mugs, too.

Hey, check this thing out.

Nice, right?

Come sign up.

Get a nice mug for yourself.

Man, don't forget about PD.

Grab a copy of his new book,

Shards of Bone on Amazon,

and listen to his Christian music

on Indie Country.

I swear, that boy PD, man.

He's always got some crazy shit going on.

Anyway, he made a road be at your back

and made a win, rise up to meet you.

And until we meet again.

Yeah, y'all go fuck yourselves.

Why have I asked my electrician

I found on Angie.com to bury my pet hamster nibbles

in our yard for me?

Because I was so moved by how carefully

he buried my electrical wires.

I knew I could trust him to bury my sweet nibbles

after his untimely end.

Nibbles, gone too soon.

May he scurry in peace.

Hey, sorry about your pet, but I just wire stuff.

Nibbles would have loved you like a brother.

Connecting homeowners with skilled pros for over 30 years.

Angie, the one you trust to find the ones you trust.

Find pros for all your home projects at Angie.com.

If you're tackling a home project,

check out Angie.com.

From roofing to remodels and everything in between,

Angie connects you with skilled pros

who do such a good job you might trust them to do other things.

Like pull out your tooth or be your kid's godfather.

Don't actually ask them to do those things.

Just let them get the job done well.

Angie, the one you trust to find the ones you trust.

Find a pro for your projects at Angie.com.

That's ANGI.com.

Why have we asked our contractor we found on Angie.com

to be our kids legal guardian?

Because he took such good care when redoing our basement

that we knew we could trust him to care for our kids.

The late of them should something happen to us.

Are you my dad now?

No, sorry, I do basement.

Connecting homeowners with skilled pros for over 30 years.

Angie, the one you trust to find the ones you trust.

Find pros for all your home projects at Angie.com.