Thank you for joining me for this very special emergency post. We have witnessed reports coming out of Beijing of a woman defecating herself during an athletic competition in front of god and all the Chinese. Despite the embarrassing situation, the woman, identified as Joanna Wietrzyk of Australia, finished first place in the HYROX competition all whilst fecal matter visibly seeped from her spandex shorts and down her legs.
From the perspective of The Internet Ruined Everything, this is an athletic feat on par with Bill Moro bowing a perfect game on 9/11 or Dock Ellis pitching a no hitter on LSD. Yet Wietrzyk’s achievement has stirred up an international controversy. Many are left wondering if the HYROX committee should have removed Wietrzyk, paused the competition, and disinfected the course.
I have reached out to an expert on the matter, the scatologist Dr. Peter Houndmouth of the University of Tampa Bay at the Jacksonville campus in Ocala.
Montana: Dr. Houndmouth, thank you for joining me.
Houndmouth: My pleasure, Beau.
Montana: So tell me, what were your initial thoughts when you first heard the news out of China?
Houndmouth: I tell ya, I dropped everything and immediately searched the internet for every image I could find. So far, I’ve collected 378 images and clips. So this is all I’ve been doing for the last 24 hours. It’s been nonstop staring at Ms. Wietrzyk’s buttocks and the spew of poo streaming down her legs. I tell ya, this is every scatologists’ dream.
Montana: Well many on the internet are concerned about sanitary safety, particularly for the other athletes. Is there any merit to these concerns?
Houndmouth: Beau, I’ve been in this business for over 20 years. Do you know how many bike seats I’ve put my nose up to? How much ass sweat I’ve gotten on my fingers while doing “research” at the gym? I’ve only gotten pink eye a few dozen times. I assure you, eating ass is a totally healthy way to build your immune system and bring pleasure to your partner. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be a sexual thing. Lots of people enjoy the sights, sounds, smells, and even taste of poop. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I recommend to your audience that every night, particularly after physically strenuous days, to remove your underwear and place it over your head. Breathe in deep the day’s stank. And if you go commando, you can always steal a your wife’s dirty pair. But whatever you do, don’t let her catch you or else…
Montana: …Okay, so to get this conversation back on track, in your professional opinion, Wietrzyk’s incident did not pose a health risk to others?
Houndmouth: Gee, ya know, it’s difficult to say. If I had more physical evidence, I could give a more definitive answer. One way that we could get to the bottom of this is if Ms. Wietrzyk sent me her soiled shorts. Since this news has broke, I’ve been pinging her DMs relentlessly to no avail. So Joanna, if you’re reading this, please send me your dirty shorts. If you can’t send me that pair, then any pair of underwear will do. I promise to use this clothing for research purposes only. I have not, and never will, get an erection from holding a woman’s soiled underwear because I’m a real doctor from a real college and…
Montana: …alright! Thank you, Doctor. And thank you to all of you for joining me for this emergency post 🙏
The tracer rounds momentarily stopped. The priest launched up from behind the burning squad car and unloaded several shotgun shells in their direction. DuPont stood up and fired the .44 up at the overhead window. As shards of glass rained down from the roof, Moses lurched toward the boxes of dynamite.
“Ahhhahahhhahaaa!!!!!” he screamed.
Oren and Hutch sprinted behind him and they kicked over the wooden boxes and grabbed as many sashes as they could. In a span of seconds, they collected eight sashes and then made a beeline towards the left end of the house. Moses was about to make a sharp right into the building when an axe launched itself into his chest. “For fuck’s sake!” he yelled.
Oren and Hutch stopped dead in their tracks. Holding the axe stem was none other than the butler. A quiver of arrows wrapped around his chest. Oren lifted his shotgun to parry the blow of the axe as he swung it toward him. The blade lodged itself into the metal. And as the butler raised the axe again, Oren swung his fist onto his attacker’s face and his head bent backwards. In this brief moment of victory, Oren attempted to overtake the butler but the butler grabbed ahold of Oren’s lapels and crashed the crown of his head onto his opponent’s nose.
Oren stepped back in a daze and collapsed into the grass.
Seconds later, DuPont and the priest rounded the corner to find Hutch swiftly and gracefully dodging the edged weapon. It was almost as if he had done something like that before. With two shots left in the cylinder, DuPont fired at the butler’s shoulder and blew it clean off its socket. The axe fell to the ground but without flinching or recoiling, the butler reached down to take it in his left hand while his right arm was dangling by his side. His lethality didn’t diminish an iota. He resumed his charge at Hutch.
DuPont fired again. The bullet lodged itself into the head of the axe and blew it clean off its handle. The butler dropped the piece of wood and reached into his dinner jacket. With his left hand, he launched shuriken after shuriken at Hutch and DuPont. But the priest drove the butler backwards with his few remaining shotgun shells before the men manning the .50 cals repositioned themselves. When DuPont noticed them, he rallied Hutch and the priest into the house and helped Moses and Oren to their feet.
Without a second to spare, the .50 cals opened fire. DuPont and his men laid flat on the floor while shattered glass crashed down onto them. The firepower was relentless.
Then it stopped.
They laid silent for fifteen seconds. DuPont, with glass cracking below his feet, lifted his head. The gunmen, along with the butler, were gone. “Let’s go,” the sheriff ordered.
The half a dozen or so wooden boxes of dynamite sat atop the flame retardant grass. Chaz sat them a safe distance away from the Honcho before his horrid death. But the bullets whizzed overhead. The squad car could only provide so much protection. DuPont considered his options under the mounting heat and gunfire.
“I think we’re dead, folks,” he announced to the others.
“You son of a bitch!” Oren said.
“Chill!” called the priest. “C’mon Mo. We gotta do something here.”
Moses remained flattened to the ground next to Hutch. He briefly lifted his head. “Respectfully father, you can go fuck yourself,” he said.
Another flaming arrow whizzed from the sky and blew the priest’s cossack right off his head. “My cossack!” he screamed.
“It’s a hundred fucking degrees out here! Why are you even wearing that?” DuPont asked him.
“The arrows are coming from the second floor window!” Hutch cried out.
Arrows and shurikens were quickly hurled towards Hutch and Moses and the two climbed to their feet and rushed toward the crowded back end of the squad car. Everyone was trapped. “We at least got to try to get to the dynamite,” the priest said.
“Fuck that!” Moses yelled.
“Mo! What other option do we got?”
“Surrender!”
“Are you stupid? They’ll kill us no matter what and you know that!”
“We need to get to the boxes before they start shooting at them!” DuPont said. “If we’re all gonna die, let’s at least die together!”
“What’s the plan then?”
“There’s not much of one. When the tracers stop, I’ll unload the shotgun in their direction. You, father, direct your fire toward the second story window. The rest of you grab as many dynamite sashes as you can before things get too hot and then bolt it towards the other end of the house. We’ll give you fire cover the entire time. At least until we run out of bullets and shells. Goddamn, I wish I had some lemon frags!”
The ancient mansion was eerily silent. Only thunderheads in the faraway distance could be heard. The honcho rolled up first. Chaz slowly pulled up to the gaudy entrance and parked. The squad car was far behind. Oren parked it by the honcho and stepped out. DuPont climbed off of the bed, flame thrower still strapped on, and approached the building. Oren scratched his head. “It appears to be deserted,” he told the sheriff.
“No,” DuPont said. “There’s no way they’d desert this place.”
Chaz climbed out of the driver’s seat and nodded to Oren. He put his hands on his hips and looked the old home up and down. “I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Waites,” he said. “You reckon we ought to turn this over to state police?”
DuPont spat. “And tell them what, Chaz? That we slaughtered an entire sheriff’s department because they’re hiding the fountain of youth? Use your head, son.”
“I dunno,” Chaz said. “It might be useful for scientific research.”
“Fuck that noise!” the Priest butted in. He climbed out of the squad car’s backseat and waved his finger. “Let’s get in there and blow it all to hell!” he shouted.
“It’s a trap,” said the Sheriff.
Oren nodded. “You’re right. It was too easy.”
“So what now?” asked Chaz.
DuPont thought. “I’m gonna smoke em out.”
Everyone backed away from the structure and the sheriff readied the flamethrower. “Everyone ready?” he asked. They looked at one another and nodded. “Alright,” he said, “here goes nothin.”
Before he could squeeze the trigger, a flaming arrow rained down and lodged itself into Chaz’s neck. “Jesus Christ!” DuPont yelled. The others took cover behind their vehicles and Chaz’s head erupted into a gigantic fireball and his body collapsed into the grass. The sheriff ducked behind the rear of the honcho. The priest and Oren behind the squad car. “What the FUCK was that?” DuPont yelled.
Tracer rounds began pelting into the squad car. One smashed into the engine and ignited a fire. “Hutch! Mo! Get the hell outta there!” Oren screamed. Realizing the calamity, they climbed out of the passenger’s side and laid flat in the grass.
“Tracer ammunition!?” yelled DuPont. “Where the hell is it coming from?”
The priest peeked his head from behind the car. A round whistled past his head and he jumped back. “From the treeline behind the house!” he called out.
“But what about that fuckin arrow?!”
“It seems like we fell into a coordinated ambush, sheriff!” the priest called back.
Another arrow rained down and struck into a gas cylinder on DuPont’s back. He quickly stripped it off and bolted towards the squad car. The cylinder exploded, briefly launching the sheriff into the air and the honcho erupted into a raging flame. DuPont recovered and finished crawling toward the others. “Sorry about your truck. Again,” he said to Oren.
Hutch lifted his head from the grass and gazed upon the burning honcho. “It looks like that piece of shit finally bit the dust!”
Dirk stood shirtless in front of the old baroque mirror. His many tattoos faded. The mirror itself was gifted to him by John Pemberton in 63. It was just before their defeat in Vicksburg. The sheriff closed his eyes and considered the old General. Nothing came to mind. All their adventures and campaigns faded into abstraction and the general’s face was nothing more than a scrawl on white canvas. This was also true of Pizarro. And Cortez. And…
He threw on a fresh sheriff’s button up and slicked back his hair. He turned around and noticed the Eunuch standing in his doorway. His arms were crossed and his face sullen. “They broke through the perimeter,” he said.
“I figured they would.”
“The Judge demands a plan of action.”
“Don’t worry,” Dirk said. “I have the butler on standby.”
“The butler,” the eunuch smirked. “Ah yes, the butler”. With arms still folded, he turned around and his guffaws echoed down the hallway. Dirk finished up and proceeded down the stairs. He found the butler standing motionless underneath the front awning in formal attire. Not a bead of sweat present on his brow. “Are you ready for this?” the sheriff asked him.
The butler looked across the barren field and squinted. He took a deep breath and soliloquied with his thick British draw. “I found the Norsemen on the edge of River Ouse,” he began. “First came the arrows. Then came the charge. As they advanced across the shallow waters, their screams were as the howling winds of hell. It wreaked havoc in our ranks. Men were trampled underfoot and the ground thickened into a sea of mud, shit, and blood. Those who weren’t killed in the retreat were mercifully slaughtered by the spears and swords. But they saved the damned for the axes. They hacked at the men and the bones and limbs of the dead were strewn across the field and protruded from the mud. The land I once recognized became a holocaust wrought by some forsaken god. So you see sherriff, I’ve already witnessed hell. And I’ve carried those harrowing screams with me everyday since.”
If there’s one thing I wish would die already, it’s Star Trek. Paramount has announced that a total of 15,000 Star Trek movies have gone into preproduction since Beyond left theaters and ALL 15,000 of them failed to get made. With god on our side, maybe the latest one from John Francis Daley and Jonathon Goldstein will follow.
But unfortunately, I have a mostly positive opinion on this pitch. Mind you, I don’t think the “submarine movie in outer space” model should be the future of Trek. Even though that model has worked well in the past, my concern is whether or not the guys who made Vacation and the Dungeons and Dragons movie can pull it off. But how big of a concern should that be? After all, William Friedkin’s first scripted movie was Good Times, starring Sonny and Cher. Judging from that alone, we would have no idea this guy would later create the gritty cop genre and modern horror film. So arguably, my concern here might be misplaced. But I feel like the “submarine movie in outer space” approach is a bit too familiar and limited. It’s like we’re still trying to relive the glory of Star Trek II despite Alex Kurtzman’s numerous failed attempts to do so. With that said, Paramount seems to have the right idea: smaller budgets, smaller sets, and focus on the human drama.
Instead of a $300 million budget, let’s drop that figure down to $90 million. And since two Denzel movies are the inspiration, use most of that money to bring Denzel into the production. His appearance alone would elevate the quality. So if the pitch is Denzel Washington playing a Starfleet captain butting heads with a young and brash first officer in a tense two hour situation, then I’m not gonna lie, that’s a movie I want to see.
But as the towering intellect of our age — Rich Evans of Redlettermedia — once said, as great as Star Trek II was, it did set up a bad precedent. Star Trek shifted from being a colorful and hopeful vision of the future into a violent, cynical, and highly militaristic world. That version of Star Trek might better reflect our era of Trump, ICE, Gaza, Iran, etc. but is that what fans or potential fans want? The good news is we can have it both ways. If Roddenberry purists want to criticize Nicholas Meyer for reducing the franchise into some revenge opera for Star Trek II, Meyer turned right around and bridged the two interpretations for Star Trek VI. And in my opinion, he did it quite well. So if I were to place a wager, I’d say Star Trek VI is the template for the Daley and Goldstein production.
Look, I’m not above being a piece of shit. I’ve probably been a little too mean to someone on this site, in my writings, and probably in real life as well. And to anyone who I have offended, I’m sorry. I mean that. If I have ever made an obscene joke at someone else’s expense, that was not my intention. I assure you that the joke was entirely on me for making it. But sometimes that doesn’t come across well. I’m not a comic. I’m just some jackoff on the internet.
Fundamentally, I will never begrudge anyone who is making a living doing what they love. Particularly in the arts. It’s hard enough to be an artist nowadays so I salute anybody who makes it work. If I find a song, a book, or a podcast of bad quality, I shrug it off as being not for me and I move on.
With all that said, fuck the guys on Who Are These Podcasts?
Of course I’ve been following them for the Jerry Banfield saga which has made me assess my own feelings towards lolcows. My primary concern for Banfield is that he might be a danger to himself and others. While it might be impossible to not find humor in the situation, the reality is—insofar as we can glean from Youtube—Jerry is probably not in a good state of mind. Being in debt, divorced, poor love life, and going untreated for manic depression will do that to you. But Jerry has looked at the cards he was dealt and pressed forward using any opportunity he has—even if those opportunities are embarrassing or degrading. I can respect that to a large degree. And the more I look into his life, the more I find him less of a danger and more of a run of the mill manic depressive who uses woo woo logic to justify his actions. Also, much like Tom Myers, Banfield has not shied away from the attention. At the rate he’s going, he’ll probably outpace the Who Are These guys in subscribers and views before the end of the year.
And rightfully so. I’m rooting for him.
I first came across the Who Are These Podcasts? channel while digging up new material on Tom Myers. They of course brought him on to mock him but he held his ground. The hosts looked like assholes. While I can’t deny they had some good zingers, they were also tools for trying to lecture Myers on what comedy should be, as if comedy itself is an exact science. Tom would have had every right to tell them “I make a living doing what I want and that’s all that matters. Fuck off.”
At least that’s what I would have said.
And this isn’t the first time that they’ve tried to lecture others. Several years ago, they reviewed the greatest podcast ever farted out, Cumtown. They complained that the hosts didn’t introduce themselves. They said that Stav’s laugh was too annoying. They found the humor too juvenile and hackneyed. They just didn’t understand that the halfassed production of Cumtown was a part of its appeal. After catching wind of their review, Nick Mullen stated he understood why someone who followed the all the rules in their career would be annoyed and confused at his podcast’s success. And I think that gets to the heart of why I can’t stand these hosts.
I can’t deny that they’re funny. But I wouldn’t want to spend five minutes in a room with them. Like Mullen said, these guys sound like “they’ve been waiting for something to do since Blockbuster closed.” And how long has the podcast been around? Eight years? And they still have less than 50,000 followers and average about 10,000 views per video? It’s getting to the point where they might need to start taking Jerry Banfield’s advice.
I guess what annoys me most about the Who Are These Podcasts? podcast is it demonstrates a form of aggressive mediocrity. The whole premise is to shit on other podcasts. Don’t get me wrong, it’s cool to be a hater. But you have to find a unique angle. Sometimes you have to take the piss out of yourself. Whatever you might think of Tom Myers’ comedy, at least he’s a unique character that the comedy world discusses. The WATP guys just seem like run of the mill shitheads you’d find in high school. Sure they get to fuck all the girls, but you know what’s even cooler? Nick Mullen gets to fuck all the moms (AND dads).
Ya know, sometimes I forget this page is called The Internet Ruined Everything. Typically I treat this place as a dumping ground for my personal thoughts, stories, anecdotes etc. Initially I conceived of it as a place to write about Internet culture and the decline of western civilization or whatever. Then I learned that humanity is in a constant state of flux between rising and falling. What we’re experiencing today is just the latest chapter of that. So fuck it, I figured. Instead of critiquing the madness, I’ll embrace it.
But sometimes I see something that challenges that perspective. Through the millions of hours I’ve logged watching YouTube, I’ll come across someone and think did the internet actually ruin everything? Do you know what I’m saying? It’s like certain people couldn’t have been possible without social media. Mind you, the internet is a tool. Some have used it for good. Others have used it for evil and avarice. And then there’s this third category of person that will wittingly or unwittingly debase themselves for a few clicks.
This person is called a “lolcow”.
Enough digital ink has been spilled over this “lolcow” phenomenon. I won’t spend much time describing it. But whenever I come across one, they always send me into a philosophical and existential tailspin. Have these people always existed? Or has the internet enabled them to become the worst version of themselves? There’s always been those who lacked self-awareness. The internet didn’t invent that. But before the days the World Wide Web, did we simply ignore these people? Moreover, before having the ability to create your own reality through ChatGPT and social media, were people so humbled by real life experience that they kept their worst tendencies in check?
There’s too many questions and not enough answers.
In my estimation, most lolcows are harmless. That doesn’t mean that their personal life isn’t a complete wreck. But most of them don’t pose a threat to society at large. Common internet etiquette is to not “troll” them or interfere with their personal lives. In other words, watching them is like going to the zoo (or the strip club depending on what kind of weirdo you are). You can look but don’t touch. This is the internet Prime Directive and if it is to be violated there must be a damn good reason.
And today, I believe I found reason. So I come before the internet counsel of elders to make my case.
Which brings me to St. Petersburg, Florida. I would personally never be caught dead there. But as of 2025, it is estimated that 264,000 people call it home. Like much of Florida, I presume that St. Pete’s is just a swamp filled with alligators and dead bodies. But the people living there have little clue about the ticking time bomb in their midst.
I’m not talking about a massive meth lab explosion.
I’m talking about Jerry Banfield.
When I try to wrap my mind around the immensity of Jerry Banfield, words often fail me. There’s no good way to explain him. But I’ll give it my best shot: He’s 42 years old. At one point in time, he was a cop and a raging alcoholic. He claims to have been making money on YouTube as far back as 2011. But somewhere along the way, he got married, had two kids, got a divorce, and scrubbed his online presence. Within the last few months, however, he has been blitzing the internet with new videos and “products” in an attempt to rebuild his brand.
Nothing out of the ordinary, right?
The problem is that the products and services he offers are things like dating, financial, and crypto advice. Grifters are a dime a dozen after all. No big deal right? A grifter is gonna grift. However, Banfield is open about being $200,000 in debt and living well outside of his means in addition to crashing and burning with every woman he meets. It’s an unusual selling tactic to say the least.
But perhaps the best person to explain Jerry Banfield is Jerry Banfield himself:
This is one of his latest. He just got kicked out of his yoga studio for making people uncomfortable. Mind you, his explanation starts off reasonable: it was his trolls and haters reporting him. If he had stopped there, he probably would have been fine. In fact, he might’ve garnered a degree of sympathy. Yet he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. As he digs his grave, he explains he might have been a little inappropriate with instructors and students. But the problem doesn’t lie with him. It’s everyone else’s fault for not being as open as he is. His solution is that he needs to be around “his people”. Honestly, I’m kinda baffled as to why anyone would post something like this. Was he doing damage control before word got to all the ladies around St. Pete? It’s too late for that, Jerry.
But all of his videos are like this. Each one crazier than the next. Here’s another one from a few days ago (which, I think, was featured on Who Are These Podcasts):
My normal reaction to something like this would be to find cracks in the facade. I mean, this has to be faked, right? Unfortunately Jerry is a textbook example of bipolar disorder. And for anyone who has spent any amount of time around men with bipolar, you immediately recognize the symptoms: talking too much, an overwhelming sense of confidence, short tempered, highly energetic, etc etc. If untreated or unmedicated, they take a heavy emotional toll on you and everyone within their vicinity.
Perhaps I sound a little “neurophobic”. I don’t mean to suggest that Jerry is a public menace because he has bipolar disorder alone. The problem is he keeps putting himself into powder keg situations: bad dates, six figure debts, getting confrontational in AA meetings, and finding himself (presumably) increasingly isolated. While he may not drink anymore, he has the mentality of a gambling addict. He acts as though any day now he will be a millionaire and that the mountains of high interest loans he’s taken out will have proven themselves worthwhile.
And this is to say nothing about his interactions with women.
If I have one good thing to say about Jerry is that at least I don’t get pedo vibes from him. I could be wrong, but I doubt we’ll find him on Chris Hansen anytime soon. But I do find his obsession with dating, particularly as a 42 year old man buried in debt, a little concerning. On the surface, I suppose Jerry comes across as somewhat put together. I don’t how long he is able to maintain that facade, but it can’t last forever. The real Jerry eventually comes out. He doesn’t have a lowkey presence online either. Women should, and often do, ghost him and flake out. How long can a man like Jerry take that before he starts dipping his toes into things like date rape drugs? He has also mentioned that he’d like to go to Thailand and get a wife. Even if this endeavor is successful, he’d probably bring a 20-something woman back to the States, impregnate her and maybe marry her, and then immediately lose interest and abandon her because Jerry is more interested in the chase than the commitment.
In sum, this is a tragic story waiting to happen.
Jerry Banfield, the man and the concept of the man, is a result of the times. He could have only been enabled by modern conventions and technology. For him, this is Jerry’s world and we’re just living in it. Challenge him, I dare you, at your own peril. Under better conditions, could he be a functional member of society? I’m sure. Which is what makes this story all the more saddening.
But I’m afraid that we’ve passed the event horizon. While I implore the counsel of internet elders to intervene wherever possible, I have no solution. No recommendation. I’m afraid we are powerless until we see Jerry Banfield’s mugshot from the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Department. Then the women of St. Pete’s, Florida will rest easy. And the internet can move on to the next lolcow.
I just hope that the attention he has received from Who Are These Pocasts and others (including myself) will not further enable him. 😬
Hutch and Moses jumped out of the bed and scrambled towards the squad car. Oren was slow to follow. He pulled the sheriff aside and lowered his voice. “Do you think you might be overdoing it?”
“What do you mean?” DuPont asked.
“I mean you just lit two deputies on fire. That’s a bit much.”
“No no no,” the sheriff chuckled. “You see, those guys were castoffs from hell. Cursed to roam the earth forever. I was doing them a favor.”
“A favor?”
The priest overheard the conversation and butted in. “The sheriff is right,” he told Oren. “If they drank from the cursed spring then their souls were already damned.”
“How do we know they did?”
“Well,” the sheriff backtracked, “they worked for Judge Castor. It should go without saying.”
“Agreed,” said the priest. “Don’t worry. Our conscious is totally clear.”
“But you drank from the spring, priest,” Oren retorted. “Do we need to do you a favor by lighting you on fire?”
“B-b-b-b-b-but that’s different.”
“No it isn’t.”
“I’m a man of the cloth, ya see.”
Oren rolled his eyes. DuPont shut the conversation down. “There’s no time for a discussion on ethics,” he said. “We gotta destroy that spring no matter the cost. I reckon we’re only a mile or so away.” He looked toward Moses and Hutch who were digging through the inventory of shotguns and revolvers left in the vehicle. “Do you boys think we’ll run into heavy resistance at Castor’s place?” he asked them.
“Hell, we’ve eliminated every deputy in the parish Sheriff!” shouted Moses from the passenger’s seat. “Except for that shitheel Fornier. It’s probably just him and Dirk left.”
“Well, them and a butler and a big hairless dude,” chimed in Hutch. “But they ain’t shit.”
DuPont nodded. “Good. They seem to be outnumbered then.”
The sheriff climbed into the bed of the Honcho. Chaz remained in the driver’s seat while Oren and the priest joined the others in the squad car. “Chaz and I will lead the assault,” announced DuPont. “Once we secure the house, we’ll blow up that spring and send the others back to hell.”
The rest of the gang nodded. The sheriff slapped the top of the cab and the truck moved forward. The police car, driven by Hutch, closely followed. And as the wind swept through the trees, the vehicles passed by the smouldering pile of ash that was once the deputies and the waning flame clutching for survival was huffed out forever.
