The lesson I learned was that a small tight knit community in a backwater hellhole in Wyoming may have more shared blood on its hands than any big city. I survived for four years among these godless folks and now that I’m a few states away, I’ll confess; in that whole godforsaken territory there’s only two living persons whose names doesn’t taste like ash in my mouth… Richard and Charles, they was alright. The rest? Just parasitic blood drinkers. I hope the glow from that uranium plant eats them alive. I hope their cursed bloodlines pay the price for their sins, generation after twisted generation of inbred deformations. I hope that town rots them all from the inside out. May the Good Lord rebuke them and send ’em straight to hell.
How’d it twist my view? I used to think a crowd was mostly decent. Thought the rot was just a few bad apples in a good barrel. But I was wrong. I lived in a town of nine thousand, and every year, nine hundred outsiders vanish into thin air. Just ghosts in the fog. As for Hicksville and its population? I hope they get exactly what’s coming to them when the Big Day rolls around.
