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He stares at me like I'm a monster. And, in a way, I am. I have to be.
One does not eat babies without a little monster in them. "Your name?" The detective asks, his tone nonchalant, his body language professional, his soul nothing but controlled rage. He's shorter than me, but most are. At six feet and five inches, I cut an impressive figure. Unfortunately, when they apprehended me, I was hunched over an infant, blood running down my chin. That makes for a much different first impression.
It wasn't until I was led from the back of the police van and into the station that my physicality revealed itself. "You're a big sucker," one of the officers had said. "It's all in the diet," I replied, smiling with blood-stained lips and teeth. Murder filled the police officer's eyes. I shouldn't have been flippant. It was cruel of me. Now I sit here, extremely uncomfortable in this small plastic chair, with my wrists shackled to the table. And I wait.
Eventually, I will leave. I have been doing this for a very long time, and the longest I've been held is three days. I study the man seated across from me. He is the reason I will leave. By my guess, he is in his early thirties. New suit, but rumpled. He's been napping in that suit. His eyes are bloodshot. His stubble is two days old. His hair has been combed by fingers, not by plastic tines, or even whalebone tines.
I miss whalebone combs. They were elegant as well as useful. Practical art, I suppose you could call them. "Your name?" The detective repeats in the same nonchalant tone, but I can tell he's already growing agitated. I'd be surprised if he wasn't. "I have many names," I say, "but none will satisfy you." "Great," he says, and jots something down in a small notebook. "How about just giving me one of those unsatisfactory names?"
"I like you," I say. "Good for you," he says and sets his pen down. Those bloodshot eyes lock onto mine. "Just give me a name." "In Germany, I was called Kinderfresser," I say. He takes a deep breath, obviously annoyed at me, but writes down the name anyway. Good for him. "We're not in Germany," he responds. "No, we are not," I say. "And it is a shame."
I expect there is another of me still there. I have always been there. Yeah, except you are here now," he says, close to snapping. "I must be careful with this one. I cannot push him away." "I am, I am," I say. "Atavaka, Tlaloc, Cronos." "Cronos? Father of Zeus?" the detective asks. "Oh, you know your mythology," I say and smile. He cringes. They never did let me wash my face.
The detective closes his notebook and slaps it against the table. "Okay, I get it," he says. "You're a monster." He leans closer.
"But I already know that. We caught you red-handed, literally. You were eating a four-day old infant." "That is what you saw, yes?" I say. "Is that an admission of what you've done?" he asks, sitting up straight. His eyes dart to the camera in the corner of the room. "Do you admit you murdered that poor baby?" "No," I say. "It would have to be murder for me to admit that." It is my turn to lean closer to him. He doesn't flinch.
Yes, I like this one. I must hold him tight so he understands. Tell me, detective, how is the mother doing? I ask. He glares at me. How do you think she's doing? He responds. You killed her baby. Is she talking yet? I ask. Is she asking for the child? Is she remembering? He narrows his eyes. I can see the wheels turning in his mind. He's trying to figure out my angle.
"You would think that a woman who has witnessed the supposed murder of her four-day-old infant would be close to catatonic," I continue. "Or she would be wailing and inconsolable." I lean back. "But she is none of those things, is she, detective?" I say. "Instead, she is acting as if she is waking from a fugue. She's confused. She doesn't understand what has happened. When you speak to her, you can feel the grief.
"But you can feel something else, can you not, detective?" I let that question hang there between us. He must come to it himself, or he will be of no use. So I wait. He watches me closely, as he should. I smile. He does not flinch. "She's asking about her child." "But she isn't distraught," I say. "How strange." He shakes his head and flips his notebook open again. "Your name?" He asks. "Ben," I say.
It's the name I have used these past few decades that I have been in this country. Benjamin Meyer. M-E-Y-E-R. Different spelling than the Bologna. I snort. Do you think you are funny, Mr. M-E-Y-E-R? He asks. I find humor where I can, I say. It helps. Okay, Benjamin, he says. Tell me about tonight. Ben, please, I say. He doesn't respond.
I sit back and relax into my too small plastic chair. I take my time, because timing is key in these circumstances. "Tonight?" I ask. "Only tonight? Have you killed other children?" he asks, trying not to look eager. "I have never killed a child," I say. His eagerness turns to anger. I'm about to lose him. "But I understand what you are asking," I say quickly. I smile. I nod.
I will tell you about tonight. And if you are still interested, I will tell you about other nights. Will that be satisfactory, detective?" Before he can answer, the door to the room opens and an officer comes in with a sheet of paper. He hands it to the detective and leaves. I watch the detective read what's on the paper. He frowns, looks up at me, frowns some more, looks down at the paper, then wads it up and tosses it into the corner of the room.
"I suppose you didn't like what you read?" I say. "It's a bunch of crap," he says. I shrug. "The truth can feel like that at times." "How about you tell me some truth that isn't crap, Ben?" he says. "Start with tonight." "Of course," I say. "But I must warn you, detective, none of what I tell you will be easy to hear. When your part of my story is finished, you will know true pain." "Is that a threat?" he snaps. "No, no," I say.
There is sadness in my voice, because there is sadness in my soul. I wish it was as simple as a physical threat, but tonight will be much, much worse." It is his turn to snort. "Well, Benjamin, then let's get this show on the road," he says. "Of course. But I must ask you not to interrupt, detective," I say. He spreads his hands out and replies, "Talk." So I do. I came over with them in 1948. It was rather surprising.
There had been so much work in Germany during the first half of the 20th century that I thought my time there would be an eternity. And believe me, detective, it felt that way. Once the man who would be a demon took power. Oh, that man opened a portal that he could not control. They poured forth and I could barely keep up. I ate and ate and ate. If it wasn't for my physique, I would have been bloated to bursting after only a couple of years.
But I am built for this. So I did my duty, and I cleansed the land. Oh no, detective. I said no interruptions. I understand you want to know about tonight, but a little history will help put this in perspective for you. Be patient, please. All will be revealed. Where was I? Oh yes. I came over with them from Germany. At first, they were in Texas, but that was short-lived.
In 1950 they were moved to Alabama, so they could spread their evil into the stars. I, of course, moved with them. I have to say I was surprised that it took over a year before the first one appeared. Usually, when dealing with men of their kind, the first child is the one to reveal itself. Yet many a child was born that was healthy and clean and true, until one wasn't. To be honest, and I am being completely honest here, Detective,
I assumed the catalyst was the father. After all, he was a scientist responsible for unknown amounts of suffering and torture. Except, upon observation, I found out that it was the mother who was the catalyst. Oh, she was what you would call a piece of work. The father, oh, he felt guilt. He held the weight of his actions on his shoulders and he was trying to do better.
There was no way he could wipe the slate clean. Not when he drowned so many in fuel to see the effects, or when he roasted people alive by staking them in place behind the test engines. He timed their deaths. Taking notes on each stage of destruction wrought on those poor innocent souls. But go figure, it was the mother instead. That makes it much harder, you know? When the mother is the catalyst, then the mother is lost to the thrall of the infant.
Not like tonight's poor mother. She was simply overpowered. No. This mother was working with the infant. She was a willing participant, even after learning the truth about her child. When I slid in through the child's bedroom window, and, yes, detective, I can fit through a bedroom window. She was waiting there. "He said you would come," she said to me, her voice ragged and filled with snarls and spite.
She barely sounded human, and despite the evil she bore, I felt for her. I did. "Oh," I said, and paused as I was halfway through the window. I looked at the crib. It was empty. "That's unfortunate. You will not triumph tonight," she said as I climbed the rest of the way into the bedroom and stood to my full height. I towered over her, but she did not cower. She was resolute in her protection of the child that was not hers and never had been.
"Triumph?" I asked, confused. "Do you believe I feel triumph when I complete my tasks?" "Tasks?" she nearly shouted. "What you do is not a task. It is murder!" I misjudged her. I thought the child had fully enveloped her in its evil, but the abomination had only touched her enough to sway her to its vile ways. A true convert would know what I do is not murder. "Where is the child?" I asked. "You will not find," she began to say.
She did not finish because I took two steps forward, gripped her head on both sides, twisted once to the left, once to the right, and then pulled straight up. Have you ever heard a champagne cork pop from its bottle? What am I saying? You are a grown man. Of course you have. It sounded nothing like that. When you rip a human's head off, it makes a tearing sound mixed with a squelching sound mixed with a cracking sound.
There are so many components to the anatomy of the neck region that it would be impossible for it to sound like a cork. That is an invention of horror writers. It is extremely messy too. Blood spurted up out of her neck for two whole seconds as the body drained itself of life. When the headless corpse collapsed to the floor, there was barely any blood left at all. I set the head down, wiped my hands on my trousers, and left the child's room.
I do have to say, Detective, that my profession comes with certain perks. One is, I have an excellent sense of smell. For example, I can smell the baby formula that your own infant son spewed on your suit just this morning before you left for work. I believe the brand is Carnation, if I am not mistaken. I can also smell yesterday's sputum, except yesterday was mother's milk, and something else, but we won't get into that.
You should have your suit dry cleaned as soon as possible, or that smell will set in permanently. Trust me, detective. You do not want that. Where was I? Oh, yes. I was searching the house for the infant. It was not hard to find. I walked past each closed door until the stench of the abomination was too overpowering to ignore. A closet! She had secreted him away in a closet! When I opened the closet door, and the thin strip of light from the hallway fell across the child,
I have to admit that I was surprised for a second time that night, for I found not only the child, but the father as well. Unfortunately, the father was no longer among the living. The child already tore his throat out with his already grown teeth. Explain that to me, detective. How can an infant that was only two weeks old have teeth? I'll answer that for you. So it could tear out the throat of its own father and feed. And that was the problem.
Usually, they do not feed for months, sometimes even years. But this one was ambitious. It didn't want to meet its fate at my hands. It was a fighter. I braced myself, for I knew what was coming.
The abomination, all bloody-mouthed and cat-eyed, launched itself from the dead father and flew at me. I was prepared, of course, detective. So I took a step back and then slammed the closet door closed as hard as possible. The wood nearly cracked in half. But the child was sufficiently stunned that when I opened the closet door, it lay there, whining and rolling on its back. I snatched up the abomination and sucked my teeth into its neck.
The blood was hot and rancid, and I abhorred the taste and feel of it. And I do hope you comprehend this part, detective, because it matters. It truly does. I do not enjoy what I do. It is my calling and the reason I exist, but I take no pleasure from it. That night, I ate and ate and ate until the infant was fully consumed.
Not a trace of what had happened was left, except for the father's corpse in the closet and the mother's headless corpse in the nursery. After I work, detective, I am vulnerable, or as vulnerable as someone like me can be. I require a short rest before I can slip into the night and disappear. I lay down on their couch, which was quite comfortable, I must say, and took a short nap. When I awoke, the mother was standing over me with a butcher's knife.
She plunged the blade deep into my belly and twisted and turned. It was excruciating, but futile in the end. When she pulled the knife out for one more plunge, I leapt from the couch and tore that head off for the second time that night. It was easy to do since I'd already done the hard part earlier. The head was basically resting in place. A strong wind could have knocked it off. I held it up by the hair and looked it directly in the eyes.
"You are dead," I told the head, "and you have a choice: to continue like this, a ghoul enthralled to evil, or to die as a human and let your soul take its chances in the afterlife." The head snapped and hissed at me. "Fine," I said, and dropped the head to the floor. I stomped on it over and over and grounded what was left into the deep-piled carpet. Blue, I believe, was the original color of the carpet. It was purple when I was done.
Of course, the house was now a scene of unspeakable horrors. The night had not gone as smoothly as some nights do. Most nights would be considered tame to be honest, detective. I have been doing this for a long, long while, and I am quite good at it. But sometimes, things can get out of hand. I am the subject to the chaos of the universe as much as you are.
"So that is a snapshot into my recent background, detective," I say and shift in my too-small plastic chair. "Any questions before I recall tonight's events for you?" He eyes me closely. He'd stopped taking notes after I'd described tearing the mother's head off. "No matter. The many recording devices have captured my story. Not that those recordings will last. They never do. There is always a mishap or some accident.
This isn't my first time being arrested and interrogated. After a couple of seconds, the detective gets up and leaves the room without so much as an explanation. I wait. I'm patient. When he returns, he has several sheets of paper in his hand. He slaps them down in front of me.
"Yes, that's them," I say after reading the first paragraph of the case file. "You can see from her photo how I was mistaken. Even her eyes don't reflect what evil she hid inside," I chuckle. "But that's Nazis for you, right, detective?" He does not find my ironic observation amusing. "1952," he says, and stabs a finger at the papers. "You're telling me you committed these murders in 1952? You?"
He scoffs and moves around the table to sit back down. He pulls the papers to him, studies them, and scoffs again. "Let's say you were maybe in your twenties then," he says. "Yes, let's say that," I reply. "I love time puzzles." He scoffs again. I am not sure what his scoffs mean. I cannot tell if I am losing him or if I am bringing him around.
"In 1952, Mr. and Mrs. Gruber were brutally murdered and their child was taken," he states. "They never did find the child, but their killer was found only three days later. He was arrested, tried, and hanged for what he did. The blood of the innocent," I say. "I did wish I could have come forward and saved the man from his fate, but it was Alabama, and saving a black man then was not possible once that man was already gripped by the teeth of the machine."
I sigh. "Not that it is much better in the 21st century, detective," I add. "You're saying Harold Lautner didn't commit these crimes but you did?" he says. "I wouldn't call them crimes," I say. He slams his palm down on the papers. "Tearing a woman's head off and grinding it into the carpet is a crime, Mr. Meyer!" he shouts. "Tearing the throats out of the father and the infant are crimes, Mr. Meyer!" I hold up a finger.
"I only tore out the throat of the abomination," I say, correcting him. "The child tore out the father's throat." I point at the papers in front of him. "I believe the coroner lost his job after coming to that conclusion. You'll see how the father's medical report has a different signature. They found someone to corroborate what they wanted to believe, not what actually happened." He flips through the pages and then pauses. I watch him read.
I can see his eyes going over the report again and again, always landing on the signature at the bottom of the paper. "Doesn't mean anything," he says, and sets the papers aside. "Except for the fact that you are full of shit. How old are you, Mr. Meyer? Thirty-four? Thirty-five?" "Ben, please," I say. "How old are you, Ben?" he asks. "Older than thirty-four or thirty-five, that's for sure," I say and laugh.
he says, and watches me for a couple of minutes. Then he sits up straight, pulls his notebook to him, opens it, and grips his pen. "Tell me about tonight." I do. I had been watching the woman since before she gave birth. When you have been at this as long as I have, you simply know when one of them is about to be born. For three months I trailed her on her daily activities. I watched her go to work, go to lunch, leave work, then go home. That was the first month.
The last two months, she was no longer working. I studied her patterns in order to be sure that when the child was born, I would see the changes. And there were changes. While still carrying the abomination in her womb, she would visit friends. She would go shopping for fun little items for the nursery. She would have lunch with her mother and her sister. She would visit her husband at work and bring him lunch. They would sit on his office's patio and eat and laugh, and they were so happy.
"But you know what happened to the husband, don't you, detective? Were you the one who investigated his - and I am assuming what you call air quotes when I say this - when you investigated his 'accident'? You were. I know. I watched you enter the house. I watched you leave the house. You were shaken that night, detective. Anyone would be. What was the explanation your coroner gave, detective? Rats? Maybe a raccoon or fox or rabid dog?
None of those animals teeth matched the bite marks, did they, detective? Yet you allowed the lie to be made official. What does the record say, detective? A wild animal entered the house and attacked a father who used to only be a husband and now is nothing but a corpse? Am I correct, detective? I can see by the look on your face that I am. I'll continue. I watched the body be carried out of the house. I watched you wait until the ambulance had left before going inside.
I even watched you question the grieving wife and new mother as you tried to make sense of the hellish nightmare you had been called to investigate. I watched as the mother's mother and the mother's sister arrived. I watched as you waited for them to leave with the grieving wife and new mother. I watched as you went back inside. I watched you, detective. Then I went to the mother's mother's house and watched as the grief continued. I watched as the child grew that night.
Two days old and it grew before my very eyes, detective. I am sure your coroner is puzzling over the physical anomalies of the abomination's body right now. He is confused, perhaps even a little scared. But your machine will not allow for anomalies, so the report will simply state that the child was advanced for its age. What? Oh, yes, tonight.
I watched and watched. I saw the mother change and turn on her own mother and her own sister. Blood fighting blood. That must have been delicious for the child. They savor the conflict. They savor the pain they cause. They savor the suffering that surrounds them. Then against all advice and reason, the mother took the child and moved back into her house of horrors. There hadn't even been time for the place to be cleaned.
Your technicians did a wonderful job, uh, what do they call it? Processing. Yes, they processed that scene of death. Left their yellow tape intact. Left. Then she arrived hours later. Abomination in her arms and went inside. I would say that is a change in behavior, wouldn't you, detective? So I knew. The child had her.
It wasn't like the mother in 1952. No, this mother was a victim of her circumstances. She married wrong. It happens. She didn't know of her husband's… quirks. She didn't know what he did to those women late at night when he was supposedly working. Let me ask you, Detective. Have there been unsolved attacks on Ladies of the Night in the past year or so? Oh, my apologies. They are called sex workers now, not Ladies of the Night.
However, I do prefer Ladies of the Night. It has a certain class built into the name. Sex workers? Sounds so stale. Never mind my question, detective. No need to answer. I know I am correct. The corruption came from the father, not the mother. Which is how it happens so often. That made my job last night an urgent one. She could still be salvaged, but I had to move quickly.
Since you are a man who prefers facts, I will be explicit in the details. Well, until the details become too explicit themselves. The sliding glass door was unlocked. I do not know if it was left that way on purpose as an invitation for me to come inside, or if it was just a coincidence. It will forever be a mystery to me, since asking the mother is not an option, considering my circumstances.
Either way, the door was unlocked and I easily slid it open and slipped inside. I could smell the child's evil filling the house. The mother's scent was still human, so I knew she wasn't fully lost. My nose led me through the kitchen, down the hallway, into the nursery. But there was something else lingering under the abomination's scent. I could smell power. A power I haven't smelled in such a long time. I paused before the nursery door.
Then I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The mother had gotten up and was making her way to the nursery. She was half asleep and rubbing her eyes, so she didn't see me immediately. But, as you know, I am not a figure that hides easily. When she did see me, she froze in place. She could have screamed. She could have charged me, thinking she was protecting her child. She could have retreated in order to save herself.
She did none of those things. She simply froze and watched me. You see, Detective, that was when I knew for sure she wasn't lost. Everything before was simply me guessing and suspecting, and frankly, hoping.
It wasn't until I reached out and grasped the doorknob to the nursery did she react. She raced at me and flung herself at the door, trying to block me. And yes, detective, that is when I struck her. It was a simple blow, a kind blow if I do say so myself, a strike to the left temple, and she collapsed in an unconscious heap on the floor. Did I have time to waste moving her back to her own bed? No. It was a risk that I shouldn't have taken.
But the woman had been through so much already, and she was about to go through so much more, that I couldn't leave her in that heap. I carried her to her bed and tucked her in. I even gave her a kiss goodnight on her forehead and wished for her to have nothing but happy dreams, or at the very least, to not dream at all. Then I made my way back to the nursery.
When I opened the door, the child was sitting up in its crib. No, detective, I am not making that up. The infant, which was only four days old, was sitting up in its crib, and it was smiling at me. You again? It said. Its voice was not of a child, but of a thousand voices screaming up from hell itself, or whatever you want to call the place that exists below us, beside us, all around us. Me again? I replied.
"Do you not tire of your work, childeater?" it asked me. I shrugged. "Some days, yes," I said. "Then rest, childeater," it said. "Turn around and leave. Find yourself an oasis. Rest." "A nice sentiment, and I appreciate your concern for my well-being. But I think not," I responded. The abomination laughed at me. "You cannot stop this," it said. "You cannot stop me or my kind. We, eternal,
"As am I," I said. "Shall we get this over with, or would you like to converse longer? I have no personal preference now that the mother is tucked away safe and sound." "But is she, child eater?" it asked. "An excellent try," I said. "But the answer is yes. She is tucked away safe and sound." "But is she?" it asked again.
"They are good, these demons. They sow doubt like seeds in fertile ground. They understand their roles in existence, and they play those roles to perfection. But so do I." "Your words are only words, demon," I said. "They cannot sway me." "Can they not?" it asked. "This part, I will admit, detective.
The abomination did start to annoy me, so I apologized for the violence of the scene you came upon. That was not for your eyes. I got carried away. It happens to us all. What else? Oh, yes. I grew bored with the interchange and got to work. I believe when you arrived to check in on the mother and child, you found me with most of the infant already devoured.
I had the right arm and leg and part of the torso to finish when you tackled me against the crib. My ribs are still a little sore, detective. Did you play football in your youth? Never mind, not important. And that is the end of tonight's story. Hardly as involved as my previous story, but I wanted you to have context. Do you have any questions? The detective watches me closely. I can see the conflict in his eyes. I can see how he is trying to figure out my motives for such a full confession.
As far as he should be concerned, his case is closed. I told him everything he needs in order for a court of his law to convict me. Oh, but there's belief hidden behind those eyes. I can smell it on him, and that belief is growing stronger by the second, as it should. I lean forward. He doesn't flinch. I lower my voice so only he can hear me, and despite the recording devices, I know only he will hear me.
"You understand why I told you all of this, don't you, detective?" I say. He shifts in his seat, but stays quiet. "You know why I had to tell you the first story as well as tonight's story, right, detective?" I ask. The man is still quiet. I smile and nod. "I understand your hesitance," I continue. "For humans, it is a hard thing to come to terms with.
You find out that you were expecting, and there are nine months filled with excitement and fear and confusion and anticipation. Nine months of emotional investment on a primal level. I wait for a response, but one doesn't come. I have no doubt now about whether he understands what I am telling him. Then the child arrives, and the joy that is expected doesn't come. I continue. There is only wariness and more confusion.
Those instincts that have been honed over millennia and honed even sharper by your training as a police officer. Well, those instincts tell you something you don't want to believe. Stop, he whispers, his head hanging low so that his forehead almost touches the table. I pause. Perhaps I have pushed too far, but he lifts his head and stares at me. None of this is true, he says. It can't be.
"It can, and it is," I say in my most gentle of voices. "You know it is." His nod is almost imperceptible. When his colleagues watch the recording of this interview, they will not catch it, but I catch it. "Your instincts are not wrong, detective," I say. "And I am sorry for that," he winces.
Then he stands abruptly. "Mason!" he shouts. In seconds the door opens behind me and an officer comes in. "Take him to his cell," the detective says. "We're done here." "Here?" "Yes," I say as I am made to stand up. The shackles on my ankles clank and clang. The officer secures my wrists to new chains and unlocks the ones holding me to the table. I look back over my shoulder as I am led from the interview room.
"I still have work to do, detective," I say. "You know that." His eyes never leave mine until the door is closed behind me and I'm shoved down a beige hallway. The officer takes me to my cell. My chains and bindings are not removed. I know what that means. I have been doing this job for a long, long time. When they come for me, I let them go. I do not fight back. I do not attempt to defend myself.
I let the officers express their pain upon my body and I take it just as I have hundreds and hundreds of times before. My body is broken and bruised and bleeding. Yes, I do bleed. It takes me close to an hour to crawl across the cell and pull myself up onto the metal slab that is my bed and I wait. It is the wee hours of the morning when the detective arrives outside my cell. "Do not worry, detective," I say to him. "None of this will be recorded.
They turned off the cameras when they came for me. He unlocks the cell and comes inside. He stares down at me. I reach up to him. "A hand, please?" I ask. He gives me a hand, and the two of us leave that cell. My strength returns to me by the time I am seated in the passenger seat of his car. "I have a request," I say. "I know," he says. "I have it. Good," I say and close my eyes. We drive in silence.
I know where we are going. I have navigated these streets many times over the last few months. When we pull up in front of his house, he has tears in his eyes, but I can feel his resolution coming off of him. "She's not a bad person," he says after a few moments. "She isn't." "I know," I say, although I might disagree. After all, a woman who drowned her twin when she was 11 is not exactly a good person. "What do I do?" he asks.
You wait here, I say and get out of the car. I study the suburban house in front of me. I can already smell the abomination within. Please don't hurt my wife, he says quietly from inside the car. I will try not to, I say. I turn and lean down so I can look him in the eyes. I promise. I reach a hand into the car. He stares at me. I wait. Then he produces a small black bag from the back seat. Thank you.
I say as I take the remains of last night's infant from him. "I will handle this inside after…" I let the silence hang there in the air until he nods. "Why?" he asks. "Why do you do this?" I gave him my kindest smile. "I eat the babies, so you do not have to." I say. Then I turn and walk up to the detective's own front door, leaving the man to weep behind me. I turn the knob and walk inside. I have a job to do.
Hey guys, thanks for listening. I want to give you all a quick heads up regarding some upcoming political ads you may start hearing leading up to this year's presidential election.
These ads do not represent my own political viewpoint. So if you hear a political ad play on the podcast and it's not in my own voice, then it has absolutely nothing to do with me personally as a podcaster. Thank you again for being a dedicated listener of mine, and I can't wait to have another amazing year with you guys. I'll see you in the next episode.
