436. Critter Land USA!

story of the passenger that's been circulating online lately? A young couple set out on a van-life

“trip, but a few nights in, they came across a brutal car accident on the side of the road.”

I'm not talking about a typical crash, something about this was off, and there's one detail that keeps coming up. The car they found had three deep scratches carved into the side, not dense, scratches, they stopped, they saw it, and then they left. But here's where things got strange. Not long after, creepy things start happening. They began to feel like they weren't alone in the van, like something followed them from that road. People online have started connecting it to

something they're calling the passenger. Supposedly, it attaches itself to anyone who encounters

“it and marks their car with three scratches. And once that happens, it doesn't let go. If these”

reports are true, this couple didn't just witness something on that highway, they carried it with them. From Andre overdol, director of autopsy of Jane Doe, comes passenger. Only in theaters may 22nd, get tickets now. Hello, and welcome to scare you to sleep. I'm your host, Shelby Novak, and I'm here to read you. A bedtime story. This week was a bit of a surprise for me. I had set out to write something

around 1500 words to go with a user submitted story that will still be on the show in the future. Well, 5,000 words later, tonight's story was formed. I don't have much to say about it other than I hope you enjoy. This is Critter Land, USA.

Bailey had always been an overachiever. In her head, she wasn't top of her class or president of any

clubs or even really had many extracurriculars, but she knew deep down. She was better than all of them. Them being her fellow students. She just hadn't found her thing yet, but when she did, you bet they would all look upon her with awe. They'd cheer for her at graduation. Her principle would describe her as one of the best her teachers would cry knowing she would be leaving them forever. But smile, because they knew she would be going on to greatness. If only she knew how to make this

moment in the sun happen, she would find it. She knew she would. Mr Hunter from a great science once made her stay after class to tell her she was full of potential, but just didn't show it yet. He said she was a flower bud, waiting to blossom. She didn't really get why. He had made her stay after class to tell her all that, but maybe it was because he was one of the few who saw something special in her. If only she could figure out how and why she was special. So far on paper, she was the most

average teenager to ever exist on the planet. Her parents had average middle-class jobs and weren't even divorced, where it was her traumatic origin story. Maybe that wasn't her thing. Maybe her

“thing would be a secret talent. One, she didn't even realize she had. Sports had already been”

tried and tribulated when she was young. She was, you guessed it, average. Always just okay,

not trailing behind, not soaring ahead, smack dab in the middle. No one ever looked at the middle. She moved on to the arts, intro to drawing and choir, knocked them both out freshman year, where she found out that she was also an average singer and an average artist. Not even bad, at least bad was something. She was nothing. But she wasn't nothing. There was something deep down and Bailey's soul that told her she was special, not just Mr. Hunter speech, but something that felt

nights, fantasizing about her future of fame and fortune. But what would that fame be for?

“How would she earn that fortune? She rolled over and jammed her arm between her mattress and box frame,”

searching for her hidden journal. Opening it instead of getting straight to writing, she got distracted by her last entry. Just a quick story about how she and her mother had gone to get ice cream at the mall, and then the one before that. And the one before that. For being so average, she couldn't stop turning page after page of her stories about her own life. That was it, she thought. Writing, if she could make the most mundane and boring life,

this entertaining then she must be destined to be a writer. But what kind of writer she thought. Fiction was a pretty obvious choice. She had an amazing imagination.

“But look at how she excelled at nonfiction. Was 16 to young to publish a memoir?”

Yes. Well, no. Yes, definitely. Okay, so she would have to tell other people's stories first. That's fine. She could do that. And where would she display this newfound gift? She sat bolt upright as if the idea had physically lifted her. The school paper.

She had never actually bothered to read the school paper, but that's because she knew it was

filled with boring and stupid stories by her boring and stupid schoolmates. She would bring a whole new light to young journalism. She pulled out her phone to search for a list of prizes she could potentially win. What are the Oscars of journalism? She asked her search bar.

“Pulitzer Prize. She said out loud. Bailey had definitely heard of that before.”

She laid back into her sea of pillows and stuffed animals. She closed her eyes, and her mind was a light with daydreams of being the youngest ever Pulitzer Prize winner. How about how they would have a special ceremony for her? In the school gym, how her mother would cry and her father would

be. How they'd all see how incredible she was. Jackson would admit he'd been in love with her

this whole time. Now, she only needed a topic. Something splashy, something that will really catch people's attention. The Critterland USA accident. She gasped. It was so horrific. Then, she giggled. At her own genius. She was about to be a star. Cracking up in her laptop, she went to work. Wikipedia didn't have much to say about the incident. It didn't even have its own page, just as section lumped in with the theme park.

Critterland USA was a theme park in La Rue, Indiana, United States of America. It was in operation from 1973 to 1994, and was closed due to an accident on the ride known as Beaver Rapids. A river Rapids type of amusement park ride that was added to the park in 1986. The accident resulted in 13 fatalities, including that of seven adults and six children. The park closed soon after. Bailey scrolled to the Beaver Rapids' fatal accident section.

Beaver Rapids was an amusement park ride added to the park on May 10, 1986. The ride was plagued with mechanical issues from the beginning. It was often shut down due to maintenance.

On July 15, 1994, a raft that included two adults and three children capsized. A second

raft collided with the overturned raft and also capsized. The second raft included four adults and three children. Two workers, 17-year-old Jamie Ogre, and 42-year-old Victor Bartelini, attempted to pull the victims from the water. Witnesses say the two workers were pulled in by the victims attempting to pull themselves out. All 13 people who went into the water were declared deceased. The ride was shut down and sealed off from the rest of the park

with plans to demolish it. However, only six months after the incident, the entire park was closed down by the Worthington family who maintains ownership of the park to this day. No plans

scroll past all of the boring stuff about lawsuits until she came to the end of the short page. She screwed up her face, confused, where was all the other stuff? The blood and guts,

“that's what the people wanted, not even a mention of the haunting, how could that be left out?”

Ever since she was a child, there had been no whispers on the playground about how all those people actually died. Over 30 years of rumors, and a very long game of telephone, had boiled all of the details of the case into a campfire tale of sorts. One that was told with a flashlight talked under your chin, one that every kid in the room had heard, but still got goosebumps from every time it was told. You see, river rapids rides aren't like real rivers. They've got a

track underneath, especially when you get to the end of the ride. It's got to conveyor belts and all kinds of sprockets and gears under that blue dyed water. So when those rafts flipped,

“those kids didn't just drown. No. They were pulled into all those mechanics and slowly”

crushed to death. The coroner said they had never seen anything like it. Emergency response

people quit their jobs after. Some even went crazy after what they saw when they drain the water. Some said they couldn't even get all the pieces out. They were too crushed and mushed. Couldn't even tell who was who when all was said and done. And the Worthingtons never taught down like they said they were gonna. Nope, never did. Probably to save money or something. So they're still down there pieces of them anyway. And if you go at night and get too close to the

edge, they'll pull you into just like they did the two guys you tried to help them. Of course,

“those stories birth their own myths like that of Jacob Wilson, who had been a junior at Bailey's”

high school when he went missing in 2001. His classmates said he was a goth weirdo who got way too

into the beaver rapids accident and the ghost stories that followed. He always said he was going to

break in one day and do a say-ons. The police said he ran away, which was plausible, bad home situation had run away before, but the youth of the Louvre never believed that. They knew he had gone to join the victims. Another soul who will never leave critter land USA. A few other disappearances had been unofficially linked to the place too. A local drunk, for instance, had raved to a bartender down at the owl about having the

genius idea of breaking into the place and robbing it of all the scrap metal that's sure to be there. He slurred and hiccups about backing his truck up to the front gate in the middle of the night and going ham. Said there was no way old Mr. Worthington's cheap ass paid for any sort of security. The bartender had warned him. Told a story about two methods he knew back in his drug dealing days. They told him all about their plan one night. Almost the same as the drunk's accepted. They

made plans to strip all the copper wiring they could find out there. The bartender never saw them again.

That was years ago. The drunk didn't heed the bartender's tale of warning, and he was added to the list of the lost. Not that there was a real list. If you asked the local police, they said none of it was related. A local reporter had noted. Bailey found out in her online search that he had the same idea as she did, but back in 2012. He had tried to do a deep dive on the entire legend for the Leroux Gazette. But fell short of gaining any answers when the Worthington's

wouldn't grant him permission to go inside the park. And what seemed like a little bit of petty retribution? The reporter made sure to add in a little reminder for the community in his article that Ridge Worthington, son of Carl Worthington, founder of Critterland, USA, had been charged in 1998 while doing unspeakable things to a girl named Carly Briggs at a party they had both attended

There weren't a lot of details available about what happened. Bailey knew a few more that the paper

“didn't, though. Her mother's friends, mother, had been a nurse on duty the morning they brought her in.”

Carly had to have her jaw wired shut, and one of her arms was broken. And she had a head injury. And other wounds that Bailey's mother said she wasn't old enough to

know about when Bailey first asked after hearing about it on the playground when she was eight.

The reporter noted that the Briggs family had dropped the charges and quietly left town. Bailey wrote down in her notebook. I don't know if my parents would have a dollar amount that would make them let someone get away with doing what Ridge did to Carly. If they did, I don't think I could ever forgive them. I hope Carly didn't either. Carly wasn't the only woman. The Worthingtons had allegedly paid off due to Ridge's

“proclivities over the years, just the one that got the most press because how could it not?”

She was found the next morning in a ditch. Bailey added to her notes. Did he think she was dead?

With many question marks, then circled for good measure. Bailey stayed up late, typing up her report on the whole affair. The theme park, the accident, the Worthingtons, why hadn't Carly Worthington ever demolished the ride or the rest of the park? It was just a rotting eye sore off the highway. Maybe it should be turned into a public park, dedicated to the victims. Bailey used in her closing paragraph. The article was rushed as

excitable youths tend to make things, but it was well written for someone so green. Or at least most of it was because, at some point, the Pulitzer Prize hopeful fell asleep in her

“clothes on top of her duvet, and she dreamed about the victims of Beaver Rapids, welcoming her to”

come visit them at Criterland, USA.

130 million people take road trips every year, 15,400 of them are never seen again. Have you heard the

story of the passenger that's been circulating online lately? A young couple set out on a van-life trip, but a few nights in, they came across a brutal car accident on the side of the road. I'm not talking about a typical crash, something about this was off, and there's one detail that keeps coming up. The car they found had three deep scratches carved into the side, not dense, scratches. They stopped, they saw it, and then they left. But here's where things got strange. Not long after creepy things

start happening. They began to feel like they weren't alone in the van, like something followed them from that road. People online have started connecting it to something they're calling the passenger. Supposedly, it attaches itself to anyone who encounters it and marks their car with three scratches. And once that happens, it doesn't let go. If these reports are true, this couple didn't just witness something on that highway, they carried it with them.

From Andre Ovidal, director of autopsy of Jane Doe, comes passenger. Only in theaters may 22nd, get tickets now. The next morning, groggy, hair tangled, the smell of her own, unbrushed teeth, making her grimace. Bailey trudged into the kitchen for a quick breakfast before school. As she smeared apricot pineapple jam over abundantly buttered toast, her father remarked to her mother that,

old Carl Worthington, had died. He had passed the night before, after a long term illness, according to a Facebook post from one of his daughters. Her mother wondered aloud if Ridge would be in the will. Her father asked whatever happened to him. Her mother said, he had been, in and out of different rehabs, found Jesus once or twice, but seemed to have lost him again, judging by a recent passive aggressive Facebook post by his sisters. Bailey listened quietly

as her folks discussed this man who had somehow in 24 hours, become a very big part of her inner life. Her art teacher would have called this a synchronicity, and Bailey knew that meant she was on the right path to greatness. When Bailey got home after school, she added the news of Carl

wasn't something one would expect when hearing of the death of a very wealthy man,

“but the wealth in blue collar towns wasn't the same as the wealth of a city dweller.”

You may have heard the term, money talks, wealth whispers, well, any moderately sized town where the money came from the land and not from a computer screen, wealth didn't just whispers. It blew like a quiet breeze through tall grass. These rich men from these towns aren't like the rich men in cities, steel-toed boots, well-worn jeans, only a collard shirt for wedding ings and church services. If you saw them at the grocery store, you'd think they were any

blue collar worker getting off a long shift of manual labor. But they weren't. The every man

they masqueraded as. They lifted trucks, they drove cost near six figures. They lived in homes,

“they liked to believe were humble looking, but are much nicer than yours.”

Built on sprawling plots of land with every motorized toy you could imagine, ATVs, dirt bikes, modified jeeps and, of course, top-of-the-line trailers to haul them all. Just men of the land, they advertise themselves as, just god-fearing men who love to play as hard as they work, but not with vices like drugs and hookers, like those fancy pants and businessmen from the city, the ones they pretended not to be. Despite their day spent in air-condition

offices or micro-managing their mid-tier workers, their deep tans that seemed almost identical as those of the men who worked for them toiling in the sun, but they weren't the same. Not if you looked closely. But Bailey didn't know how to put any of that into words. She had seen it, learned about it, been surprised by it. Like when she was 13, until her father, she liked the sparkly purple paints on the new motorhome that Rick Weathers,

Carl's son-in-law, was driving through town one day, hauling a trailer full of off-road vehicles.

Her father told her it was worth over a million dollars. A number she giggled at, thinking he was

“being hyperbolic. Her father grimaced and said he wished he was joking. A million dollars?”

A million dollars was, well, a million dollars. A number that didn't feel real to a 13 year old, especially not for something you go camping in. She left out these feelings. She couldn't quite put into words and decided her article. Was complete. As she waltz proudly into the living room that evening, laptop and hand, to ask her parents to read the first step toward her triumphant future, she heard her mother exclaim that they were finally tearing it down. Her father asked what?

She answered the theme park with an incredulous tone. He remarked that the old bastard wasn't even in the ground yet. Her mother then gave a quick update. Ridge Worthington had entered the online war and claimed his father left the park and landed him, and no such thing would be taking place. All that in a Facebook post, huh? Her father mused. Strange times. Her mother said something about money not buying class, but instead of eavesdropping further, Bailey was already moving back

down the hallway to her room. Another synchronicity. She was meant to hear that. And as she had written her article with a hurried fervor of meeting the gratification of a finished product as soon as possible, she decided. She had to go tonight. She had to see the theme park for herself. What if it did get torn down? That other reporter didn't do what needed to be done and by that, Bailey meant breaking and entering. The theme park was only three miles away, not exactly a walkable

three miles, but it would be late. LaRou would be a ghost town, and no one would see her skulking down the side of the highway. Bailey dressed in all black, and quietly packed her laptop, a water bottle, a small bag of hot cheetos, and an extra long sleeve shirt and sweat pants, in case it got cold, and she needed more layers into her backpack. After she heard the sound of her father snoring, drifting down the hall, she slipped out her window and into the night.

Bailey didn't have to wonder for long how to get in. She immediately spotted a part of the fence

“that had been pried up at the bottom. Without thinking of anything but her art teacher and”

synchronicity, Bailey shoved her backpack through the dirt and under the fence, and then crawled in after it. Once inside, she took a moment to figure out where she was, and where the rapid ride must be from there. The theme park had closed long before she was even born, but unlike when the park was closed, she could now pull up a picture of a map on her phone. One someone had uploaded in 2009, with a caption, "Look what I found." Whole fam went just

a couple weeks before it closed. According to the slightly blurred map, she was in settler's cove,

a more nautical themed part of the park. She could tell from the faded mural of the Mayflower,

“painted onto the cinder block wall of the ancient bathrooms. Everything was much more dilapidated,”

than Bailey had anticipated. So much so, it looked much less eerie than she imagined it would. It looked more like a junkyard. The land had clearly been used to store old farming equipment and vehicles. Farming was the main way the werethingtons made their money. The concession stands were sagging and had been stripped of any signage long ago. The few actual buildings were the same, just empty shells with no personality.

It looked like maybe the demolition process had been started at one point. Then stopped, which, highly, disappointed Bailey, who was hoping for more of a creep factor,

“this was no scarier than the place behind the school where all the school buses parked”

when not in use. Still, she soldered on to find beaver habits or whatever was left of it. Hopefully there was something worth snapping a picture of. After all, what headline article was complete without a photo. As Bailey walked the cracked cement path, the only light coming from the moon, which was gloriously full and bright tonight. She considered the fact that this was maybe too big a story for the school paper now. This was something worthy of the Leru Gazette.

Maybe even for syndication, something she had learned about the night before during her brief research on how to become a journalist. She was lost in her imagination, mostly ignoring the crumbling park around her. But she took notice of strangely placed concrete slabs. She saw off the sides of the path every now and then. They looked much more recently poured than 1994. Her journalistic instincts hadn't been

quite sharpened because she pushed the thought aside. A thought not even fully formed. Explaining them away to herself as an abandoned project by the Worthingtons to utilize the land for something else. Soon she came face to face with the nine foot plywood wall. Once painted blue, now faded and flaking. This was it. An awkward chunk of the park just walled off. Not even a part in our dust sign, just cheap, blue paint. A clear hope it would

become invisible to passers by. Bailey had seen many pictures of the park in its heyday, and she assumed the blue once blended much better with the lively colors that once decorated the space. But now, stripped of any whimsy. What was left of the attractions gray under the moonlight. This blue wall stood out like a sore thumb. It seemed to glow even. Unfortunately, it seemed to be very well sealed off. She walked the perimeter of the wall and couldn't even find a

service entrance. She sat in the dirt about to give up. Her frenzied and excitable journalistic

career having its first bit of wind sucked out of it. She had come up against a literal dead end.

After a whole minute and a half of pondering, she decided she would just take pictures of the wall and on the way out the rest of the park and call it a night. It was more than that hack back in 2012 had gotten. That's when she heard a creaking sound. Like the un-oiled hinges of a door.

She didn't question why it had opened now, whether it was her leaning against the wall for her

“short break or if it was another facet of destiny's design. Either way, without hesitation,”

she walked in. Bailey found herself in the queue for the ride. The stanchion still in place, ropes mostly rotted and fallen to the ground. It was under a large wooden structure meant to shade impatient guests during the summer heat. She walked up to the ride itself. Now reduced to a cracked fiberglass shell. Old photos had shown statues of a beaver mascot and other woodland creatures

but those were gone now. Streaks of shades of orange, yellow and purple were sprayed onto one

section of the dry foe river. Not graffiti. Bailey recognized this from her mother's love of painting

“and repainting every room in the house every couple of years. These were paint samples.”

Have they really been considering just repainting the ride? Taking out the cartoonish animals and rebranding? As if nothing had happened as if children hadn't died here. Bailey took over 50 pictures of these paint samples with and without flash of the place where the woodland creatures once greeted happy visitors just to make sure. This could be a huge part of her story. She moved on and walked along the platform meant for workers, up and around the track.

She had to get to the end. That was going to be the photo splashed across the front pages of

“America. The mechanisms that had pulled those 13 people to their deaths. Of course maybe a”

ghost or two, but Bailey didn't think she really believed in ghosts. She soon arrived at the end. The track wasn't as long as she thought it would be. A sentiment probably shared by many sunburn tourists who had waited an hour to ride it. The end wasn't exactly the end, like most rides. This was a loop. But there was a drop-off point where the rafts were lifted to a high point and stopped by bumpers while soaked riders hopped out and down some stairs

and back to the park. The empty rafts then made a short trip to the front of the ride to let on more riders. Unlike the rest of the park, the conveyor belt area did bring a deeply horrified feeling that settled over Bailey. She thought it would be torn apart. The conveyor belts off into the side still exactly like the day it had all happened. She was ready for that for the crime scene of it all, but what she saw was much worse. The mechanics were much more recently rebuilt. This was

definitely proof. They had planned to reopen the ride. There was no water, but there was black sludge at the bottom of the river shell. It smelled like rotten meat. Some poor animal maybe. Maybe got in and couldn't get out. Maybe it was also a victim of this terrible machine either way. Bailey heard footsteps behind her and turned. Standing there was a man. His face couldn't be made out in the dark. Bailey immediately apologized a no-nonsense journalist no longer

standing in her shoes, but a teenage girl who had never broken a single rule. The spell of

successive operated more quickly than it had come on. She cried. She blubbered. She tried to leave, but the man stood in her way and the stairs up to the last platform above the conveyor belt were precarious at best. The man didn't say anything, but he pointed to a small security camera that Bailey had not noticed. He stepped closer and without thinking Bailey blurted out. Reage Worthington. The man let out a deep, smoky chuckle. Still panic she followed her now answered

question with, "I'm sorry about your father." He was moving closer to her and she was now backing

mean a broken leg. She promised to go to not write the article. The article he didn't even

“know about. Oh, why did she say that? She thought. He cocked his head and clicked his tongue”

in disappointment. He was more animal than man. She felt like she was in the presence of a cobra about to strike at any moment. Bailey went up another step and looked down once more. From this vantage point, the moonlight caught something. She hadn't been able to see previously. Bones. Most too broken to quickly identify from this distance in this lighting,

but what she was able to. One, she remembered from Mr. Hunter's anatomy class was the ilium.

In fact, it was a whole set of the pelvic region of a human being half bleached, half immersed,

“in black, sludge. Ridge Worthington had stopped moving towards her.”

But he reached out his right hand and opened an electrical panel. Something else Bailey hadn't noticed in her tunnel vision like quest to find her stardom. Ridge flipped a switch and the mechanics started worrying. Loudly very loudly unmuffled by the water they were designed to

be hidden by. Bailey moved backwards to go up one more step and the words, "I won't tell,"

barely left her mouth. She hadn't seen the missing step. She plunged down towards the mechanics. She screamed. She cried. She held on for dear life. The bridge walked over to the girl

“and with one steel-toed fruit began to crush every one of her fingers. The pain was”

excruciating and even if she had the will to hang on her now shattered finger bones could not. She fell towards the open sprockets and gears. But not without doing one last great thing. Ridge had leaned over to watch her be slowly mangled by the machine. And with one last feet of will like the tail she had been told of the ghost victims pulling in curious interlobe her, Bailey reached up and grabbed him by the shirt. It all happened so fast. But for four Bailey,

it felt like forever. The hungry mechanism slowly chewing her up without even the luxury of water filling her lungs to put her out of her misery faster. As her fragile body was crushed, her damaged nerves caused her hand to become a steel claw. She couldn't let go of an even if she had wanted to. Ridgewardington went down along with her. And together, they became the last two victims of the machine. Bailey was another missing person for months.

Until the Worthington daughters realized they hadn't heard from their estranged brother. Assuming he skipped town or was dead in a ditch, they didn't care about either outcome. All they cared about was the prophet they'd make from offloading the land that sat in his name. No connections were made between the missing teen and the missing disgraced millionaire son. A year later, after some creative legal dealings and declaring their brother dead,

the sisters found a lucrative buyer for the land and sat in motion the plan to get rid of critter land, USA, once and for all. When demolition began on the park, the Worthington sisters had ordered it begin with beaver rapids, but not before everything was stripped for parts and scrap metal. Just as other treasure hunters had sought out in the 30 years, since the park's closure. When two workers tracked up the hill to the infamous mechanism, partly due to their job,

partly out of the morbid curiosity all locals had. They found Bailey's backpack.

cameras were operated from and what had been recorded on them. From the years of tapes, years of unspeakable

“atrocities at the hand of Ridge, Worthington. Years of cameos by his father Carl,”

helping to hide his son's crimes around the rotting park. Most of the victims were of the less dead, hitchhikers, transients, sex workers runaways, the type no one really went looking for. They even found Jacob Wilson's remains. All thanks to Bailey, who, in the end, did something great and people who had been nothing were now something. Thanks for listening and I hope you enjoyed this story that I wrote for you this evening.

Please feel free to comment down below whether you're listening on YouTube or Spotify or

“wherever. Feel free to leave me a little comment and let me know what you think.”

If you'd like to follow the show along on social media, you can follow @ScariaToSleep on Instagram. There's also a Facebook group and a spin-off Facebook group called Scary To Eat where I posted a picture of a chicken I made this last week and if you'd like to follow me personally, you can follow me on Instagram @shalvibnovac. If you have story a story, you'd like to our multiple stories that's fine. If you have a story slash stories, you'd like featured on the show or to be

considered to be featured on the show. You can send them to [email protected]. You can also get ad free episodes on Patreon, patreon.com/scarytosleep and you can find merch on fourth wall. There's a link in the show notes to my link, my link tree and there's merch. I just thought of it this week because over on my other show that I am a part of the Lady Killers, we've been discussing

merch for that show and I was like, oh that's right, I never mentioned the merch on my other show.

And so yeah, you can go over to fourth wall if you'd like some scary to sleep merch. And thank you to those of you who have been using my smalls link, it is in the show notes. I really highly appreciate it. You have no idea how much it means that you've taken a time to click on it or even order from them. I truly love their products. The reason I am being, I have never really mentioned a sponsor this much on the show is for reasons of logistics

and boring things when it comes to the behind-the-scenes of podcasting and ad tracking and all of this all this new fingled stuff. And so I really appreciate it. As I said before, I did make a chicken

that was incredible. It was the best chicken I've ever had in my life. It was so good. I spatched

cock to chicken, put it over some potatoes and roasted it in a cast iron skillet. It was not very complicated but you know, if you'd like to know more, I could tell you what I did in an email. But you know, if you look up any real good spatch cock chicken recipe and whatever seasonings you

“like, you know, and yeah, so I want to picture of it. It's on the Facebook group. And what else?”

Oh, I did bake a little this week. I had some frozen pastries in my freezer. Obviously, if they're frozen, they were in my freezer. That was redundant. Just the simple Nutella ones I've mentioned before were I take pre-made like that you get from the freezer section puff pastry and you let it off and then you slather Nutella on one end, sandwich the other, sandwich the Nutella between the two pieces, cut it into strips, twirl those little strips into little pastries and 400 degrees,

18 minutes, spot a being bottomo, you got a pastry, dust with powdered sugar, incredible. And it

rest of them and then I just have pastries whenever I want. Yeah, so that's what I did for baking

“this, baking this week. And I think that's all. I think when I let you go, go listen to”

belitty killers, go listen to belitty disgusting podcast. Ooh, what else? What else? What else? What else?

Oh, you can watch the belitty. You can watch both belitty killers and the belitty disgusting podcast

on YouTube, both of those are on YouTube, belitty disgusting podcasts is obviously on the official

“belitty disgusting YouTube. belitty killers is on belitty killers podcast YouTube channel. So go check”

those out if you'd like to see my face and the face of my friends and I'm going to go and you're going to go and we're going to go and you better drink your water or I'm going to hunt you down and find you. Go get some sleep, sweet dreams.

“This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected in”

bound to your area. Inspired by the real-life fossil arm that terrified Hawaii in 2018, incoming is a thrilling and hilarious cinematic podcast that explores how people react in their

most critical hour. Are you not hearing me? There are missiles headed here right now. Look, I just

I just want to be with you. Featuring incredible performances from Tracy Letts, Mary Lou Hanner, Mary Elizabeth Ellis, Paul Adelson, and many many others. Now there's going to be them that live and then that don't think you're making a big mistake. Is this all my blood? Maybe you're the leader of a doomsday cult or you're a country superstar in 1954 or a gangster in witness protection. The question remains the same. What would you do if

you only had 20 minutes until the missiles landed? This is not a test. You can listen to all episodes of incoming early and ad-free right now with Wondere Plus. Join Wondere Plus in the Wondere App, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.