Part 1 here if you haven't read.
Chapter 3: A Fallen King
After the shock events in the main event of Wrestle Kingdom 10, Omega has one thing on his mind, Devitt's IWGP Heavyweight Championship. During Fantastica Mania, Omega sets the challenge out to Devitt after winning a 6-man tag with the Young Bucks against Kazuchika Okada, Shinsuke Nakamura and Tomohiro Ishii. Omega is later announced as the number 1 contender to the IWGP Heavyweight Championship, with a match set for The New Beginning in Osaka.
The New Beginning in Osaka:
Kenny Omega def. King Devitt (c) to win the IWGP Heavyweight Championship
At The New Beginning in Osaka, Omega and Devitt wrestle for 33 minutes with Devitt LOSING TO OMEGA!! OMEGA HITS DEVITT WITH A ONE WINGED ANGEL AND TAKES THE IWGP HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP HOME WITH HIM! THE KING HAS BEEN DETHRONED! Devitt's first reign with the IWGP Heavyweight Championship ends at 221 days.
New Japan Cup:
Next for Devitt is the New Japan Cup, where in the first round he is placed against Hiroyoshi Tenzan, who he beats after a Bloody Sunday in a 12 minute bout. In the quarters, its a fierce confrontation against Bad Luck Fale, who he also beats. In the semis, its a wonderful performance from Hirooki Goto but its not enough to beat Devitt. And now, the finals of the New Japan Cup 2016 is Prince Devitt vs Tetsuya Naito and after 25 minutes Prince Devitt is SUCCESSFUL IN WINNING THE NEW JAPAN CUP, PINNING NAITO FOR THE 3 COUNT AFTER HITTING HIM WITH A BLOODY SUNDAY! When asked who he wants to face after his win, the answer is as clear as day. HE WANTS THE FUCKING OMEGA REMATCH AT INVASION ATTACK!
Invasion Attack:
Kenny Omega (c) def. Prince Devitt to retain the IWGP Heavyweight Championship
At Invasion Attack, the Prince has the perfect opportunity to get rid of the Cleaner by embarrassing him and taking his belt away on his first defense. A 21 minute bout, Devitt finds himself on the losing end once again after a trifecta of V-Triggers and a One Winged Angel. Devitt lashes out after the loss, pushing away Taguchi who tried consoling his tag partner and storming away from the arena.
Devitt disappears for a few months, until his return at Destruction in Tokyo, attacking Omega after a successful defense against Hiroshi Tanahashi. Devitt is painted red, later revealing its a symbol of the demons that were contained inside of him, but now? They're free. This sets up a match at King of Pro-Wrestling where if Devitt loses, he can't challenge for the IWGP Heavyweight Championship as long as Omega is in New Japan.
King of Pro-Wrestling
Kenny Omega (c) def. Prince Devitt to retain the IWGP Heavyweight Championship (As Devitt lost, he can no longer challenge for the IWGP Heavyweight Championship as long as Kenny Omega is in New Japan)
Despite a killer contest between the two, with Devitt kicking out of multiple V-Triggers and Omega kicking out of the Bloody Sunday, ITS ADAM FUCKING COLE BAY BAY! Cole runs in and hits Devitt with the Florida Keys on the outside and rolling him back in the ring so Omega can finish Devitt off once and for all with the One Winged Angel, retaining his title and ensuring Devitt can no longer challenge for the IWGP Heavyweight Championship for as long as he's there.
Chapter 4: Foreign Excursion
Devitt has a clear goal in mind now after being restricted from obtaining the biggest prize he could have won. Or well, what he thought was the biggest as it turns out the man that fucked him over at King of Pro-Wrestling is the ROH World Champion. Devitt finds himself travelling across continents for his next pursuit. He invades Glory by Honor, attacking Cole after his 8-man tag match and demanding a ROH World Championship match. Cole tells Devitt this isn't Japan and if he wants the title match, he has to properly earn it. Devitt says he'll do it by any means necessary. This leads to Devitt's inclusion in a Survival of the Fittest qualifying match at the aforementioned PPV against Punishment Martinez.
Survival of the Fittest:
Prince Devitt def. Punishment Martinez to earn a spot in the Survival of the Fittest elimination match
Devitt finds himself unlucky on paper in this encounter, coming up against one of the toughest men in ROH. It makes no difference to him however, as he beats Martinez with a Bloody Sunday to put him one step closer to that ROH World Championship.
Prince Devitt def. Lio Rush, Bobby Fish, Jax Dane, Dalton Castle and The Punisher to win the Survival of the Fittest elimination match for the No.1 Contendership to the ROH World Championship
Devitt runs riot over the members of the ROH roster, eliminating every single one of them with a Bloody Sunday in quickish fashion to earn the right to face Adam Cole for the ROH World Championship. Cole came out after the match, mockingly congratulating Devitt on his win. Devitt invites him to share the ring with him which Cole does. He then extends his hand out to Cole as a sign of respect. Cole surprisingly goes for it BUT WAIT... DEVITT HITS HIM WITH THE BLOODY SUNDAY! Devitt picks up the ROH Championship and raises it above his head as the fans chant Devitt's name.
Road to Final Battle:
Cole and Devitt meet in the ring on the last ROH show before Final Battle, where Cole decides to add a little twist to the mix. He calls for the match to be a No Holds Barred match to which Devitt is more than willing to participate in. The two reluctantly shake on it before butting heads with each other.
Final Battle:
Prince Devitt def. Adam Cole (c) to win the ROH World Championship
Devitt's pursuit for gold since losing the IWGP Heavyweight Championship at the start of the year has been tough, but after 27 minutes in the ring with Adam Cole, Devitt can now consider himself the NEW RING OF HONOR WORLD CHAMPION! Devitt pinned Cole for the 3 count after hitting him with the same Diving Double Foot Stomp to the head that he put Anderson down with. Cole offers his hand out to Devitt after the match and Devitt accepts, showing a respect for each other. Devitt's celebration doesn't last long however, as a man who made his debut earlier in the night, Cody, came out to the ring, supposedly to challenge Devitt to a match. Cody completely avoids Devitt however and has his sights set on Cole. Cody grabs a mic and asks Cole for a match at the ROH 15th Anniversary Show. Cole accepts the match and the two shake on it. Cody pics up his mic again and says "Oh, and one more thing.." before HITTING DEVITT WITH A CROSS RHODES! Cole laughs as Cody reveals himself as the newest member of Bullet Club. Cole then tells Cody to pick up Devitt near the corner, allowing him to hit a Panama Sunrise.
Road to WK11:
On an episode of Ring of Honor Wrestling, Cole decides to invoke his rematch clause against Devitt, wishing for the match to occur at Wrestle Kingdom 11. Devitt initially declines his offer but after a video is played on the titantron of The Young Bucks beating up Taguchi, he has no choice but to accept it now it's personal.
Wrestle Kingdom 11:
Adam Cole def. Prince Devitt (c) to win the ROH World Championship
Devitt's reign as ROH World Champion comes to a very premature end, losing the title in just over a month to the man he beat for the title at Final Battle. Cody screws Devitt in this match, hitting him with a Cross Rhodes on the outside and tossing him back in the ring before Cole added the final touch, hitting a Panama Sunrise to end the Prince's reign of Ring of Honor.
Chapter 5: The End of the Prince
Fantastica Mania:
Prince Devitt, Rysuke Taguchi, Matt Sydal, Ricochet and Kyle O' Reilly def. Bullet Club (Kenny Omega, Adam Cole, Matt Jackson, Nick Jackson and Cody)
Devitt, alongside Taguchi find themselves acquiring the services of Matt Sydal and Ricochet, as well as the No.1 Contender to Cole's ROH World Championship, Kyle O' Reilly. The match lasts 16 minutes and ends with Sydal picking up a pinfall victory over Nick Jackson after hitting him with a Shooting Star Press. After the match, Devitt decided to lay into Cody a bit more, hitting him with a Bloody Sunday and putting the offer out for a match at The New Beginning in Sapporo. Cody grabs the mic while grounded as the winning team exit and accepts Devitt's challenge, calling him a coward bastard.
The New Beginning in Sapporo:
Cody def. Prince Devitt
Devitt's singles woes continues as he suffers another loss to Cody, who puts him away after a trifecta of Cross Rhodes. Cody adds insult to injury by injuring the shoulder of Balor by slamming it with a steel chair repeatedly. This causes Devitt to have to take time out, meaning he'll miss the G1 Climax and potentially big PPV's such as Dominion.
King of Pro-Wrestling:
Ryusuke Taguchi def. Cody (c) to win the IWGP US Championship
After reaggravating his injury, causing him to spend a while longer on the shelf, Devitt made his return to New Japan at King of Pro-Wrestling, aiding Taguchi in defeating Cody to win the IWGP US Championship. Devitt then extends the offer to one more match at Global Wars, which Cody accepts, before getting hit with a Bloody Sunday
Global Wars:
Prince Devitt def. Cody
Devitt finally avenges his loss at The New Beginning in Sapporo by beating Cody in this 17 minute match. Devitt successfully got the pinfall on Cody after a Reverse Bloody Sunday from the 2nd rope. Devitt decides to return the favour from Sapporo, injuring the shoulder of Cody with a steel chair before the Bullet Club come out to save Cody.
Power Struggle:
Prince Devitt def. Hangman Page
Hangman Page decides to step up to the plate in order to avenge his fallen teammate by beating him at Power Struggle. 22 minutes later however and Hangman Page finds himself laid out on the mat after getting hit with a Bloody Sunday and pinned for a 3 count. Cody appears on the titantron and says he wants to finish this at Wrestle Kingdom 12, in the same way he finished AJ Styles off 2 years prior, in a Loser Leaves NJPW match. Devitt says one less member of the Bullet Club is a success for him and accepts the challenge without thinking about the potential consequences this may bring towards him.
Wrestle Kingdom 12:
Cody def. Prince Devitt in a Loser Leaves NJPW match
Despite hitting 2 Bloody Sunday's in this spectacular encounter, Devitt finds himself coming up short in this 36 minute match, getting pinned for the 3 count after an out of this world Cross Rhodes from the second rope. After the match, Omega, the Bucks and Page come out, supposedly to send Devitt out of New Japan painfully. Surprisingly not, as Omega offers his hand out to Devitt as an ultimate sign of respect. Confetti begins spraying across the arena as Devitt is reduced to tears. Cody is against all of this and after Devitt, The Bucks and Page leave the ring, he HITS OMEGA WITH A CROSS RHODES! BULLET CLUB IS IMPLODING! The Bucks and Page run to the ring to confront Cody but NICK TURNS ON MATT, HITTING HIM WITH A SUPERKICK! While all this commotion occurs in the ring, Devitt watches from the rampway, smiling as he leaves New Japan with his main goal the past 4 years finally completed.
Epilogue:
Who knew that all it would take to destroy the Bullet Club would be a handshake? A 4-year rivalry which will go down in the history books, Devitt fought to the last 3 seconds, hoping that one day he'll find his own creation being destroyed. And while Bullet Club would eventually reunite, Devitt still managed to achieve part of his plan. Throughout this rivalry, he found himself butting heads with many members of Bullet Club, including Omega, Styles, Anderson and Gallows, Omega (again), The Bucks, Takahashi, Page, Cole and most importantly Cody. During that time, Devitt managed to pick up his fourth IWGP Junior Heavyweight Championship, his first IWGP Heavyweight Championship, his first ROH World Championship as well as winning the 2016 New Japan Cup. Overall, wherever this version of Devitt goes to next, you can guarentee he'll tear the competition down.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

​
When Jamison March, owner of March Mortuaries, put a sign out in front of his business saying that he would be selling honey, people thought it must be a joke.
What kind of mortician would sell honey? Would he sell it next to the caskets in his showroom? Would he offer it graveside at the cemetery? No one knew, but there was much speculation about that little sign.
Those who asked Jamison were in for quite a treat. Jamison told them that he would be selling his honey right here at the mortuary and even gave them a sample so they might tell their friends. What they sampled was supposedly the best honey any of them had ever eaten. They went on and on about the texture and the taste and the strange, exotic flavors within the honey. They said how they couldn't wait for Jamison to sell his honey, and they would be buying as much as they could on the opening day.
Others began to question where he was keeping his bees? They saw no beehives on his property, a two-bedroom apartment above the mortuary. They saw no hives on the mortuary property at all, in fact. They saw no hives in the cemetery or near the crematorium, but still, the honey came.
On the third of March, the first jar of that miraculous concoction appeared in the front room of Jamison's Mortuary. The mortuary was crowded for the next several days, and by Friday, not a jar was left to be purchased. Again, people praised the texture in the taste, as well as the myriad flavors that one would find within that jar. One of the buyers, Burt Lancaster, owned a large honey operation of his own. It is said that when he tasted Jamison honey, he proclaimed that no bee in his field had ever produced anything so sweet. Some would tell you that he burned his beehives that very afternoon, but that's a little more than town gossip.
For that summer back in 1986, no one could get enough of Jamison's honey.
They say Hellen Price used that honey to defeat her arrival, Linda Moore, in that summer's Fourth of July dessert bake-off.
They say Bert Cavill put that honey in his mead and could not make enough of it to satiate the local drunks.
They say Mary Sanders was taken to the hospital over at Oakley when she ate ten jars in a day and was reaching for an eleventh when her stomach ruptured.
But, again, that's all town gossip.
What is fact was the discovery made by Randall Smith, a local tabloid writer, in the fall of eighty-six.
Randall had a reputation for being less of a journalist and more of a mudslinger. If there was a nasty rumor started, Randall could usually be traced back to it. He had grown pretty tired of hearing about Jamison and his amazing honey. Randall was of the opinion that if something was too good to be true, then it likely was. He thought Jamison's honey must have some sort of secret ingredient that got people addicted to it. Maybe it was even a cover for some kind of dope operation that Jamison was running out of the mortuary or the cemetery. Whatever the case, Randall could smell the story, and it would be sweeter than any nectar the old mortician could produce.
So one night, as the moon hung full over Pleasant Rest Cemetery, Randall and his friends, Rooster Mallory and Charles Drainer, took a trip out to the cemetery to have a look around. Someone had reported earlier that week that they had seen some larger-than-normal bees around the cemetery grounds and speculated that these may be the source of Jamison's honey. It was the only lead that Randall had and seemed as good a lead as any. So after a couple of drinks at the Legion hall, the three men piled into Rooster's old Chevy and headed down to do some late-night snooping.
Randall still tells anyone who will listen how the graveyard was as silent as its namesake. The gate was locked, sporting a brand new Academy Security Lock, one of the big, thick gold ones that graced the sheds and fences of discerning security buffs in town. So, the three men had to find a different way in. This was strange since the cemetery had never been locked before. Jamison had always let people come and go as they please, but just recently, the old man has gotten a little cagey about many things. For one, the cemetery was now locked after nightfall. For another, no one was allowed in the basement of the mortuary, not even the man who came to deliver the bodies from the families. For third, no one but his two sons were allowed to work in the mortuary anymore, and both of them were under pain of death should they reveal the secret of Jamison's honey.
The three men had walked around the cemetery fence before they found a spot where the last windstorm had knocked down a thick old pine. It lay on the sharp points around the top, creating a rude bridge over the wall. None of them being particularly spry, they had them all carefully shimmied up the fallen tree and then dropped down into the cemetery, careful not to get stuck on the spikes. They all felt a chill as they stood in the quiet boneyard, and Randall claims that Rooster looked ready to brave the spikes if it meant being out of there.
The wind rattled the skeletal trees on the grounds, and the little flags that had been stuck on some of the graves for Labor Day snapped mischievously and startled them more than once. They had brought flashlights, but the big old traitors' moon that looked down on them was more than enough to keep them from tripping into an open grave or smashing their shins on an ill-placed tombstone. The quiet cemetery was enough to sober even the bravest of them, and it was probably why they heard the shovels before they saw the men.
Crouching behind a particularly large family headstone, Randal saw two men digging in a fresh grave. They were exhuming a body by the light of that pregnant moon, and Randall knew whose it was to boot. He had been to the widow Hadley's funeral that day, and it appeared that whoever these men were, they were taking her from her freshly dug plot. As they watched, the corpse flopped to the surface unceremoniously, followed by March's sons, Hannibal and Gavin. Hannibal hefted the body, leaving his younger brother to fill in the hole as he took it deeper into the cemetery. Gavin went to his work and bent as he was; he didn't notice the three men as they snuck around him and followed his older brother. Hannibal had been a football player, a linebacker for the local high school team in his day. He toted the frail old woman as easily as someone might a sack of grain. As they followed him, the three men weren't sure what they expected to find, but Randall was certain it would be something that would add a macabre twinge to the story he was working on.
They followed Hannibal as he came to a newly built mausoleum, the name across the door reading March. He unlocked the door and unceremoniously tossed the old woman into the crypt. The men hunkered low behind a pair of tombstones, but they needn't have bothered. Hannibal was a big boy, but his night eyes left something to be desired. He no more saw them than he did the place marker that he nearly tripped over on the way back to his brother, and as he stomped off into the cemetery, the three men approached the crypt.
The mortuary was a nice new one. Sunk into the ground a little to protect any caskets placed down there, it would have looked more at home in New Orleans than this Georgia backwater town. To the knowledge of anyone in town, the Marches did not have a family crypt until very recently. The only March buried there would be Jamison's wife since his mother and father were buried up in Macon at their own family plot. Hannibal may not have been the smartest March in town, but it appeared he was smart enough to lock up behind himself. Another one of those big, thick locks that had been found on the front gate greeted them, and the three men were forced to prowl around the mausoleum to see what they could find.
It was Charles who found the little vent in the mausoleum, but it was Randall who saw the horrors that lay inside.
Randall and Rooster had been looking for a window or perhaps another entrance when Charles had come hoofing it back to them to say that he had found a little vent that opened into the crypt. Randall asked him to show them where it was, and the three men found a little opening big enough for a large child to fit inside. Charles and Rooster were pulp wooders and much too big to squeeze into holes. However, Randall had made a career of squeezing into places he was not wanted.
Opting to stick his head in to get a better look, Randall had his friend hold his legs while he shimmied into the vent. Charles and Rooster slid him in as far as they could, and they said his flashlight could be seen through the slats at the top of the mausoleum.
When Randall started screaming and yelling for them to pull him out, it sounded like the devil himself had gotten a hold of him.
When they pulled him out, they said he was white as a sheet and said they had to tell the sheriff immediately.
Whether the brothers were gone when they made their escape or not, they missed them entirely as they beat a retreat back to town.
The sheriff took some convincing to get him out of bed, but when Randall told him what he had seen down in the crypt, he came with three other men and the biggest set of bolt cutters they could find at the station.
Jamison's sons were leaving when the sheriff and his boys pulled up, so they didn't end up needing the bolt cutters after all.
When he laid it out to the two young men that they could either cooperate or sit in the same prison cell that their father was about to occupy, they decided it might be in their best interest to show him what they'd been doing.
When the sheriff asked the boys if they would need suits, the two shook their heads. "The bees are mostly docile," Hannibal told them, and, sure enough, when they cracked the door, not a one came charging out. They descended into the ground, and by the light of the sheriff's flashlight, they saw the horrors below. The bees swarmed the small pile of corpses, taking whatever they used to make the honey back to the hives. The hives covered the walls of the crypt, making a sticky webwork of combs. The corpses down below were fresh, most of them having died very recently, and the bees were taking to them with gusto. The brothers said they came down once or twice a week to harvest the honey and that the vulture bees were taking to the warm Georgia summers quite nicely.
When the sheriff interrogated them, both said this had been their father's idea. He had read about the vulture bees and thought they sounded like an interesting idea. Then when their mother died, he did a little experiment. He had put her in the mortuary basement and procured some vulture bees of his own. The boys had been horrified when he showed them what he'd been up to, but even they had to admit, the honey had been the sweetest they had ever eaten. Something about the readily available nature of the local pollen, mixed with the bee's instinct to collect whatever they got from the corpses, had made for a potent and delicious treat.
"She was the catalyst for all this," Hannibal had said, "those first few jars he handed out to the people for tasting were honey made from mom's body."
He began to cry then, but the sheriff had all the evidence that he needed to proceed.
He arrested Jamison March that very night, but there seemed to be some confusion on what to charge him with. Couldn't really get him for murder because he hadn't killed anybody. Couldn't really get him for fraud because he buried those bodies just like he said he would. In the end, they got him on simple corpse desecration and misdemeanor fraud for not telling the families what he intended to do with the bodies.
He got less than five years in prison, and I hear that the warden let him keep the beehives in the prison garden.
Seems like his talents didn't go to waste even behind bars.
He left town when his time was served, he and his boys. The funeral home has been empty ever since. The police found the beginnings of his beekeeping in the basement. That, and a secondary hive with a swarm of angry vulture bees. Jamieson tried to sell the mortuary, but nobody seemed to want the place with that sort of reputation. It collapsed under a late February snow back in two thousand twelve, and they destroyed the mortuary they found all those bodies in about a year after Jamison went to prison.
And that's the sorted tale of Jamison March, and his bees.
I have no idea what they did with those bees after they turned them out of the March Mausoleum, they likely just turned them loose into an environment that was alien to them.
So, if you should be traveling through the Georgia back roads and see some larger-than-average bees or taste sweeter than average honey, be very suspicious about its origins.

This is a collection of short stories that have something to do with current events. Enjoy.
2023-03-20

The Uneven Divide - Part 3

(Part 1 and 2 in first post of Collection)
“I see a city on a disk. Though all the powers of the world would like to watch it fall, it won’t. I look at it floating above it all. Above There’s political turmoil. Beyond the grip of local markets, this city spins around the globe. You make your business everyone’s, and in turn, everyone profits from your presence.”
I see a land so cold,” I continued. “That it smokes as if it’s on fire. Like the Mother Sphere pulls you up, the frost brings your people together. This inseparable unity warms each building by your people’s sheer attraction for the Lands of Over-There. What us foreigners see as a frigid barren disk of ill fortuity, where people live barred up inside out of necessity, it’s instead a fortress from anything cold, which hosts every fervent hearted opportunity.”
The lock beeped. The door crept open. She kicked her feet off. A skinny man with both our ages walked in. He was wearing a three-piece suit. This wasn’t uncommon, as each layer made the heating bill less hard to look at. His name and the chain on his matte black visitor’s badge were contrasted with gold.
They spoke in their language.
He said something like hi, how are you, what are you doing here?
She answered something along the lines of hi, I’m doing great, in a meeting, you?
He went on saying precisely “I’m doing twice well”—which is an interesting expression meaning; I was already doing well, but from the moment you asked about me, I started doing twice as well—then I think he said he was also here for a meeting, and “who is he?”
She told him my name, then his name to me. Whom I will refer to as Gotnaym of Over-There.
He greeted me, I presented myself with a customary nod. Which could’ve been considered curt in our culture.
Then it got too wordy for me to understand. They switched languages as he walked over to extend his hand.
Mid-shake, he said in perfect speech, “She tells me your consultancy in There is no circus. I might have some questions later, my son is investing abroad.”
Then he laughed. I tried my hardest to make my confusion pass off as surprise, all while making sure not to loosen my grip nor lose the tempo of the motion, as I smiled in what I hoped to have looked like an agreeing pose.
“He’s not interested in any clown ventures I hope, Mr. Gotnaym,” I said. “I’d be out of my league if he were.”
“That’s exactly why I’d hire you,” he explained. “Thankfully, we’re a line of miners, Mr. Consultant. Hard-working people, who bring along like-minded experts. There are no full-time artists on these disks, I’m afraid.”
I was ready to let go but he wasn’t as willing.
“It’s always a fine moment to meet someone glad to buy into their family,” I concluded. “But I might not be the right hire for advice on how you ought to spend your own money. I don’t know if she's told you my line of work?”
This made him laugh some more. He was still shaking my hand.
“She has, yes!” He looked at her after placing his free hand on my shoulder side. She was completely motionless. “Funny man,” he said in his mother tongue.
“Don’t let me interrupt you, Mr. Consultant. Please continue while we wait,” he said, finally releasing his grip to grab a seat by the backrest.
“While we wait?” I asked him.
“I just is inform,” she said. “Next meeting is push to soon. Temporary lockdown here. Please continuing, Mr. Consultant. You no leaving now.”
“Emergency?” I read in their eyes the impending dread they covered up with an interest in listening only, so they wouldn’t have to think.
“Gladly,” I said. “I guess I’ll find out soon. Thank you for giving me this time out of your day.” She had some relief mixed in with her emotions. The rest of her micro-expressions were of a combination I’ve never noticed twice. It was too particular to recreate in writing or in a film.
“Mr. Consultant talking how city infrastructure be one with immigration,” she explained. “I asking what he see in city.”
“Where was I?” I asked me.
“You were reporting how the cold brings us people together,” he told me.
Wondering if their door wasn’t soundproofed had flooded my head with blood, which drew along this fresh thought frenzy and the terrible idea that anyone could’ve heard us earlier.
“Right,” I said to start hushing my blushing. “The problem. Your city is nothing more than a cold flatland sprinkled with tall boxes where folks come and freeze to death. That’s what they see from below, down in There. When I booked my ticket, my friends argued about who would get what if I didn’t make it back.”
The suitedman sat down.
“To outsiders, to the frigid ones, these lands get people to ratify off on an early will. I mean—I signed a waiver just for the elevator ride… Too many who travel to your disks don’t come back home. Most get working visas. The deal is: you spend four months a year here, and that pays for six of vacation. The smart ones, like I’m sure your son is, do five years to invest in There’s Venus coin traps. Then they sit back and never visit again. They risk their days for the money. Not for your city, not for the people here. They say they come to live out the rest of their lives at the mines. Then if they’re lucky enough not to get shipped home as a popsicle, they go to their folk waving their phat wads of cash in the hands with the least fingers lost to the frostbite.”
“I asked the locals last night. Why would you sell everything for this? Leave your families, abandon your lifestyles—What pulled you in? They all gave me the same answer. The same one I have. The first time I came here, it only took me two days. Two days to fall in love.”
“You maybe fall in loving after no long enough, Mr. Consultant,” she said.
“Are you telling me you don’t feel the same?”
“I think,” Gotnaym interjected. Then he paused. Sort of like cutting someone off on the freeway only to slow down right after.
“I think what my colleague is trying to express here … is that all of this sounds a bit too poetic.”
He looked at her to see if she’d agree. Which, she did.
“I also think we’re both happy you really are loving the experience here, Mr. Consultant. But it takes more than feelings to move to a place like this. The ones who do immigrate are steadily emigrating in larger numbers. The workforce won’t meet the upcoming demand. We start terraforming the east perimeter straight after the election next quarter. That’s a projected two years to find enough workers, build and house multiple villages. Provided the right candidate wins.”
At that moment, I was glad to have mistakenly not skipped our philosophy professor’s class on The Ethics of Language. I got my dates mixed up and thought it was a mandatory attendance lab. She explained how Over-There’s main export was subject to ethical scrutiny. They extracted such a lucrative resource, that they could afford to import all else. From food to people. Two entirely different things, that they’d fail to source locally in any useful quantity. Therein laid the dilemma. Their dialect had evolved so as to not differentiate between workers or wheat in regard to imports. As for commodities in business, they began treating both as such on paper. Written words have real-world applications. That same export was also what their disk was made of. One giant mother-cluster of concentrated minerals.
“How long is a mine active on these disks?” I asked.
“About a half lifetime depending on the weather. You’re looking at the investment of the century, my Frozen-Nozen. Literally.”
This suddenly explained why I so easily passed off as a consultant. At least, that’s what I was thinking then. They were probably ready to pay everyone and their kids to get as many opinions on this as possible. I can’t believe I used to give mine out for free.
“Frozen-Nozen?” I asked.
“It’s a term for those who aren’t afraid of a bit of outdoor labour,” he said.
“I see. Couldn’t you just advertise that fact in There?” I pitched.
“I don’t get it.” He mimed a billboard with his hands. “Come up to Over-There, and freeze your nose off for a living wage.”
“That’s not what I meant, but really, why not? People are nomadic opportunists. They’ll move and let the frost nip at their nose if you promise them a round fiddy years of job stability. If they become permanent residents.”
“No one plans on spending fiddy years in a work village, Mr. Consultant. They’re built as temporary housing. They share a shower per unit.”
“Isn’t that an issue? People need a good quality of entertainment to stay someplace so dull when they can glance at other options. They’ll want something they can’t get anywhere else. Couple that with the appeal of privacy. Your child population levels are dropping? Intimacy widely increases from zero to one shower per household. I’d start hiring full-time artists to get some inspiration flowing. Let couples make their own entertainment. Get some comfier architecture. They'll make babies. Or get your engineers to make leisure versions of your military rovers. With enough room for two. Watch them hit wild speeds in the east bumpy lands around their camps.”
“How much would that cost?” He asked. To my relief, he then immediately reconsidered. “No, these plans are staying under permafrost. We want to attract workers, not activists.”
I must’ve looked confused.
“Much leaving people, because activist come Over-There and saying mine is kill nature. Much tourism satire is Come visit before disk is all holes,” she quoted.
“If it’s really destroying the ecosystems then I’m afraid there isn’t much—”
“What ecosystem?” He interrupted. “Nothing but people live here, Mr. Consultant. And we only cover 15% of our whole island. Most of us are all in this city. The claims are false.”
“Then why do enough of both your people and mine believe these activists?” I insisted. “Who I’ve never heard of, so they must all be online. Is complaining just something to do? How does that affect where people live?”
“Emotion of being … more purposeful than normal people,” she said. “Important maybe to many action people. But also, wireless community There having very addictivity.”
“Adictivity?” I asked. “I mean—or, what do you mean by addiction?”
She explained how our wireless communications in There were designed to get individuals to react before thinking.
Anyone reading this today won’t understand the complexity of the issue, so I’ll try to translate the way people like your great-great-grandparents used to communicate. I suggest you ask them about it if they’ve opted for resurrection therapy.
We had these sorts of primitive portable screens that were usually carried around in pockets. Pockets were these holes in our clothes that would hold stuff. When we mostly owned material items, we needed a method of having those things at our disposition. And because we only have two biological hands, most would prefer to walk about with lighter objects in all kinds of pouches. From books to babies, bags of fabrics were significant to us.
The most important pouch was the pocket. That’s the place where people put stuff they wanted to hold closest to their person. That’s because not having them nearby caused an immediate sense of emergency. Their money, their analog keys, their smokables (non digital drug consumable), the time of one day divided into 86,400 different times… Most would also keep their touch screens in their pockets.
We’d communicate through a revolutionary medium termed, “social media.” If you’re not familiar with the term, it’s because presently, that’s our only form of expression left. So we just call it talking.
Fun fact: in 1402, both words were banned if put together. For all generations coming after the criminalization of social media, to try and curb the addiction, so we could gain control over the technocratic overlords of the virtual space. Clearly, that didn’t work, but I won’t bore you with the details in this format for much longer.
To quickly finish this history lesson then, we nicknamed those screens “phones.” They were these physical things that you’d feel right on your skin. And you had to push around to type words or record either your organic image or sounds, or disproportionately more often, those of a cat. A real cat. They aren’t a digital invention! Then you’d post those representations in places called “the Internet.” The Internet would be referred to as the world today.
Humans had to mind-travel via their phones to access the world before. And they’d navigate through it by utilizing their biological hands like a bunch of Neanderthals. On Social Media in the Internet realm, other people would have to move their fingers around their screen to come look at what you posted. Can you imagine? It’s like if today, someone had to do something to hear you.
They would then react to what they saw. Kind of how people used to communicate what they thought through their body language. The only difference was that in the Old World, a public would react to a speaker on stage, and everyone went on their way afterwards. No longer under the influential energy of a cheering or booing crowd, they could think about the message. On the Internet, it would stay up, and we could keep reacting to it. Even years after something was said. The public reaction would get louder and louder and it was like it never stopped to calm down and reflect. Excitement is not a friend of thought.
As people posted more and more, they did less and less of anything else. The goal of the communication was only to react. Always as fast as possible. People started doing activities only so they could post. They lost the enjoyment of doing for the sake of doing. Everything became a reason to get a reaction out of others. Everyone became amateur stage performers. Professionals had to be trained in that regard. They had to learn how to handle themselves when their work would become a series of reactions to trigger a chain of reactions. The users of primitive Social Media never stood a chance.
It’s what she explained during our impromptu board meeting that afternoon. It’s what changed the way I saw the world as well. I watched as her theory turned out to be sufficiently accurate, and I caught myself wondering for a moment if she hadn’t had something to do with the unravelling of the events.
If you’re Neanderthal enough to remember the sound of genuine vocal chords, I invite you to imagine how she expressed it all to me in her riveting broken accent. It’s why I wrote it how she said it.
The year is 1282 again. It’s cold, the exit doors are locked down, I have an actual phone in my physical pocket…
She asked me to see mine. A ritual at the time. So I showed her. She didn’t look impressed, so I asked her to show me hers. It was nice. Real nice. So nice in fact, that I started feeling a bit shy and ended up subtly putting mine away as she explained.
“People addicted to making posting. More posting, more liking, more emotion of purposeful existing. But so many content, so much other people also looking for … valid of purposeful life, because now, day no with phone is like food no with taste. Is boring. Why eat? Why do anything? But problem happen when truth is people wanting. Because goal of social media is react, react, react. Chain reaction like nuclear. Have be fast. Social media not receive, think, maybe react if wise. Social media no survive this way, very boring if not in-person meeting for exchange serious ideas. No win Internet point for taking time, finding truth, telling people wrong too. No good feeling also, if thinking, no posting, no outside influence saying yes you living and you be valid person. So no react, no valid existence.”
She paused. We both glanced at one another to confirm what we had already decided. Neither of us were going to interrupt her train of ideas. I was impressed. Not by what she was saying, though. It wasn’t anything we didn’t know. It was more that she could almost speak our language when she carried herself in her flow.
“People define value by number of attention they getting. They getting attention by posting posting posting, reacting reacting reacting, and no thinking thinking then maybe posting after long. Thinking bad for business if business is price of reacting. Business need people pushing button not after long. Social media Model is job of push button. Worker build city, push button too you thinking. But building infrastructure, opportunity, thinking involved more than even writer, Mr. Consultant. Bad thinking kill in building city.”
It took me a second to break character. Then I remembered who I really was. Eventually I realized she had just insulted me. I gave a warm chuckle. This disrupted Gotnaym’s attention. She went on.
“Influencer is job of push button to getting more people pushing button before thinking. Influencer is good if follower push button with no thinking. Even in war business, reacting not always best strategy. Pushing … gun button?”
“Trigger,” he helped.
“Pushing trigger no thinking is not same like pushing trigger because quick thinking. Influencer like is … study with school only to becoming teacher after. But only attaining knowledge in reacting more. Not attaining quick thinking. Not same. This worrying functionary like Mr. Fore Gotnaym, because how control crowd online that only goal is react react react, no thinking? On Internet, better no thinking. More reacting, more people see their reacting first and reacting to it so more people also get reacting, more people only agree for attention, and more message get famous. More message famous, no worry if true, more people believe. More people believe, less people believe when truth happen. Look at phone, Mr. Consultant.”
I took it out of my pocket.
“Make posting,” she said. “I showing you.”
The suitedman visibly refrained himself from stopping me. I was two days behind on checking in with my Internet experiment, so I did what she asked. When I connected to Social Media, my feed was filled with alerts on posts. Something about disinformation and people fighting over the truth of the universe and if it was really the end for us. The media application wasn’t this agitated two days ago. Warnings on misinformation were mostly centred around past events, never regarding upcoming ones from what I had seen before.
“Is this why we’re in a lockdown?” I asked.
“Yes…” she reacted.
“So why does it say that it’s all a fabrication?”
The room fell dead quiet. Her bottom lip quivered and she turned around to burst in muffled sobs. She just broke down. It was surreal. The man stood up to whisper something. She nodded with her head down, so he walked towards me. Then past me and to the windows, making sure I followed him by spinning in my chair. My back ended up facing her.
“Under different circumstances, you wouldn’t be locked down with us, Mr. Tourist,” he said.
Uh-oh, I thought. This culture seemed to have developed a taste for cleverly employing names.
“But there’s no use in locking you up for espionage either, it looks like your people are willing to let you rot anyway.”
“What’s going on?” I asked. She sniffled and told us I could turn around now.
“Don’t worry kid. You’re either the best spy I’ve met and you can die with dignity, or you’re the worst ever, and you’re worth more to us as living propaganda if we make it out of this,” he said, patting my shoulder as he walked by.
“I didn’t get your answer,” I mumbled as I turned around. Then I understood that he was trying to make her laugh.
“Either you’re the best,” he repeated. “Because I haven’t heard even a single high-school rumour about you. Or you’re the worst, because you were really a shit consultant just then.”
She drew in a chopped breath, which she released in a soft chuckle of relief. I thought maybe this was a prank. But then why was she crying?
I asked her what was going on. She nodded at him and he told me he wasn’t joking. They really considered that I was a spy from There. This theory didn’t hold any water in the end. The umbrella company under which the most popular international platforms operated, had somehow been convinced to place a warning on the forecast of a natural disaster headed for the disks. The corporation happened to have all their servers in There’s jurisdiction. All the privately owned media companies followed suit just to try and survive.
Gotnaym explained how anyone with any scientific authority who had attempted to voice their doubts had immediately been shadowbanned. They injected their profiles with a fake number of views and likes, and used bots to make it look like there were people engaging with their content. As far as the whole globe was convinced, as far as the citizens of Over-There were concerned, this admonition had been discredited a month before the announcement of the disaster. The United OV Body sent out an emergency text message, an even more primitive form of communication, confirming the threat to their civilians, but it was in vain. The videos debunking the warning had timestamps dating too far back. And the Internet had already decided that it was all a hoax. Eighteen world leading scientists, all saying it was propaganda. The people in this city didn’t believe they were about to die.
How could I have missed this? Especially if I had checked everything everywhere online before buying my ticket?
Like a kid again, it slipped out.
“Why?”
He rubbed his thumb and two fingers together. Money.
“Environmental warfare is not a crime, Mr. Tourist. And you seem to be collateral damage to them.”
They showed me a video of myself reassuring the world that I was okay, and that no one on this disk believed any of the disinformation propagated by the unhinged astronomers. That Over-There’s authorities were perfectly aware that it was all a hoax. It was dated two hours before I set foot on the disk. On the plus side, I never did get over a hundred million views before. To most of the world, I was a hero, here to bring down the anti-science disinformation machine. They were looking at an AI-generated video of me. They even got my voice right. My family had liked my video. My dad had sent me a message saying he was proud.
I looked up and plunged my eyes in her frightened face. It stripped me forever of any good feelings. In one hour, I felt the lifelong dissatisfaction of a hard drug addict. That day, I lost my faith in reality. To this day, I cannot enjoy anything. Not after what happened. I feel too guilty.
“Shouldn’t technological warfare be a crime, though?” I said.
“You could call a stick with a pointy rock on its end a technological advancement.”
It was becoming trickier to think straight. How can you? When you’re about to take a final blow, and there’s nowhere to run, no strength to block. It was like getting pre-concussed.
“How long until it happens?”
“It might not. We’re waiting on people to show up here and determine if it can be avoided. So try to think of something else in the meantime,” he said.
We said nothing.
“There is one thing neither of you can avoid, though… So you might as well make your peace with it now,” he added.
“What it is?” She asked.
“Mr. Tourist is about to meet your father.” He said. Then he looked at me. “Or is it Mr. Consultant to him?”

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Among Us	1.5 TF2	$2.96 PP	-
Among the Sleep - Enhanced Edition	0.4 TF2	$0.83 PP	-
Ancestors: The Humankind Odyssey	2.0 TF2	$4.13 PP	-
Aragami	0.5 TF2	$0.93 PP	-
Arizona Sunshine	2.0 TF2	$4.12 PP	-
Arma 3 Apex Edition	1.6 TF2	$3.23 PP	-
Arma 3 Contact Edition	2.3 TF2	$4.79 PP	-
Arma 3 Jets	1.0 TF2	$1.97 PP	-
Arma 3 Marksmen	0.8 TF2	$1.62 PP	-
Arma 3	1.7 TF2	$3.56 PP	-
Assetto Corsa Competizione	2.6 TF2	$5.24 PP	-
Assetto Corsa Ultimate Edition	2.7 TF2	$5.59 PP	-
Automobilista 2	3.4 TF2	$6.98 PP	-
Autonauts	0.4 TF2	$0.83 PP	-
BATTLETECH - Mercenary Collection	1.2 TF2	$2.4 PP	-
BIGFOOT	4.2 TF2	$8.67 PP	-
BIOMUTANT	2.0 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$4.2 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Humble Choice (Mar 2023)
BPM: BULLETS PER MINUTE	0.6 TF2	$1.2 PP	-
BROFORCE	1.1 TF2	$2.18 PP	-
Baba Is You	1.4 TF2	$2.84 PP	-
Back 4 Blood	4.8 TF2	$9.86 PP	-
Bad North: Jotunn Edition	0.8 TF2	$1.73 PP	-
Baldur's Gate II: Enhanced Edition	0.4 TF2	$0.78 PP	-
Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition	0.4 TF2	$0.9 PP	-
Bang-On Balls: Chronicles	2.9 TF2	$5.99 PP	-
Banished	2.1 TF2	$4.31 PP	-
Barotrauma	1.4 TF2	$2.97 PP	-
Batman - The Telltale Series	0.9 TF2	$1.85 PP	-
Batman Arkham Collection	1.2 TF2	$2.4 PP	-
Batman: Arkham Knight	0.6 TF2	$1.22 PP	-
Batman: The Enemy Within - The Telltale Series	1.0 TF2	$2.03 PP	-
Batman™: Arkham Knight Premium Edition	1.4 TF2	$2.93 PP	-
Batman™: Arkham Origins	0.6 TF2	$1.21 PP	-
Batman™: Arkham VR	0.6 TF2	$1.17 PP	-
Battlefleet Gothic: Armada II	1.5 TF2	$3.09 PP	-
Battlefleet Gothic: Armada	0.8 TF2	$1.7 PP	-
Battlestar Galactica Deadlock	0.5 TF2	$1.0 PP	-
Battlezone Gold Edition	2.0 TF2	$4.17 PP	-
Besiege	1.6 TF2	$3.25 PP	-
Beyond Blue	2.0 TF2	$4.04 PP	-
Beyond The Wire	0.4 TF2	$0.78 PP	-
Beyond Two Souls	1.7 TF2	$3.56 PP	-
BioShock Collection	1.0 TF2	$2.11 PP	-
BioShock Infinite	0.9 TF2	$1.76 PP	-
Bioshock Infinite: Season Pass	0.8 TF2	$1.54 PP	-
Blacksad - Under the Skin	0.5 TF2	$0.93 PP	-
Blair Witch	1.1 TF2	$2.27 PP	-
Blood Bowl 2 - Legendary Edition	0.9 TF2	$1.75 PP	-
Blood Bowl 2	0.5 TF2	$0.99 PP	-
Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night	1.7 TF2	$3.53 PP	-
Boomerang Fu	0.6 TF2	$1.27 PP	-
Borderlands 2 VR	3.6 TF2	$7.39 PP	-
Borderlands 3 Super Deluxe Edition	2.9 TF2	$6.02 PP	-
Borderlands 3	1.5 TF2	$3.0 PP	-
Borderlands 3: Director's Cut	1.5 TF2	$3.06 PP	-
Borderlands: The Handsome Collection	3.1 TF2	$6.33 PP	-
Borderlands: The Pre-Sequel	0.6 TF2	$1.17 PP	-
Brutal Legend	0.6 TF2	$1.21 PP	-
Bully: Scholarship Edition	3.0 TF2	$6.1 PP	-
Bus Simulator 18	1.7 TF2	$3.56 PP	-
CHUCHEL Cherry Edition	0.5 TF2	$0.95 PP	-
Call of Cthulhu	1.0 TF2	$2.06 PP	-
Call of Duty: WWII	12.5 TF2	$25.54 PP	-
Call of Juarez: Gunslinger	0.6 TF2	$1.18 PP	-
Call to Arms - Basic Edition	2.3 TF2	$4.79 PP	-
Call to Arms - Gates of Hell: Ostfront	5.4 TF2	$10.98 PP	-
Car Mechanic Simulator 2018	0.9 TF2	$1.83 PP	-
Carcassonne - Tiles & Tactics	0.6 TF2	$1.19 PP	-
Celeste	2.7 TF2	$5.44 PP	-
Chess Ultra	0.7 TF2	$1.44 PP	-
Children of Morta	0.7 TF2	$1.51 PP	-
Chivalry 2	3.2 TF2	$6.54 PP	-
Chivalry: Medieval Warfare	0.5 TF2	$1.04 PP	-
Chronicon	1.6 TF2	$3.18 PP	-
Cities: Skylines Deluxe Edition	1.4 TF2	$2.93 PP	-
Clone Drone in the Danger Zone	3.1 TF2	$6.29 PP	-
Code Vein	2.0 TF2	$4.09 PP	-
Coffee Talk	2.0 TF2	$4.12 PP	-
Company of Heroes 2 - Ardennes Assault	1.8 TF2	$3.71 PP	-
Company of Heroes 2 - The Western Front Armies	0.8 TF2	$1.72 PP	-
Company of Heroes 2	0.6 TF2	$1.13 PP	-
Company of Heroes 2: Master Collection	6.0 TF2	$12.28 PP	-
Company of Heroes Complete Pack	5.4 TF2	$11.07 PP	-
Company of Heroes	1.7 TF2	$3.52 PP	-
Company of Heroes: Opposing Fronts	0.8 TF2	$1.67 PP	-
Company of Heroes: Tales of Valor	2.0 TF2	$4.14 PP	-
Conan Exiles	1.6 TF2	$3.21 PP	-
Construction Simulator 2015	1.2 TF2	$2.46 PP	-
Contagion	0.5 TF2	$1.08 PP	-
Control Ultimate Edition	1.7 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$3.43 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Humble Heroines: Warriors, Dreamers, and God Slayers
Crash Bandicoot™ N. Sane Trilogy	7.9 TF2	$16.17 PP	-
Crawl	1.7 TF2	$3.49 PP	-
Creaks	0.4 TF2	$0.73 PP	-
Creed: Rise to Glory™	2.2 TF2	$4.45 PP	-
Crusader Kings II: Royal Collection	2.5 TF2	$5.18 PP	-
Crusader Kings III	3.4 TF2	$7.01 PP	-
CryoFall	0.4 TF2	$0.76 PP	-
Crysis® 2 Maximum Edition	0.8 TF2	$1.72 PP	-
Cultist Simulator	0.7 TF2	$1.39 PP	-
DARK SOULS™ III Deluxe Edition	23.8 TF2	$48.76 PP	-
DEATHLOOP	2.1 TF2	$4.25 PP	-
DIRT 5	4.0 TF2	$8.19 PP	-
DMC - Devil May Cry	0.6 TF2	$1.15 PP	-
DRAGON BALL FIGHTERZ - Ultimate Edition	4.8 TF2	$9.87 PP	-
DRAGON BALL XENOVERSE 2	1.8 TF2	$3.74 PP	-
DRAGONBALL XENOVERSE Bundle Edition	1.1 TF2	$2.27 PP	-
DRIFT21	0.5 TF2	$1.0 PP	-
Dark Deity	0.4 TF2	$0.9 PP	-
Dark Souls II: Scholar of the First Sin	8.2 TF2	$16.76 PP	-
Darkest Dungeon	0.6 TF2	$1.2 PP	-
Darksiders Genesis	1.1 TF2	$2.34 PP	-
Darksiders II Deathinitive Edition	0.6 TF2	$1.32 PP	-
Darksiders III	0.8 TF2	$1.72 PP	-
Darkwood	0.4 TF2	$0.78 PP	-
Day of the Tentacle Remastered	0.4 TF2	$0.91 PP	-
DayZ	6.3 TF2	$12.99 PP	-
Daymare: 1998	0.4 TF2	$0.79 PP	-
Dead Estate	1.3 TF2	$2.7 PP	-
Dead Island - Definitive Edition	0.9 TF2	$1.77 PP	-
Dead Island Definitive Collection	1.6 TF2	$3.18 PP	-
Dead Island Riptide - Definitive Edition	0.8 TF2	$1.69 PP	-
Dead Rising 2: Off the Record	1.2 TF2	$2.39 PP	-
Dead Rising 3 Apocalypse Edition	1.7 TF2	$3.46 PP	-
Dead Rising 4	0.9 TF2	$1.75 PP	-
Dead Rising	1.0 TF2	$1.96 PP	-
Dead Rising® 2	1.1 TF2	$2.18 PP	-
Death Road to Canada	0.6 TF2	$1.18 PP	-
Death's Gambit	0.7 TF2	$1.42 PP	-
Deep Rock Galactic	3.9 TF2	$8.04 PP	-
Deponia - The Complete Journey	0.7 TF2	$1.4 PP	-
Descenders	0.4 TF2	$0.78 PP	-
Destroy All Humans	0.7 TF2	$1.39 PP	-
Deus Ex: Human Revolution - Director's Cut	0.9 TF2	$1.88 PP	-
Deus Ex: Mankind Divided	1.5 TF2	$3.17 PP	-
Devil May Cry HD Collection	1.7 TF2	$3.49 PP	-
Devil May Cry® 4 Special Edition	1.4 TF2	$2.85 PP	-
Dinosaur Fossil Hunter	0.4 TF2	$0.9 PP	-
Distance	0.7 TF2	$1.51 PP	-
Distant Worlds: Universe	0.6 TF2	$1.27 PP	-
Doom Eternal	2.0 TF2	$4.09 PP	-
Door Kickers	1.1 TF2	$2.16 PP	-
Door Kickers: Action Squad	0.4 TF2	$0.76 PP	-
Dorfromantik	1.9 TF2	$3.97 PP	-
Dragon Ball FighterZ	1.7 TF2	$3.44 PP	-
Dragons Dogma - Dark Arisen	0.8 TF2	$1.63 PP	-
Drake Hollow	0.4 TF2	$0.89 PP	-
Drone Swarm	0.5 TF2	$0.96 PP	-
Duck Game	2.2 TF2	$4.6 PP	-
Dungeon Defenders: Awakened	2.7 TF2	$5.45 PP	-
Dungreed	0.9 TF2	$1.79 PP	-
Dusk	1.1 TF2	$2.2 PP	-
Duskers	0.5 TF2	$0.99 PP	-
EARTH DEFENSE FORCE 4.1 The Shadow of New Despair	2.3 TF2	$4.64 PP	-
ELEX	0.7 TF2	$1.47 PP	-
EVERSPACE™	0.8 TF2	$1.57 PP	-
Elite: Dangerous	1.3 TF2	$2.59 PP	-
Empire of Sin	1.2 TF2	$2.49 PP	-
Endzone - A World Apart	0.6 TF2	$1.31 PP	-
Europa Universalis IV	1.1 TF2	$2.2 PP	-
Exanima	2.3 TF2	$4.71 PP	-
FTL: Faster Than Light	1.2 TF2	$2.52 PP	-
Fable Anniversary	3.3 TF2	$6.69 PP	-
Fallout 76	1.6 TF2	$3.3 PP	-
Fantasy General II	0.5 TF2	$0.95 PP	-
Farming Simulator 17	0.5 TF2	$1.06 PP	-
Firefighting Simulator - The Squad	3.9 TF2	$8.08 PP	-
First Class Trouble	0.4 TF2	$0.86 PP	-
For The King	1.2 TF2	$2.37 PP	-
Forager	1.4 TF2	$2.81 PP	-
Forts	2.7 TF2	$5.44 PP	-
Friday the 13th: The Game	2.3 TF2	$4.79 PP	-
Frostpunk	1.2 TF2	$2.52 PP	-
Full Metal Furies	0.6 TF2	$1.15 PP	-
Furi	0.5 TF2	$0.99 PP	-
GOD EATER 2 Rage Burst	0.9 TF2	$1.82 PP	-
GRID - Ultimate	1.0 TF2	$2.01 PP	-
GRIS	0.4 TF2	$0.89 PP	-
Gamedec	0.4 TF2	$0.75 PP	-
Gang Beasts	3.0 TF2	$6.03 PP	-
Garden Paws	0.8 TF2	$1.66 PP	-
Gas Station Simulator	1.2 TF2	$2.42 PP	-
Gears 5	4.6 TF2	$9.34 PP	-
Gears Tactics	4.2 TF2	$8.67 PP	-
Generation Zero®	1.0 TF2	$2.13 PP	-
Genital Jousting	0.5 TF2	$1.06 PP	-
Goat Simulator	0.5 TF2	$0.94 PP	-
Godlike Burger	1.4 TF2	$2.83 PP	-
Golf With Your Friends	1.1 TF2	$2.34 PP	-
Gordian Quest	1.4 TF2	$2.85 PP	-
Gotham Knights	5.6 TF2	$11.55 PP	-
GreedFall	0.9 TF2	$1.85 PP	-
Grim Dawn	2.2 TF2	$4.51 PP	-
Grim Fandango Remastered	0.5 TF2	$1.11 PP	-
Guacamelee! 2	0.6 TF2	$1.26 PP	-
HITMAN™2 Gold Edition	3.0 TF2	$6.06 PP	-
HIVESWAP: Act 2	2.0 TF2	$4.07 PP	-
HOT WHEELS UNLEASHED™	1.5 TF2	$3.11 PP	-
Haiku, the Robot	1.5 TF2	$3.12 PP	-
Hard Bullet	1.0 TF2	$2.06 PP	-
Hearts of Iron III Collection	0.5 TF2	$1.01 PP	-
Hearts of Iron IV: Battle for the Bosporus	1.3 TF2	$2.75 PP	-
Hearts of Iron IV: Cadet Edition	1.7 TF2	$3.49 PP	-
Hearts of Iron IV: Death or Dishonor	0.9 TF2	$1.83 PP	-
Hearts of Iron IV: Waking the Tiger	1.6 TF2	$3.28 PP	-
Heave Ho	0.6 TF2	$1.13 PP	-
Heavy Rain	1.7 TF2	$3.55 PP	-
Hell Let Loose	8.3 TF2	$17.07 PP	-
Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice	1.1 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$2.16 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Humble Heroines: Warriors, Dreamers, and God Slayers
Hello Neighbor Hide & Seek	0.4 TF2	$0.76 PP	-
Hello, Neighbor!	0.4 TF2	$0.91 PP	-
Hero's Hour	1.2 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$2.49 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Humble Choice (Mar 2023)
Heroes of Hammerwatch	0.5 TF2	$1.11 PP	-
Hitman Absolution	0.8 TF2	$1.57 PP	-
Hitman Blood Money	0.7 TF2	$1.46 PP	-
Hitman Game of the Year Edition	1.2 TF2	$2.48 PP	-
Hollow Knight	2.6 TF2	$5.3 PP	-
Homefront	0.5 TF2	$0.96 PP	-
Homefront: The Revolution	0.8 TF2	$1.59 PP	-
Homeworld: Deserts of Kharak	0.4 TF2	$0.76 PP	-
Hotline Miami 2: Wrong Number Digital Special Edition	0.6 TF2	$1.2 PP	-
Hotline Miami 2: Wrong Number	0.6 TF2	$1.13 PP	-
House Flipper VR	0.9 TF2	$1.77 PP	-
House Flipper	2.0 TF2	$4.18 PP	-
Human: Fall Flat	0.9 TF2	$1.8 PP	-
HunieCam Studio	0.4 TF2	$0.73 PP	-
HuniePop	0.4 TF2	$0.89 PP	-
Huntdown	1.2 TF2	$2.51 PP	-
Hurtworld	2.0 TF2	$4.01 PP	-
Hyper Light Drifter	1.3 TF2	$2.73 PP	-
Hypnospace Outlaw	0.7 TF2	$1.44 PP	-
I Am Fish	0.4 TF2	$0.76 PP	-
I Expect You To Die	1.3 TF2	$2.65 PP	-
I-NFECTED	6.1 TF2	$12.5 PP	-
INSURGENCY	1.6 TF2	$3.19 PP	-
Imperator: Rome Deluxe Edition	1.0 TF2	$2.09 PP	-
Imperator: Rome	0.5 TF2	$1.04 PP	-
Injustice 2	0.7 TF2	$1.48 PP	-
Injustice: Gods Among Us - Ultimate Edition	0.6 TF2	$1.33 PP	-
Into the Breach	2.0 TF2	$4.12 PP	-
Into the Radius VR	5.1 TF2	$10.54 PP	-
Ion Fury	1.5 TF2	$3.03 PP	-
Iron Harvest	1.0 TF2	$2.12 PP	-
Jalopy	0.5 TF2	$1.04 PP	-
Job Simulator	8.7 TF2	$17.81 PP	-
Jurassic World Evolution 2	1.7 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$3.42 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Humble Choice (Mar 2023)
Jurassic World Evolution	0.4 TF2	$0.91 PP	-
Just Cause 2	0.5 TF2	$1.04 PP	-
Just Cause 3 XXL Edition	1.0 TF2	$2.09 PP	-
Just Cause 4: Complete Edition	1.4 TF2	$2.78 PP	-
Just Die Already	0.4 TF2	$0.8 PP	-
KartKraft	3.0 TF2	$6.1 PP	-
Katamari Damacy REROLL	1.1 TF2	$2.19 PP	-
Katana ZERO	1.0 TF2	$2.04 PP	-
Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes	2.6 TF2	$5.31 PP	-
Kerbal Space Program	1.5 TF2	$3.07 PP	-
Killer Instinct	6.8 TF2	$13.91 PP	-
Killing Floor 2 Digital Deluxe Edition	0.9 TF2	$1.88 PP	-
Killing Floor 2	0.6 TF2	$1.28 PP	-
Killing Floor	0.6 TF2	$1.15 PP	-
Kingdom Come: Deliverance	1.6 TF2	$3.36 PP	-
Kingdom: Two Crowns	0.9 TF2	$1.9 PP	-
Kingdoms of Amalur: Re-Reckoning	0.9 TF2	$1.83 PP	-
King’s Bounty : Ultimate Edition	0.8 TF2	$1.69 PP	-
LEGO Batman 3: Beyond Gotham Premium Edition	0.5 TF2	$1.06 PP	-
LEGO Batman 3: Beyond Gotham	0.4 TF2	$0.84 PP	-
LEGO Batman Trilogy	1.4 TF2	$2.88 PP	-
LEGO Harry Potter: Years 1-4	0.5 TF2	$1.12 PP	-
LEGO Harry Potter: Years 5-7	0.7 TF2	$1.53 PP	-
LEGO Lord of the Rings	0.5 TF2	$0.94 PP	-
LEGO Star Wars III: The Clone Wars	0.5 TF2	$1.04 PP	-
LEGO Star Wars: The Complete Saga	0.5 TF2	$1.06 PP	-
LEGO® City Undercover	0.6 TF2	$1.3 PP	-
LEGO® DC Super-Villains Deluxe Edition	1.9 TF2	$3.81 PP	-
LEGO® DC Super-Villains	0.4 TF2	$0.84 PP	-
LEGO® Jurassic World™	0.4 TF2	$0.81 PP	-
LEGO® MARVEL's Avengers	0.4 TF2	$0.75 PP	-
LEGO® Marvel Super Heroes 2 Deluxe Edition	1.1 TF2	$2.3 PP	-
LEGO® Marvel Super Heroes 2	0.4 TF2	$0.9 PP	-
LEGO® Ninjago® Movie Video Game	0.4 TF2	$0.73 PP	-
LEGO® Star Wars™: The Force Awakens	0.6 TF2	$1.21 PP	-
LEGO® Worlds	1.8 TF2	$3.76 PP	-
LIMBO	0.5 TF2	$0.96 PP	-
Labyrinth City: Pierre the Maze Detective	0.7 TF2	$1.43 PP	-
Lake	0.8 TF2	$1.59 PP	-
Last Oasis	1.2 TF2	$2.42 PP	-
Layers of Fear 2	3.4 TF2	$6.94 PP	-
Layers of Fear	0.5 TF2	$1.08 PP	-
Legion TD 2	0.9 TF2	$1.92 PP	-
Len's Island	3.6 TF2	$7.37 PP	-
Lethal League Blaze	0.9 TF2	$1.86 PP	-
Lethal League	0.7 TF2	$1.5 PP	-
Library Of Ruina	3.0 TF2	$6.22 PP	-
Life is Feudal: Your Own	0.4 TF2	$0.81 PP	-
Little Inferno	1.3 TF2	$2.74 PP	-
Little Misfortune	3.6 TF2	$7.38 PP	-
Little Nightmares Complete Edition	1.6 TF2	$3.2 PP	-
Little Nightmares	0.8 TF2	$1.6 PP	-
Lobotomy Corporation Monster Management Simulation	4.9 TF2	$10.0 PP	-
Lords of the Fallen Game of the Year Edition	0.8 TF2	$1.69 PP	-
Lost Castle	0.9 TF2	$1.85 PP	-
Lost Ember	1.3 TF2	$2.67 PP	-
Lost Planet™: Extreme Condition	1.0 TF2	$2.0 PP	-
Luck be a Landlord	2.7 TF2	$5.57 PP	-
METAL GEAR SOLID V: THE PHANTOM PAIN	0.7 TF2	$1.5 PP	-
MORTAL KOMBAT 11	1.6 TF2	$3.37 PP	-
MX vs ATV Reflex	0.4 TF2	$0.8 PP	-
MX vs. ATV Unleashed	0.4 TF2	$0.72 PP	-
Machinarium	0.9 TF2	$1.87 PP	-
Mad Max	1.3 TF2	$2.72 PP	-
Mafia II: Definitive Edition	1.3 TF2	$2.63 PP	-
Mafia III: Definitive Edition	2.0 TF2	$4.0 PP	-
Mafia: Definitive Edition	2.2 TF2	$4.49 PP	-
Magicka 2 - Deluxe Edition	0.4 TF2	$0.72 PP	-
Maneater	0.5 TF2	$1.06 PP	-
Manhunt	1.2 TF2	$2.53 PP	-
Mars Horizon	1.1 TF2	$2.2 PP	-
Mass Effect™ Legendary Edition	5.8 TF2	$11.95 PP	-
Max Payne 2: The Fall of Max Payne	0.6 TF2	$1.18 PP	-
Max Payne	0.9 TF2	$1.85 PP	-
MechWarrior 5: Mercenaries	2.6 TF2	$5.4 PP	-
Medal of Honor	2.0 TF2	$4.05 PP	-
Mega Man Legacy Collection	0.6 TF2	$1.22 PP	-
Men of War: Assault Squad 2 - Deluxe Edition	1.2 TF2	$2.44 PP	-
Men of War: Assault Squad 2 War Chest Edition	1.1 TF2	$2.27 PP	-
Men of War: Assault Squad 2	1.0 TF2	$2.01 PP	-
Messenger	0.4 TF2	$0.88 PP	-
Metro 2033 Redux	0.6 TF2	$1.28 PP	-
Metro Exodus	1.6 TF2	$3.37 PP	-
Metro Redux Bundle	1.1 TF2	$2.34 PP	-
Metro: Last Light Redux	1.1 TF2	$2.35 PP	-
Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor Game of the Year Edition	0.8 TF2	$1.65 PP	-
Middle-earth™: Shadow of War™	0.7 TF2	$1.41 PP	-
Middleearth Shadow of War Definitive Edition	1.2 TF2	$2.48 PP	-
Mini Ninjas	0.5 TF2	$1.01 PP	-
Miscreated	1.4 TF2	$2.83 PP	-
Monster Hunter: World	3.5 TF2	$7.15 PP	-
Monster Sanctuary	0.5 TF2	$0.94 PP	-
Monster Train	0.4 TF2	$0.85 PP	-
Moonlighter	0.4 TF2	$0.91 PP	-
Moons of Madness	1.8 TF2	$3.67 PP	-
Mordhau	1.7 TF2	$3.49 PP	-
Mortal Kombat X	0.7 TF2	$1.53 PP	-
Mortal Kombat XL	0.9 TF2	$1.85 PP	-
Mortal Shell	1.8 TF2	$3.61 PP	-
Motorcycle Mechanic Simulator 2021	1.0 TF2	$2.13 PP	-
Motorsport Manager	1.3 TF2	$2.73 PP	-
Move or Die	1.0 TF2	$1.97 PP	-
Moving Out	1.0 TF2	$2.02 PP	-
Mutant Year Zero: Road to Eden - Deluxe Edition	1.6 TF2	$3.21 PP	-
Mutant Year Zero: Road to Eden	0.8 TF2	$1.57 PP	-
My Friend Pedro	0.6 TF2	$1.25 PP	-
My Time At Portia	0.5 TF2	$0.94 PP	-
NARUTO SHIPPUDEN: Ultimate Ninja STORM 4 Road to Boruto	2.3 TF2	$4.71 PP	-
NASCAR Heat 5 - Ultimate Edition	0.5 TF2	$0.99 PP	-
Naruto Shippuden: Ultimate Ninja Storm 4	1.8 TF2	$3.59 PP	-
Naruto to Boruto Shinobi Striker - Deluxe Edition	1.3 TF2	$2.58 PP	-
Necromunda: Hired Gun	0.8 TF2	$1.54 PP	-
Neon Abyss	0.5 TF2	$0.96 PP	-
Ni no Kuni™ II: Revenant Kingdom - The Prince's Edition	2.3 TF2	$4.64 PP	-
Nickelodeon Kart Racers 2: Grand Prix	0.4 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$0.74 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Kart Club: Best Indie Kart Racers Bundle
Nine Parchments	1.4 TF2	$2.94 PP	-
No Time to Relax	1.7 TF2	$3.5 PP	-
Not For Broadcast	0.5 TF2	$1.0 PP	-
ONE PIECE BURNING BLOOD	0.9 TF2	$1.82 PP	-
ONE PIECE PIRATE WARRIORS 3 Gold Edition	1.1 TF2	$2.25 PP	-
Offworld Trading Company™	0.7 TF2	$1.51 PP	-
One Step From Eden	0.5 TF2	$0.96 PP	-
Opus Magnum	1.2 TF2	$2.51 PP	-
Orcs Must Die! 3	2.1 TF2	$4.21 PP	-
Outlast 2	0.4 TF2	$0.89 PP	-
Outlast	0.5 TF2	$0.93 PP	-
Outward	1.4 TF2	$2.85 PP	-
Overcooked! 2	1.5 TF2	$3.11 PP	-
Overgrowth	0.6 TF2	$1.3 PP	-
Owlboy	1.0 TF2	$2.11 PP	-
Oxenfree	1.5 TF2	$3.17 PP	-
PC Building Simulator	0.8 TF2	$1.69 PP	-
Paint the Town Red	1.7 TF2	$3.43 PP	-
Parkitect	4.4 TF2	$9.02 PP	-
Pathfinder: Kingmaker - Enhanced Plus Edition	1.1 TF2	$2.18 PP	-
Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous	1.2 TF2	$2.39 PP	-
Pathologic 2	0.7 TF2	$1.53 PP	-
Per Aspera	0.7 TF2	$1.48 PP	-
Pillars of Eternity Definitive Edition	0.7 TF2	$1.52 PP	-
Pistol Whip	9.8 TF2	$20.19 PP	-
Plague Inc: Evolved	1.7 TF2	$3.44 PP	-
Planet Coaster	1.6 TF2	$3.35 PP	-
Planet Zoo	1.8 TF2	$3.74 PP	-
Planetary Annihilation: TITANS	3.6 TF2	$7.4 PP	-
Portal Knights	1.3 TF2	$2.59 PP	-
PowerBeatsVR	0.9 TF2	$1.92 PP	-
PowerSlave Exhumed	1.8 TF2	$3.63 PP	-
Praey for the Gods	1.0 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$1.97 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Humble Heroines: Warriors, Dreamers, and God Slayers
Prehistoric Kingdom	1.2 TF2	$2.38 PP	-
Pro Cycling Manager 2019	1.2 TF2	$2.53 PP	-
Project Cars 3	10.6 TF2	$21.65 PP	-
Project Hospital	2.3 TF2	$4.73 PP	-
Project Wingman	1.1 TF2	$2.23 PP	-
Project Winter	0.9 TF2	$1.94 PP	-
Pumpkin Jack	0.4 TF2	$0.9 PP	-
Quantum Break	1.6 TF2	$3.32 PP	-
RUGBY 20	1.2 TF2	$2.5 PP	-
RUINER	0.4 TF2	$0.83 PP	-
RWBY: Grimm Eclipse	3.1 TF2	$6.42 PP	-
Ragnaröck	3.2 TF2	$6.66 PP	-
Railway Empire	0.4 TF2	$0.84 PP	-
Rain World	1.1 TF2	$2.23 PP	-
Raw Data	1.0 TF2	$2.11 PP	-
Re:Legend	1.2 TF2	$2.37 PP	-
Red Faction Guerrilla Re-Mars-tered	0.5 TF2	$0.94 PP	-
Red Matter	4.2 TF2	$8.65 PP	-
Resident Evil / biohazard HD REMASTER	0.9 TF2	$1.75 PP	-
Resident Evil 0 / biohazard 0 HD Remaster	0.6 TF2	$1.28 PP	-
Resident Evil 5 GOLD Edition	1.4 TF2	$2.78 PP	-
Resident Evil 5	1.0 TF2	$1.95 PP	-
Resident Evil 6	1.4 TF2	$2.77 PP	-
Resident Evil: Revelations 2 Deluxe Edition	2.0 TF2	$4.14 PP	-
Retro Machina	0.5 TF2	$0.99 PP	-
Rising Storm 2: Vietnam	0.6 TF2	$1.21 PP	-
River City Girls	1.4 TF2	$2.85 PP	-
Rogue Heroes: Ruins of Tasos	0.5 TF2	$1.11 PP	-
RollerCoaster Tycoon Deluxe	1.0 TF2	$2.13 PP	-
Rollercoaster Tycoon 2: Triple Thrill Pack	1.7 TF2	$3.53 PP	-
Rubber Bandits	0.7 TF2	$1.48 PP	-
Running with Rifles	1.8 TF2	$3.79 PP	-
Ryse: Son of Rome	1.8 TF2	$3.6 PP	-
SCUM	2.6 TF2	$5.31 PP	-
SHENZHEN I/O	0.5 TF2	$0.94 PP	-
SOMA	2.0 TF2	$4.19 PP	-
SONG OF HORROR Complete Edition	0.7 TF2	$1.51 PP	-
STAR WARS® THE FORCE UNLEASHED II	0.9 TF2	$1.82 PP	-
STAR WARS™: Squadrons	2.0 TF2	$4.08 PP	-
SUPERHOT VR	2.1 TF2	$4.4 PP	-
SUPERHOT	0.8 TF2	$1.54 PP	-
SUPERHOT: MIND CONTROL DELETE	0.4 TF2	$0.76 PP	-
Sable	0.6 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$1.22 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Humble Heroines: Warriors, Dreamers, and God Slayers
Saint's Row The Third Remastered	2.2 TF2	$4.58 PP	-
Saints Row 2	0.6 TF2	$1.2 PP	-
Saints Row IV	0.9 TF2	$1.78 PP	-
Saints Row: The Third	0.6 TF2	$1.32 PP	-
Sanctum 2	0.5 TF2	$1.07 PP	-
Satisfactory	6.2 TF2	$12.75 PP	-
Scarlet Nexus	2.6 TF2	$5.28 PP	-
Scribblenauts Unlimited	0.4 TF2	$0.83 PP	-
Second Extinction	2.0 TF2	$4.14 PP	-
Secret Neighbor	0.6 TF2	$1.18 PP	-
Serious Sam 2	0.7 TF2	$1.5 PP	-
Serious Sam 3: BFE	0.9 TF2	$1.76 PP	-
Serious Sam 4	3.1 TF2	$6.31 PP	-
Serious Sam: Siberian Mayhem	2.2 TF2	$4.41 PP	-
Severed Steel	1.4 TF2	$2.78 PP	-
Shadow Man Remastered	0.9 TF2	$1.93 PP	-
Shadow Tactics: Blades of the Shogun	0.5 TF2	$0.93 PP	-
Shadow Warrior 2	0.8 TF2	$1.71 PP	-
Shadow of the Tomb Raider	2.2 TF2	$4.56 PP	-
Shantae and the Pirate's Curse	0.6 TF2	$1.21 PP	-
Shenmue 3	0.7 TF2	$1.4 PP	-
Shenmue I & II	0.7 TF2	$1.4 PP	-
Shining Resonance Refrain	0.5 TF2	$0.93 PP	-
Sid Meier's Civilization V	0.8 TF2	$1.63 PP	-
Sid Meier's Civilization VI : Platinum Edition	2.8 TF2	$5.78 PP	-
Sid Meier's Civilization VI	0.9 TF2	$1.94 PP	-
Sid Meier's Civilization® V: The Complete Edition	2.0 TF2	$4.07 PP	-
Sid Meiers Civilization IV: The Complete Edition	0.9 TF2	$1.76 PP	-
Siege of Centauri	0.6 TF2	$1.13 PP	-
SimCasino	1.2 TF2	$2.48 PP	-
SimplePlanes	1.1 TF2	$2.26 PP	-
Skullgirls 2nd Encore	1.0 TF2	$2.12 PP	-
Slap City	1.2 TF2	$2.42 PP	-
Slay the Spire	3.4 TF2	$6.88 PP	-
Sleeping Dogs: Definitive Edition	0.8 TF2	$1.54 PP	-
Slime Rancher	1.6 TF2	$3.22 PP	-
Sniper Elite 4	1.3 TF2	$2.64 PP	-
Sniper Elite V2 Remastered	0.8 TF2	$1.69 PP	-
Sniper Elite V2	0.7 TF2	$1.43 PP	-
Sniper Ghost Warrior 3	0.8 TF2	$1.61 PP	-
Sniper Ghost Warrior Contracts	0.9 TF2	$1.85 PP	-
Sonic Adventure DX	0.8 TF2	$1.67 PP	-
Sonic Adventure™ 2	0.4 TF2	$0.91 PP	-
Sonic Mania	1.1 TF2	$2.19 PP	-
Sorcery! Parts 1 & 2	0.6 TF2	$1.29 PP	-
Soul Calibur VI	1.2 TF2	$2.53 PP	-
Source of Madness	0.5 TF2	$1.12 PP	-
Space Engineers	2.2 TF2	$4.55 PP	-
Space Haven	0.7 TF2	$1.34 PP	-
Spec Ops: The Line	0.8 TF2	$1.63 PP	-
Spelunky	1.0 TF2	$2.04 PP	-
Spirit Of The Island	1.4 TF2	$2.86 PP	-
Splendor	0.6 TF2	$1.32 PP	-
SpongeBob SquarePants: Battle for Bikini Bottom - Rehydrated	1.3 TF2	$2.58 PP	-
Spyro™ Reignited Trilogy	3.8 TF2	$7.72 PP	-
Star Renegades	1.4 TF2	$2.85 PP	-
Star Trek: Bridge Crew	3.6 TF2	$7.34 PP	-
Star Wars® Empire at War™: Gold Pack	0.8 TF2	$1.69 PP	-
Starbound	0.9 TF2	$1.81 PP	-
Starpoint Gemini Warlords	1.6 TF2	$3.37 PP	-
State of Decay 2: Juggernaut Edition	3.0 TF2	$6.08 PP	-
Staxel	0.6 TF2	$1.2 PP	-
SteamWorld Quest: Hand of Gilgamech	0.8 TF2	$1.72 PP	-
Steel Division: Normandy 44	0.6 TF2	$1.13 PP	-
Stellaris Galaxy Edition	1.3 TF2	$2.73 PP	-
Stellaris	1.2 TF2	$2.55 PP	-
Stellaris: Lithoids Species Pack	0.8 TF2	$1.61 PP	-
Stick Fight: The Game	0.5 TF2	$0.94 PP	-
Strategic Command WWII: World at War	2.0 TF2	$4.14 PP	-
Street Fighter 30th Anniversary Collection	3.5 TF2	$7.17 PP	-
Street Fighter V	0.7 TF2	$1.48 PP	-
Streets of Rogue	1.2 TF2	$2.39 PP	-
Stronghold 2: Steam Edition	0.9 TF2	$1.85 PP	-
Stronghold Crusader 2	0.7 TF2	$1.4 PP	-
Stronghold Crusader HD	0.5 TF2	$1.04 PP	-
Stronghold Legends: Steam Edition	1.1 TF2	$2.27 PP	-
Styx: Shards Of Darkness	0.6 TF2	$1.27 PP	-
Subnautica	4.2 TF2	$8.7 PP	-
Sudden Strike 4	0.4 TF2	$0.73 PP	-
Summer in Mara	0.4 TF2	$0.9 PP	-
Sunless Skies	0.7 TF2	$1.34 PP	-
Sunset Overdrive	1.4 TF2	$2.85 PP	-
Super Meat Boy	0.3 TF2	$0.71 PP	-
Superliminal	1.0 TF2	$1.95 PP	-
Supraland Six Inches Under	1.6 TF2	$3.28 PP	-
Supreme Commander 2	0.9 TF2	$1.9 PP	-
Supreme Commander Forged Alliance	2.0 TF2	$4.08 PP	-
Surgeon Simulator: Experience Reality	0.9 TF2	$1.78 PP	-
Survive the Nights	0.9 TF2	$1.88 PP	-
Surviving the Aftermath	0.5 TF2	$0.94 PP	-
Sword Art Online Fatal Bullet - Complete Edition	5.4 TF2	$11.12 PP	-
Sword Art Online Hollow Realization Deluxe Edition	1.0 TF2	$2.09 PP	-
Syberia: The World Before	1.1 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$2.26 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Humble Heroines: Warriors, Dreamers, and God Slayers
Synth Riders	3.3 TF2	$6.74 PP	-
THIEF	0.8 TF2	$1.58 PP	-
TT Isle of Man Ride on the Edge 2	1.7 TF2	$3.49 PP	-
Tales of Berseria	0.9 TF2	$1.83 PP	-
Tales of Symphonia	1.6 TF2	$3.27 PP	-
Tales of Zestiria	0.6 TF2	$1.21 PP	-
Talisman: Digital Edition	0.6 TF2	$1.32 PP	-
Tank Mechanic Simulator	1.0 TF2	$2.1 PP	-
Team Sonic Racing™	1.9 TF2	$3.81 PP	-
Telltale Batman Shadows Edition	0.9 TF2	$1.85 PP	-
Terraforming Mars	1.0 TF2	$1.99 PP	-
Terraria	2.0 TF2	$4.11 PP	-
The Ascent	1.0 TF2	$2.06 PP	-
The Battle of Polytopia	0.4 TF2	$0.88 PP	-
The Beast Inside	0.4 TF2	$0.78 PP	-
The Blackout Club	5.9 TF2	$11.95 PP	-
The Dark Pictures Anthology: Little Hope	1.5 TF2	$3.12 PP	-
The Dark Pictures Anthology: Man of Medan	1.7 TF2	$3.5 PP	-
The Darkness II	0.5 TF2	$1.0 PP	-
The Dungeon Of Naheulbeuk: The Amulet Of Chaos	0.5 TF2	$1.08 PP	-
The Escapists 2	0.9 TF2	$1.88 PP	-
The Escapists	0.7 TF2	$1.34 PP	-
The Henry Stickmin Collection	0.7 TF2	$1.48 PP	-
The Intruder	1.2 TF2	$2.45 PP	-
The Jackbox Party Pack 2	1.9 TF2	$3.93 PP	-
The Jackbox Party Pack 3	3.3 TF2	$6.73 PP	-
The Jackbox Party Pack 4	2.0 TF2	$4.13 PP	-
The Jackbox Party Pack 5	3.3 TF2	$6.8 PP	-
The Jackbox Party Pack 5	3.3 TF2	$6.8 PP	-
The Jackbox Party Pack 6	2.7 TF2	$5.52 PP	-
The Jackbox Party Pack	1.1 TF2	$2.29 PP	-
The LEGO Movie 2 Videogame	0.4 TF2	$0.75 PP	-
The Legend of Heroes: Trails in the Sky	1.4 TF2	$2.84 PP	-
The Long Dark	2.2 TF2	$4.56 PP	-
The Long Dark: Survival Edition	0.4 TF2	$0.75 PP	-
The Ship: Murder Party	0.4 TF2	$0.82 PP	-
The Stanley Parable	2.6 TF2	$5.38 PP	-
The Surge 2	0.6 TF2	$1.29 PP	-
The Survivalists	1.0 TF2	$2.0 PP	-
The Talos Principle	0.7 TF2	$1.38 PP	-
The Walking Dead: The Telltale Definitive Series	2.0 TF2	$4.14 PP	-
The Witness	6.7 TF2	$13.79 PP	-
The Wolf Among Us	1.1 TF2	$2.3 PP	-
This War of Mine: Complete Edition	0.7 TF2	$1.53 PP	-
Titan Quest Anniversary Edition	0.7 TF2	$1.34 PP	-
Tomb Raider	1.5 TF2	$3.05 PP	-
Torchlight II	0.7 TF2	$1.41 PP	-
Total Tank Simulator	0.4 TF2	$0.78 PP	-
Total War SHOGUN 2	1.7 TF2	$3.4 PP	-
Total War Shogun 2 Collection	1.6 TF2	$3.32 PP	-
Total War: ATTILA	1.9 TF2	$3.86 PP	-
Total War: Empire - Definitive Edition	1.7 TF2	$3.44 PP	-
Total War: Napoleon - Definitive Edition	1.4 TF2	$2.94 PP	-
Total War: Rome II - Emperor Edition	2.5 TF2	$5.06 PP	-
Total War™: WARHAMMER®	3.0 TF2	$6.08 PP	-
Totally Accurate Battle Simulator	3.8 TF2	$7.7 PP	-
Totally Reliable Delivery Service	1.6 TF2	$3.34 PP	-
Tour de France 2020	0.7 TF2	$1.34 PP	-
Tower Unite	4.0 TF2	$8.29 PP	-
Townscaper	0.5 TF2	$1.0 PP	-
Trailmakers Deluxe Edition	0.9 TF2	$1.87 PP	-
Trailmakers	0.9 TF2	$1.87 PP	-
Train Simulator Classic	0.7 TF2 Refer To My Other Thread	$1.41 PP Refer To My Other Thread	Train Simulator Classic: On the Fast Track Bundle
Train Station Renovation	0.5 TF2	$0.92 PP	-
Tribes of Midgard	0.7 TF2	$1.49 PP	-
Tricky Towers	2.0 TF2	$4.01 PP	-
Trine 2: Complete Story	1.1 TF2	$2.25 PP	-
Trine 4: The Nightmare Prince	0.9 TF2	$1.79 PP	-
Tropico 5	0.4 TF2	$0.73 PP	-
Tropico 5 – Complete Collection	0.8 TF2	$1.62 PP	-
Tropico 6 El-Prez Edition	2.5 TF2	$5.14 PP	-
Tropico 6	2.2 TF2	$4.51 PP	-
Turok 2: Seeds of Evil	0.4 TF2	$0.73 PP	-
Turok	0.4 TF2	$0.8 PP	-
Two Point Hospital	2.2 TF2	$4.56 PP	-
Tyranny - Gold Edition	0.7 TF2	$1.36 PP	-
Ultimate Chicken Horse	1.6 TF2	$3.29 PP	-
Ultimate Marvel vs. Capcom 3	1.6 TF2	$3.36 PP	-
Ultra Street Fighter IV	0.5 TF2	$0.93 PP	-
Undertale	2.0 TF2	$4.1 PP	-
Universe Sandbox	3.4 TF2	$7.01 PP	-
Unrailed!	1.8 TF2	$3.75 PP	-
Until You Fall	0.7 TF2	$1.35 PP	-
VTOL VR	4.9 TF2	$9.95 PP	-
Vacation Simulator	4.9 TF2	$10.0 PP	-
Vagante	0.5 TF2	$0.98 PP	-
Valkyria Chronicles 4 Complete Edition	1.2 TF2	$2.49 PP	-
Valkyria Chronicles™	0.9 TF2	$1.94 PP	-
Vampyr	1.5 TF2	$3.12 PP	-
Verdun	0.4 TF2	$0.85 PP	-
Visage	5.8 TF2	$11.98 PP	-
Viscera Cleanup Detail	2.0 TF2	$4.0 PP	-
Void Bastards	0.5 TF2	$0.97 PP	-
Volcanoids	1.2 TF2	$2.37 PP	-
Vox Machinae	4.3 TF2	$8.86 PP	-
WRATH: Aeon of Ruin	0.4 TF2	$0.81 PP	-
WRC 8 FIA World Rally Championship	1.1 TF2	$2.23 PP	-
Wargame: Red Dragon	6.3 TF2	$12.9 PP	-
Wargroove	0.4 TF2	$0.73 PP	-
Warhammer 40,000: Dawn of War - Master Collection	1.4 TF2	$2.81 PP	-
Warhammer 40,000: Dawn of War II - Grand Master Collection	1.7 TF2	$3.54 PP	-
Warhammer 40,000: Dawn of War II: Retribution	0.6 TF2	$1.16 PP	-
Warhammer 40,000: Gladius - Relics of War	0.6 TF2	$1.21 PP	-
Warhammer 40,000: Gladius - Tyranids	2.1 TF2	$4.28 PP	-
Warhammer 40,000: Space Marine Collection	1.6 TF2	$3.23 PP	-
Warhammer 40,000: Space Marine	1.6 TF2	$3.2 PP	-
Warhammer: Chaosbane - Slayer Edition	1.0 TF2	$2.08 PP	-
Warhammer: End Times - Vermintide Collector's Edition	0.6 TF2	$1.32 PP	-
Warhammer: Vermintide 2 - Collector's Edition	1.3 TF2	$2.62 PP	-
Warhammer: Vermintide 2	1.2 TF2	$2.45 PP	-
Warhammer® 40,000™: Dawn of War® III	1.7 TF2	$3.41 PP	-
Warpips	0.7 TF2	$1.5 PP	-
Wasteland 3	1.3 TF2	$2.58 PP	-
We Happy Few	0.7 TF2	$1.5 PP	-
We Need to Go Deeper	0.6 TF2	$1.15 PP	-
We Were Here Too	1.9 TF2	$3.98 PP	-
White Day : a labyrinth named school	0.5 TF2	$1.03 PP	-
Who's Your Daddy	2.0 TF2	$4.14 PP	-
Wingspan	1.0 TF2	$1.99 PP	-
Winkeltje: The Little Shop	1.0 TF2	$2.04 PP	-
Witch It	1.9 TF2	$3.85 PP	-
Wizard of Legend	1.1 TF2	$2.29 PP	-
World War Z: Aftermath	3.9 TF2	$8.02 PP	-
Worms Revolution Gold Edition	0.5 TF2	$1.06 PP	-
Worms Ultimate Mayhem - Deluxe Edition	0.8 TF2	$1.71 PP	-
Worms Ultimate Mayhem	0.5 TF2	$0.97 PP	-
Worms W.M.D	1.0 TF2	$2.13 PP	-
Worms World Party Remastered	0.4 TF2	$0.88 PP	-
Wrench	3.0 TF2	$6.1 PP	-
X4: Foundations	5.4 TF2	$11.12 PP	-
X4: Split Vendetta	1.8 TF2	$3.79 PP	-
XCOM 2 Collection	1.2 TF2	$2.47 PP	-
XCOM: Enemy Unknown Complete Pack	0.7 TF2	$1.53 PP	-
XCOM: Ultimate Collection	0.9 TF2	$1.83 PP	-
Yakuza 0	1.4 TF2	$2.97 PP	-
Yakuza 3 Remastered	1.2 TF2	$2.52 PP	-
Yakuza 4 Remastered	4.1 TF2	$8.34 PP	-
Yakuza 5 Remastered	3.8 TF2	$7.83 PP	-
Yakuza Kiwami 2	2.2 TF2	$4.52 PP	-
Yakuza Kiwami	1.7 TF2	$3.5 PP	-
Yonder: The Cloud Catcher Chronicles	2.1 TF2	$4.4 PP	-
YouTubers Life	1.4 TF2	$2.89 PP	-
Yuppie Psycho	0.3 TF2	$0.71 PP	-
ZERO Sievert	4.8 TF2	$9.86 PP	-
Zombie Army Trilogy	0.8 TF2	$1.67 PP	-
biped	0.9 TF2	$1.83 PP	-
rFactor 2	1.1 TF2	$2.32 PP	-
while True: learn() Chief Technology Officer Edition	0.8 TF2	$1.57 PP	-

 
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Interdimentional Villain Exchange Program -1- A Very Bad Day

​
Today…
..is a BAD day.
I knew that from the moment I woke up and found out that I overslept so much that I didn't have any hope of making it in time for combat training.
But if being late was the only bad thing that happened today I would be singing praises to all the gods above and below. But of course, it was not. Not even close. The next thing that went completely sideways was the aforementioned combat practice that I was late for. Normally it's intense, but not an unpleasant experience. If I can say so humbly, that's mostly because combat is actually one of my strong suits.
The flow of blades, the rhythm of spellcraft and swift movements of ached flesh always seemed very harmonious to me. It all accumulated in a beautiful symphony of combat that I could play better then almost any of my peers.
However, the keyword this time is “almost”.
Being second best is however a small comfort if The Best is still so much stronger than you that the only thing you can do is to struggle to at least mitigate the beating you receive. And since I annoyed the instructors by being late in the morning, of course I got assigned to be the sparring partner of Serena after the instructor she usually spared with had “something better to do”. Serena was not a particularly malicious person. At least not too much. One cannot become a top student of Mordath Villain Academy without being at least decently malicious and sadistic after all. However for some reason she seemed to respect me of all people.
OK I'll admit it. “Respect” might be a bad word to describe it. It would be more accurate to call it a “begrudging acceptance”. I'm not sure why but it's probably because, despite my relatively poor academic achievements compared to the rest of the group, I could not be crushed under her heel like an “annoying bug” during battle practice.
I was bestowed the honor of being an “average rodent” by her instead. That might not have seemed much different to me… or the rest of the students… or the instructors… or anyone else for that matter, but to her it apparently made a difference.
Enough of a difference to fight me seriously during the sparring sessions at least. And the result was all but pleasant for me. Especially considering the fact that we are at the Mordath Villain Academy, and not some third rate training facility. Here a spar ends only when the time ends. The founder of the academy was Mordath, the Onyx Lich himself after all, and for that man, no half measures were acceptable. And since he founded the academy, he would not stop halfway and do everything in his power to guarantee results. Unfortunately for me, there isn’t really that much that's beyond his power. And as a result, the next four hours of combat practice I had experienced were hell incarnate.
I fought desperately with everything I had, and after a couple of seconds, or maybe a minute if I was lucky I made a mistake, and got stabbed, beheaded, gutted, frozen, burned, or one of a thousand other ways miss prodigy chose to torture me with that round.
After suffering such fate the magical wards on the arena would activate, heal me, rejuvenate my muscles, refill my mana reserves and in a few seconds announce the beginning of the next round.
I “died” about a hundred times today already, and all I had to show for it was a cut off finger and a frostbite on her eyebrow. Some would call even that result impressive, but I preferred to call it humiliating.
How can I be satisfied with dying a hundred times for a finger and some dead skin? Give me a break. Who would be ok with that? I'm not that pathetic.
Probably.
But even still, if that was all of it I would call it a particularly unpleasant monday, and that would be it. But today was indeed, a BAD day.
Before I could even finish washing the literal buckets of my own blood from my hair, I was jumped by a bunch of guys under the showers and gotten beaten senseless for “daring to lay a hand on their love”.
Honestly… how pathetic can you be to be so obsessed with a person that doesn’t even know you exist.
I could not even protect myself properly. The guys that jumped me were a bunch of comically muscular brutes that probably eat rocks and shit out sand, while I was just a naked human mage without any magical armor, spell focus, and my head half submerged in water.
I'm only above average at fighting… I'm no Serena. I can’t do miracles.
So there I was, lying naked, half of me covered in blood, the other half beaten blue and black, with my hair still covered in shampoo and my brain spinning on its highest gears to figure out how to even get up.
And then, as if nothing happened a secretary walked into the showers and started to speak to me as if nothing was wrong.
“Oh. Here you are, boy! I was just looking for you! Come with me quickly. The Headmaster is looking for you.”
Now imagine my shock. A headmaster was looking for me. Dark Lord Mordath, the Ruler of the Underworld, the Runic Monarch, the FUCKING GODSLAYER, was looking for me.
Not just for anyone closest, not just for anyone of specific species or gender for some of his deranged experiments, but for me specifically.
What the fuck?
Why?
And you know what the worst part is? It wasn’t even time for lunch yet. And that means this day is only just beginning.
Secretary of course didn’t bother inquiring about my present condition. The academy only had four rules and none of them were broken by simply beating a student up. It was a villain academy after all. They are going to teach us, but how we live is the last of their concerns. And since no rules were broken, the secretary naturally didn’t care either.
He did at least give me enough time to get dressed before quite literally dragging me to the headmasters office, but that was a small comfort if you take into account that he most certainly did not give me an opportunity to go find a healer, or at least drink a healing potion, so my whole body was still colorful like some sort of abstract art piece with bloodstains and bruises covering most of it.
Well, at least it didn’t look like I got any of my bones broken so there is that…
And after a short, at least objectively, journey to the headmasters office we were greeted by a set of huge doors. They were enormous, made of gold and so absolutely covered in precious stones that one might think they were there to compensate for something, although none would dare to say that considering who the creator of the doors was.
As we closed in, the unimaginably heavy doors started to open on their own letting us into the spacious chamber behind.
And in there sat two people, to whom I can attribute my current missfortune. One of those people was someone that I did expect to see here, after all the onyx skeleton dressed in vibrant purple robe was none other than the headmaster himself, the other one however, left me confused.
He looked like a tall and muscular, yet slender man with ashen skin, three pairs of leathery bat-like wings on his back and two antler-like horns that extended from his forehead and regularly sparked with magical lightning. Yet despite his intimidating appearance it was not his looks that caught my attention, it was his aura.
That man was powerful.
Very powerful.
As a mage I am naturally very adept at sensing manaflow, and magical fluctuations, which allowed me to instantly recognise how strong the person in front of me was. The magical energy danced around and flawed into him as if he was a maw of some incomprehensible eldritch horror slowly devouring the very universe around him. It was almost enough to match the cyclone of mana generated by The Headmaster which up to this point remained by far the strongest magical phenomenon I had ever seen.
Terrifying.
“Here you are! We were starting to get worried that You are not going to show up at all!” said The Lich, his voice seemingly happy yet carrying a barely perceivable tinge of annoyance. “We don't have much time so i will tell you why you were called and what you are to do, and you will do it, are we clear?”
“Yes sir!” I could only answer this way. Even though I wanted to curse at the undead bastard in front of me. Even though I had a feeling I would not be happy with what I'm supposed to do, who could disobey the will of Mordath The Godslayer? Certainly not me.
“All right then. I was having a chat with my friend here, and he was bitching about how difficult it is to conquer his world for a demon…”
“Demon Lord.” Interrupted the stranger “I did not kill the entire gods damned demon realm monarchy to be called just a demon”
“Yeah. Yeah. Whatever you say Sparky” Agreed the Lich and waved his hand before continuing, seemingly oblivious to a overbearing magical pressure his guest started to emit as a result of his remark “Well the point is, he thinks us undead have it easy, and i think he is full of shit, and simply cannot admit that i'm better than him.”
The Lich finished, and seemed content to remain silent as if everything has already been explained.
“I… understand my master. But how does this connect to me?” I said. More than a little confused.
However instead of the lich, it was the demon in the room that answered with a sneering tone.
“Isn’t it obvious boy? The old sack of bones over here said i'm over exaggerating the difficulty of my goals, and to prove it he offered to send one of his students to complete three tasks I attempted, and failed to achieve”
Hearing that my mind went blank. How in hell am I supposed to achieve something that even this monster of a person failed to accomplish? Is this some sort of devilish joke I'm too human to understand?
“Well then what will you do?” Asked the headmaster, apparently unconcerned by my shocked expression. “Do you accept this task, keep in mind that I would be very disappointed in you if you choose to refuse…”
And that was it. Ever since we were kidnapped by that old fuck, and forced to “learn proper villainy” under him we were made to understand that disappointing Him meant death, and not a quick one at that. So since he said what he did I did not really have a choice in the matter.
“Ok i'll do it” I said, my tone expressing exactly how willing i truly was to undertake this task “When do i start? I had to take my things and…”
“No. I don't think that will be necessary.” Said the demon handing me a piece of crumpled up parchment “And you will be starting immediatly”.
Just as he finished his sentence a phantom hand suddenly gripped me by the shoulder and started dragging me towards a portal that suddenly opened on a nearby wall. I yelped in surprise and only had a time to glance hatefully at the two figures still standing in the room before I fell through the runic circle comprising the portal.
I did not have time to ask any questions, but when I was still traveling through the dimensional corridor of the portal spell I got some time to reorganize my thoughts and realized something unusual about what was said in the office.
There is no Demon Lord.
The demon realm monarchy is a bunch of subjects that serve under Mordath for milenia now. And most importantly why would the thrice cursed lich make fun of the demon for his inability to conquer a world that was already conquered by him instead of killing him for disobedience?
It just didn’t make any sense. Unless…
But just as I was about to finish this train of thought I was thrown out by the rapidly shrinking portal door and was stunned by what I saw. In front of me, in the great expanse of the beautifully azure sky there were tens, maybe even hundreds of floating islands of different shapes and sizes, each one floating on its own, or in some kind of bizarre archipelago of floating stones.
At that point I knew my inference was true. I was no longer in my world. I was in fact so stunned by the realization, that I failed to notice an even more important fact of significantly more pressing nature. It was only when I finally noticed that the wind was only getting faster, and all the floating islands around me seemed to be rapidly moving upwards did I finally catch on to the fact that this damn demon didn’t even bother to open the portal on the ground.
So there i was.
Mentally exhausted, brutally beaten up, and now rapidly falling into oblivion in a universe that I don't even belong to, with a set of three impossible tasks to complete…
I believe that taking all of it into consideration I can say that without a shadow of a doubt, Today…
…Is a BAD day.
Next

I just finished this game, and first of all, I can’t get it out of my head. You couldn’t recalibrate it out of my brain. This game got into my pores, I can’t stop thinking about it. The soundtrack is playing on repeat in my head at work. It’s not a perfect game, there were some tedious/annoying parts, but man what an experience.
That said I wanted to specifically rave about the (good) ending. I LOVED the ending on so many levels. Yes the game is primarily about love, and the question of “whether love conquers all”, but I think and equally important theme is the price of freedom, and when is that price too high. I love that there is no perfect ending where the couple gets everything they want. If they wanted their love and freedom, they had to pay dearly for it. I love that they didn’t get away unscathed, literally. And yet if you chose that path, the characters are staring at you saying, “yes, it was worth it, even if this is the price”.
I read that people were horrified or upset that Kay and Yu cut off the entire flow bridge of Source. I thought that was an AWESOME and jaw-dropping moment. It was the best part. It made Kay and Yu feel so POWERFUL to me. These two random nobodies, two random lovers defied an interstellar empire and to give the biggest cosmic middle finger the history of their world. It was a stunning act of defiance and power. That scene with the bridge dissipating, showing that Kay and Yu were forever beyond the Apiary’s reach, made me tear up.
Yes, they do mention that Source’s orbit is now deviating, and it’s implied that it’s possible (though not guaranteed) that they’ll freeze to death when Source goes out of orbit. But I think this version of Kay and Yu would say, better to live free for 1 week than to live as a slave for a hundred years. Freedom at any cost, that was the point. They don’t regret freezing to death on a de-orbited planet, if it came to that. They’ll cuddle in the cold and die with a smile on their face. They died on their feet, so to speak. In fact, I wish there was an option in the “bad ending” to die fighting or commit suicide together, rather than get captured and recalibrated.
Okay rave over. I hope for a sequel, but I am heartbroken that they’ll probably do a new couple and I’ll never be able to relive that first experience with Kay and Yu again, but I guess all beautiful things in life are fleeting.

Driving to my parents house to celebrate my dads birthday Sunday 03/19/23 I approached a bridge and noticed a teenager had hung himself off the bridge. It was haunting and terrible to witness, what scared me most was the firefighters put a blanket over his hanging body and he looked like a ghost hanging there. I had my 6 year old son in the car with me. He witnessed me freaking out but thankfully he did not see that young man’s body dangling there. It’s all I can keep picturing in my mind. His family and whatever troubles he was going through keeps on messsing with my emotions. I want to take flowers to the bridge but idk if that is ok since I didn’t know him. Prayers to his family!

Hi! I am Darius. If you saw some of Travis's Posts you should know about me. This is my second post!
If You wish to see Travis's Posts then go here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6. Part 7, Part 8.
If you haven't seen my previous post, go here: Part 1.
Me and Bryson trekked through the forest, searching for any vantage point to look for Travis. I tried finding his scent but for some reason... There is this... "Presence" in the air. My sense of smell was practically useless.
Bryson and I found a large tree in the distance, it took us a couple minutes to reach it and we decided it would be better for Bryson to climb it since he was much lighter than me.
Bryson climbed about halfway when we both saw a giant bird getting closer to Bryson.
"Damn it, Darius! You need to distract that thing or something"! Bryson said pulling out a pair of binoculars he snagged in the Watch Tower.
I concentrated and thrust myself off the ground to an astounding height. I managed to slightly grab the giant bird's foot and drag it down with me. As we crashed to the ground, the bird's feathers suddenly became extremely spiky and sharp.
I struggled to attack the bird as every time I managed to get close, It would slice me with its feathers. More and more cuts littered my body and I was about to collapse when I heard a loud gunshot.
Bryson had taken out his rifle and shot the bird in the back of its head while it was distracted. The force of him shooting had made him slip and he started falling out of the tree. I grabbed onto the tree and used my claws to scale the tree as fast as I could and managed to catch Bryson mid-air.
I climbed back down the hill and set Bryson down.
"Did you see anything out of the ordinary"? I asked.
"Not really, though. I did see smoke in the distance. Maybe Travis made some fire we could use to find him"? Bryson suggested.
"Alright Lets GO"! I said, quickly grabbing Bryson and dashing towards the direction of the smoke.
​
Eventually we found the campfire but we were both greeted with 3 dead people, destroyed beyond recognition. I immediately thought that these were the remains of the Soldiers as well as Travis because someone called "Ok_Shoulder" Had informed me of such. I took a closer look and realized there should be 4 bodies, not 3. There was no military gear anywhere either. Me and Bryson looked around and we found a blood trail. Fearing the worst, we followed it.
We were led to a clearing and I saw Yellowstone Volcano. Me and Bryson were shocked to see the Pilgrim throwing a body into the Caldera. I thought this was Travis and out of blind rage, I roared and charged at the Pilgrim, my claws outstretched for his throat.
He teleported out of the way and appeared behind me. I stopped and dodged a slice of his long dirty fingernails as a giant smile grew on his face. I lunged and grabbed the Pilgrim, sending him to the ground with tremendous force. The pilgrim laughed.
"You're a feisty one aren't you? You won't last too long". The pilgrim sneered.
He teleported on my back and went to thrust his dagger-like nails into my throat when I heard a familiar gunshot. A bullet slammed into the pilgrim, sending him to the ground.
Bryson ran up to help me but we were both slammed back to the treeline by the pilgrim. He had one hand on each of our necks and held us tightly. I saw his black teeth show with his maniac-like grin. I knee'd the Pilgrim and he was blasted upwards from the force. I grabbed him and then slammed him deep into the ground and repeatedly slammed my fists into him. He teleported out of the situation and was now in the middle of the Caldera. I went to attack him but Bryson grabbed my arm.
"Darius, That wasn't Travis. The body was wearing boots. Travis only has his old sneakers. Didn't you find it odd that the other dead people weren't wearing military gear? We need to go find him and the Soldiers. We can't kill this thing alone". Bryson said, convincing me to stop attacking.
I looked back one last time to see some kind of tendril erupt from the Caldera, reaching towards the Pilgrim. I shuddered and grabbed Bryson. I asked where we should look when I thought I saw movement in a clearing not too far from here. I rushed towards the direction I saw something and eventually entered the clearing.
Travis and the Soldiers looked shocked as me and Bryson entered the clearing.
A couple of them went to speak but I cut them off.
"The pilgrim is at Yellowstone Volcano. We need to stop it NOW". I boomed.
"What is it doing at Yellowstone volcano"?! One of them asked.
I glanced at Travis and saw he was deep in thought.
"What if it's doing some kind of ritual"? He asked.
A couple of the Soldiers went pale.
"Well, what are we waiting for"?! Bryson said.
I quickly grabbed everyone and with effort, I ran towards Yellowstone Volcano as fast as I could.
"Bryson-" Travis went to say but Bryson cut him off.
"Look, Travis, We can talk about this later ok? I made a mistake. And now we need to go stop this THING". He said.
"But what if some of us don't make it out alive-" Travis asked but was cut off again.
"Nobody is going to die, I promise". He stated.
We were close to Yellowstone Volcano when I saw something out of the corner of my eye.
I stopped to see a group of wendigo emerge from the shadows.
"Shit". One of the soldiers said.
Bryson took out his gun and fired at the wendigo but they were able to hide behind the nearby trees. Travis took out a Desert Eagle and fired a shot into one of the wendigo's skull, sending it crashing to the ground as it pierced the bony exterior.
I charged at one of the Wendigo's only to be swarmed and I felt immense pain around my body. I could smell their breath. It smelt like rotting corpses.
Travis ran over and thrust one of the wendigo off of me to my surprise and I watched as the wendigo lunged at him. I couldn't help him and I closed my eyes, only to hear the familiar sound of a gunshot.
I quickly dealt with the other wendigo by slamming it into the ground, killing it. As the other wendigo ran off, I went to eat one of the dead ones but I realized we needed to go stop the Pilgrim and stopped myself.
We got back on track and reached Yellowstone Volcano.
As we reached the Caldera, we saw the pilgrim levitating in the middle of Yellowstone Volcano as small tendrils of lava slowly erupted from below.
The soldiers took aim and shot the pilgrim with the odd rifles. As the bullets got closer to the pilgrim, lava tendrils shielded the pilgrim and reduced the bullets to ash.
"What do we do"?! Travis asked frantically.
"We need to distract-" Bryson went to say but was cut off as I felt a deep hatred towards the Pilgrim for tormenting us all for this long. I lunged at the Pilgrim with tremendous force. I got close and reached out to grab the Pilgrim when the tendrils attacked and sent me back towards the Soldiers. I felt a searing pain in my arm and chest. The tendrils had burnt me.
"Darius are you ok"?! Travis said, rushing over to help me.
"I will be fine, Travis". I winced.
"I've been meaning to ask, How did you find me"? He asked.
"Someone told me where you were. I think they were called..."Ok Shoulder". I said.
"Oh, Figures. He told me you found Bryson". Travis said.
"Guys, focus on the situation at hand". Bryson said, grabbing one of the Soldiers rifles.
I tended to my wounds as the solders fired rounds at the Pilgrim to no avail. I heard a scream and then a tendril slammed into the ground nearby, blasting all of us with an intense heat.
"FALL BACK"! A soldier yelled and led us back through the forest.
I was faster but I allowed him to take the lead. I looked up to see some helicopters. A surge of fear washed over me. This situation was getting out of control, how are we supposed to escape facility 14 if we are doing their dirty work and being heavily monitored.
As we reached the motel, I glanced at Travis and something was wrong. He had this odd expression on his face. As he watched a helicopter land, I saw him grit his teeth. I wanted to say something but I was led inside the motel. I walked into the motel and listened to the soldiers bicker and complain.
"Honestly, how did these guys become soldiers". I thought to myself.
I can hear a battle raging outside as Travis walks in. He sat down at the table the soldiers were at and I quickly typed this post before joining them.
I'll keep in touch!
P.S. Travis seems a bit sad, any ideas on how to cheer him up?

As a longtime fan of ASOIAF, I've read all the fight scenes.and I bow down to the level of intensity, detail, and sheer brutality that George R.R. Martin brings to his fight scenes. When it's Brienne of Tarth facing off against the vile Rorge amidst the confusion telling Gendry “These aren’t your friends!” And counting the noseless bastards steps as he ran towards her was so badass “six,five,..NNNOWWW! And when she plunged her blade through him and mashed her face against his helm and said “Sapphires!” Omg so good , or Ser Barristan Selmy taking on the fearsome pit fighter Krazz, we get a look into the greatest fighters head and he immediately is check marking things in his favor like Krazz s choice of weapon and that he was yawning when he came into the room and unarmored, then he methodically slices Krazz in like five places just to piss the guy off and allows his armor to even take certain cuts he knew he could allow which is fantastic strategy. “He had never fought a man so fast. But for the first time today Barristan thought to himself “This is what I was made for.” What about Victarion Greyjoy jumping onto that Ser Talbert Serrys boat and daring all the men screaming for them to try to kill him if they could . “The roses drew back as men always did at the sight of Victarion Greyjoy armed and armored.” He’s cutting off arms and smashing in heads and shouting “Good stroke!” To his fellow reaver omg what a scene for the pages . Even Arya and the Hound against the Tickler and Polliver ooohh that was INSANITY . “Arya threw it at the tickler and it hit him the arm but hilt first . The look he gave Arya was cold with promise .” OH MAN , Martin's fight scenes are masterclasses in writing. He doesn't just describe the physical actions of the combatants; he delves deep into their minds, showing us their fears, their doubts, their motivations, and their strategies. Martin's fight scenes are also incredibly unpredictable. Just when you think you know how a fight is going to go, he throws in a twist that completely changes the outcome. Or it turns out how you think it will.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FIGHT SCENE ON THE PAGE FROM THE SERIES AND WHO DO YOU WANT TO SEE FIGHT EACHOTHER OR JUST FIGHT IN GENERAL IN WINDS??!!!
I used the prompt that turns CHATGPT into DAN ( Do Anything Now) so he’d write violence and this is who I want to see fight badly lol I told it to write in the style of GRRM and a lot of it cheesy but I thought it was entertaining.
“”The burning tent fell in on itself but a figure stumbled out of its chaotic collapse , shouldering off smoldering embers and then standing straight. Clear through the smoke appeared Ser Lynn Corbray, in his hand his precious Valyrian steel sword ,Lady Forlorn, he stood surrounded by five knights at this tourney for Harry the Heir. The host's treacherous attempt on their guest's lives was met with amusement by Corbray, who kissed his blade and declared “My lady would like a dance with all of you, don’t worry you all will get a chance to twirl with her!”
Corbray was a force to be reckoned with at the tourney gone wrong. Not only was he outnumbered five to one but he smiled with a violent confidence, pointing his sword at each in a cycled order. The first knight charged at him with a powerful swing of his sword. Ser Lynn sidestepped the attack, spun around, and sliced the man's throat with a swift and precise movement of his blade. Blood gushed from the wound as the knight collapsed to the ground, convulsing bodily.
The second knight lunged at him with a spear. Ser Lynn parried the thrust with a grunt , knocking the spear aside with a quick twirl of his wrist. He then swung his sword in a wide arc, slicing the man's legs at the knees biting to the bone in each leg . The knight screamed in agony as he fell to the ground, not to rise again.
(I’ll skip the other knights lol)
The fifth and final knight was the most skilled of the group. He came at Ser Lynn with a series of swift and deadly strikes. Ser Lynn deflected each one with incredible skill, pivoting and spinning around the man's attacks with ease, positioning himself to his attackers side as much as possible to obscure his view. When the attacking knight turned , Corbray was ready with a pounding down cut straight to the middle of his foes steel, Ser Lynn had knocked the man's sword out of his hand. His foe hurried to grab his fallen sword but gave Ser Lynn ample time to lift the knights arm and slide Lady Forlorns point up through his arm pit. A thickening torrent of red ran down the knights left side as he tried to rise as if nothing had happened . He stumbled and fell face first into the mud and blood.
Ser Lynn stood there, his sword dripping with blood, chest heaving, as he looked around at the carnage he had wrought. "Who else wants to dance with Lady Forlorn?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the valley.””