Episode 86: Cry Little Sister

Well, hey there, family. If you love old gods of Appalachia, I want to help us keep the home fires burning, but maybe aren't comfortable with the monthly commitment, well, you can still support us. Be it the ACAST supporter feature. No gift to large, no gift to small. Just click on the link in the show description and you too can toss your tie in the collection plate. Feel free to go ahead and do that. Not about now. Working across teams is tough, but Asana helps you handle it. That's because Asana is where humans and AI coordinate work together. AI can spot roadblocks and assign work in a snap, so everything and everyone stays on track. That's how work gets handled. That's Asana. Visit us at Asana.com. Your life's already digital. From banking and shopping to streaming and learning. So why do sorting government stuff still feel like such hard work? The government is introducing a new digital ID to make access to services quicker and more secure for everyone, but we need to hear from you. Your voice matters. Such digital ID consultation to have your say. Digital ID. Making public services work for you. Construction shapes our communities. The buildings, roads and bridges we rely on every day. It's why the industry's most innovative companies trust Procore as the leading technology partner for every stage of construction. Procore connects teams from the site to the office on one global platform. For 20 years of serving construction, we know that anything is possible when we build together. Learn more at Procore.com. Is advised. Gleymorgan, Virginia, 1991. Denise Ramey and her cousin, Micah, hadn't even made it through the front door. When Denise's mama, Debbie, strode up to the pair and snatched the flyer from their hands. She scanned the cobbled together page and shook her head. Absolutely not. Micah, I don't know why let you talk me into taking you out to that charni ass record store in the first place. Ain't nothing but drug use and devil worshippers in a place like that. No wonder they keep it hidden from respectable folk. I mean, you have to go all the way around to the back of the building to even find it. Back door records is right. Denise pictured the stacks of vinyl occupying a graffiti-covered building near the college in Tipton. The customer would have to navigate through several rows of pop and country before finding something anyone would call remotely scary. Let alone Satanic. All the heavy stuff was tucked away in the back corner and you really had to know where to look to find the bands that inspired the wrath of the local hellfire and brimstone preachers. Back door felt more like a head shop that decided to sell records in some sort of a cult meeting house, but she imagined her mama would have been suitably traumatized if she had went inside. I didn't even see you snatch this out that bulletin board. What would people think if they seen you do that? That I wanted to go to the show maybe? Denise narrowed her eyes and stepped closer to her mother. Mom, you barely go to church and you've taken me to the record store a million times. You even dropped me off at shows over in Paradise. Why are you so suddenly worried about devil worshippers? Debbie Ramey had the grace to blush, but she still clutched the flyer. Staring down at the pictures of the bands that have been taped and ziroxed in the great scale immortality, the glowering face of John David from Violet Fear, resplendent in a ski mask with fake blood smeared about his mouth held her transfixed. I'm not not going to church every Sunday, but I know the devil when I see him Denise and I heard all their rumors about cults and human sacrifices, and I didn't believe them. I still don't. I know people exaggerating the preacher down at Michael's dad is church will say anything to scare people in to get and save, but I didn't know the things you went to were like. Well, like this. This looks evil Denise, Ramey. I don't want y'all having nothing to do with people like this. Michael rolled his eyes, leaping to the defense of his favorite band. It's not like that, Ann Debbie. I'm not fearin' even heavy. Their name, it's kind of a joke. They're like, I don't know, the Pesh mode with more guitars. Michael pointed at the bloody mouth masked man leering out at the world from the fly. Realizing as he spoke how this must sound to someone his aunt's age. They just go for the shock value. Denise's mama looked at Michael like he just sprouted a second head. He looked like he's going straight to hell if you ask me. I ain't stupid, boy. It says the word atheist right here on this poster. Foxhole atheist is just a band name. It doesn't mean anything. Y'all go to something like this. You'll come back brainwashed or queer or worse. Michael flinched as if she'd struck him. Denise glared at her mother. A half second too late, Debbie Ramey realized what she'd said. Oh, Michael, I'm sorry. I didn't mean but Michael wasn't listening. He bolted up the front door, snatched his bicycle from the front porch and tore off down the hill. Denise watched him go, then turned to glare at her mother. Great job, mom. You sound just like your brother-in-law. Denise stormed down the hallway to her bedroom at the end of the single wide and slammed the door. I didn't mean to hurt his feelings. I'm sorry. Denise's door opened a crack and she yelled back down the hall. I'm not the one you need to apologize to. Denise managed to get another full slam out of the door to spot barely opening it. Flustered her mother nevertheless insisted on having the last word. I never meant to upset anybody but under no circumstances are y'all going all the way to Knoxfield to see this kind of garbage. You hear me, Denise? Denise? When the walls close in and the light gets swallowed in there ain't no place that feels like home. The ones you love concern and the strangers and you cast your eyes through the winding road. Keep your foot on the gas, your eyes straight forward clear your heart and mind. The sun leaves them goes behind when the hearth grows cold. Home is nowhere and your mind is where. When dogs cause run like hell. 70-odd miles south of Gleimorgan and the shabby collection of single-wides known as Windsor Court. The door to another mobile home swung open. A young woman was ushered through it with enthusiastic hospitality. She was scared and she was more pissed off and frustrated than anything else. Two men followed her over the threshold and latch the door behind them. The first older man she knew to be the one in charge even though he appeared to be a normal person and not like her at all. The second was tall and built like someone who worked outside for a living with thick curly black hair. He wore jeans and a black pea coat despite the warmth of the summer even or and a cattel that he was for lack of a better term like her. The older of the bear, Glendshell be bustled her through the entryway and into the tiny living room. She scootsed around the table, perched on the edge of an overstuffed armchair and Glend dropped his old bones on the love seat closest to her. Here we go Miss Miranda. Home again, home again, Mr. Troy. Would you make sure the door is secured properly? Can't have her young friend here going on walk about again? How can we? I don't told y'all this ain't my home and I don't want to be here. Please I can take care of myself. Just get me to the highway and I'll be out of y'all's hair. I got friends I can go to. I'm sure you do my dear and if you value their lives you will stay very far away from them for a good little long while. Those charged with your care have sent you here until you have solidified your grasp on your new life and can be trusted to operate within the system that keeps us all alive. So while you might not like it, this is home for the time being. The man Glendshell be had addressed as Mr. Troy, returned from the rear of the trailer and nodded back the way he'd come. I'll lock up sir. You need to listen to Mr. Shelby, this ain't a game. In the cities we're like tiny gods. We feed as much as we want from who we want and nobody notices because the herd is thick enough to let us do it. Out here. Who you might as well be an outer space girl. We're like astronauts floating from rock to rock with the help of people like this man. I don't want to live in some nasty ass old trailer out in the middle of bump fuck. I had a life. I had friends. I had a job. I had a boyfriend and then. And then your boyfriend turned you into a vampire. And a couple weeks later he got high out of his mind and didn't get in for the sun come up. And then he left you without a maker and or anybody else to teach you shit about your new life or how to survive it. The girl moved to interject but Glenn cut her off. Oh, I imagine he taught you a thing or two like how to throw a pitiful glamour. How to hide your teeth when you need to am I getting warm or end of nodded then cast your eyes down to the coffee table dejectedly. Did he teach you how to close the wounds so you can drink from the same well twice? What about running water? Garlic? How to turn into a bat? He can't turn into bats. No of course not. You meet one of your kind that can change his shape. You get as far away from that sun bits you can. Sure sign a corruption or a pact with something darker than you need to be dealing with. And you'd know this if you hadn't been sired by some child whose main motivation was getting his fangs wet. Did he tell you who made him? Did you even know from whose blood you draw your eternal life girl? Miranda's head shook almost imperceptibly. My G was from Florida. I don't know whose people were. Hmm. With our kind blood is everything. I can't imagine this life without my maker's help on guidance. I would have been dead in a week without her. I'm so sorry to hear of your loss. I hope you will find others to guide you on your path. If I could be of any assistance. The Lynn moved to cut the stranger off before he got any more involved in the affairs of Windsor Court. There was something about the tall creature and his smolder and eyes and broad shoulders that he didn't like. He didn't care if his Rosalie knew him from before. There was something off about him. Oh, thank you Troy. But Miranda here is in fact quite fortunate. Elder Cyrus himself has kindly stepped into provide. Look, Cyrus. He's a drug dealer in an asshole. He's probably the one that got Mikey killed. That very well may be. But, but Cyrus Robinson is the elder of the oldest bloodline in the fair city in Oxford. He's a great dispenser your time here with us until you have a better idea of what to do with yourself. I know. You probably thought you were signing up for some anorizing nonsense, but the reality is nothing like that. Here look, he's Cyrus and his lot realized you weren't with your maker when he burned and brought you here before you did more harm. There are rules you must learn and follow. Those rules will keep you alive. Speaking of keeping yourself alive, going out in the sun is not how you do that here. Put this on your burdens. It'll help. Glidden Shelby removed the lid from a small mason jar of an off-white cream and placed it on the coffee table. The room filled with the scent of something moldering in a crawl space. The stench sealed air into keying flesh. Oh, God. It smells like roadkill. I can't put this on my hands, let alone my face. It does have a... a... a poongit bouquet, but uh, this rosely makes it herself and it will ensure your skin heals up nice and pretty. Your body will recover from most injuries within reason, but sun damages... different. You can leave nasty scars if you don't take care of it right, so now rub it in thoroughly you won't be sorry. Miranda smeared the foul smelling sav onto her burned forearms and the relief was nearly instantaneous. She might have wept in gratitude if she weren't so busy rubbing it over her hands, arms and face. When her task was done and the sting had sufficiently been taken out of her burns, she turned her host with a pleading expression. She knew she had to look pitiful. All burned up and covered in dead possum cold cream or whatever this was. But I can go out at night, right? Once you were properly trained, yes. I guess far too soon for you to be taken off back to the city to see some silly concert. We don't know if you can ever show your face there again. Someone likely saw what you did. And you may have to accept that your life in that town is over. Once your time here with Ms. Rosalie is done, you'll be free to go wherever you wish in accordance with the rules. Hey, probably for the best. You got life time to live, girl. Why would someone look enough to be turned while so young and pretty? Want to spend them in Knoxville of all places? I have friends there. I made a whole life there. I've already lost my first real boyfriend. Now you tell me, I can't see my friends neither. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want this. I just want to go home and live my life. That silly concert, as you call it, is important to me. My friends are putting out an album that they've worked hard on. And I just want to be there for them. Please, let me go. I'll come right back. I swear. Sweet girl, you haven't it since you got here. You nearly got yourself burnt into cinders. Now if we let you near a living soul right now, you tear him limb from limb. Well, you're not like me and him, and I ain't killed you yet. That has to count for something. Oh, my dear child, you have so much to learn. I am not one of you know, but I belong to Ms. Rosalie, not as a lover or as a spouse. I am her possession, her property, her familiar. Your senses do not even register me as a living thing, and even if they did, trying to feed on me, would not end well for you. And on that note, Mr. Troll, if I could trouble you once more. The vampire and the peacote turned and strode into the small kitchen. He opened the avocado green refrigerator and returned a moment later with a styrofoam cooler. He popped the lid off revealing bags of human blood, neatly packaged as if for delivery to a hospital. Supper time, and now down that little scrumptious, that blessed ointment should heal you up nicely. We'll talk again tomorrow evening when your belly is full and you're less cranky. I'm truly sorry you were unhappy with your current circumstances, but right now you need to stay here. Sweet dreams, my dear. Mr. Troy, thank you for your help this evening. Just leave Miss Miranda to her supper. Over the mountain in Gleymorgan, in Lutton number 13 of Cherry Hill, rituals were underway. The brohubitions laid down by Debbie Ramey had proved toothless as usual. She'd informed Denise and Micah that she'd be going out of town with her on again off again boyfriend Wiley stood him, thirsted even through Saturday afternoon. She left them money for food and gas on the kitchen counter and asked that they please not burn the place down. This particular on again was no coincidence. Wiley had come through Denise's checkout line at the pay last earlier that week and had as manners would dictate as to how her mama was doing. The niece had indicated that her mama was fine if a bit lonely and maybe overdue for a night or two out on the town with a handsome man with money. Wiley stood him was neither of those things but he took the hint and called Debbie Ramey as soon as he got home. With her mama out of the way, the teens had pulled their money for fuel and gas station wine obtained for them by an older friend and by the time Denise had finished her shift, the other members of their friend group had already let themselves into her trailer to begin the evening's preparations. Normally, the black eyeliner and suet didn't make its way into the scene until the sun had dipped beneath the horizon but the three-hour drive to downtown Knoxville had dictated that the transformative process began early. When Denise walked through the door, she found the air filled with the fragrances of aquenets, st.ives, apricots, grub, fantasia incense and clove cigarettes. Concrete blonde blared from the skinny boom box in her bedroom at the end of the hall. John Ettenham, a polatino, warning that the sky is a poisonous garden tonight. Denise slipped into the bathroom, located next to it to get ready. Applying her cosmetology, training to transform from the skinny blonde checkout girl to a creature she thought of as little dead riding hood in her most private thorns. She applied a mixture of foundation and concealer in the paleest shade she could find at the drugstore. Topped with a layer of translucent corn-syl powder with a bit of iridescent sheen, then brushed pale, lavened her eyeshadow onto her cheeks for blush. Next she moved onto her eyes, applying matte black shadow onto her lash line and a pure shimmery white to the upper eyelid up to her eyebrows. Between these, she brushed on a swoop of deep blackberry. She lined her eyes in cold black, first using a pencil liner that she gently smudged along her bottom lashes, then drawing a graceful cat eye with liquid liner along the upper lashes. Finally, she used the same black pencil on her lips, actual black lipstick being in short supply in rural southwest Virginia. The only time the niece could ever find it was around Halloween when Kimart dedicated a single aisle to costumes and that stuff was trash. It was greasy and thin, didn't last worth a damn and smeared all over besides. In the bedroom, her best friend Lori Powers sat at the battered old vanity table to niece that scrounged up from a yard sale when she was 12. Using Debbie Ramy's old lineup makeup mirror to transform her own pretty cherubic face into a temptress from the shadows. On the daybed beside her sat the newest member of their little coterie, Brendan McDaniel. Brendan had relocated from a school in Jacob County, Kentucky where he had been a star athlete through his junior year, lettering in several sports. His dad's abrupt job transfer across the state line into Esau County, combined with a torn ACL acquired in the final basketball game of last season, meant he'd been unable to play sports his senior year. No sports meant no scholarships, which meant Brendan had to stay on top of his grades if he wanted to get into UK in the fall. He'd meant Lori in Spanish 3, a subject he would not have passed without her help. That class had been a nightmare for the Kirby girl with the macular eyeliner and perfectly dyed hair as black as midnight and a coal mine. It was filled with the standard issue mean girls who seemed to take issue with every element of Lori Powers existence. When the hot new boy told them all to eat shit in mind their business, Brendan's social standing in his new school had taken a dive, but he didn't seem to mind. He enjoyed Lori's company and had followed her like a puppy right into their little cousin of outcast and weirdhose. While on the surface, Brendan appeared to be a clean cut jock. Once they all got to know the new kid, they found he fit right in. He was into bands like Metallica and Ministry, whom he'd been introduced to by an older kid named Kevin at his old school. Brendan talked about Kevin a lot. How Kevin got him into this band or that cult classic movie or Kevin taught him how to make stir fry with nothing more than soy sauce and sprite for the seasoning. His prized possession was a watch that Kevin had given him for his 17th birthday. Denise, Lori and Michael were pretty certain that Brendan and Kevin had been a bit more than just friends, but they didn't press for the details. They figured he'd get around to tell them about that in his own good time. With his incongruous saved by the bell haircut, Nine-H-Nails T-shirt and black jeans, Brendan looked as though he was trying on a whole new identity tonight. Michael was painting his nails a dazzling shade of purple glitter. He watched an amazement as his fingertips became a sparkling forest of violet gemstones. He studied them for a moment as a look of heavy pondering thought crossed his face. I think I hate my name. Uh, okay. Why do you hate your name? It's just so generic. It's like there were too many brand-ins in the world, so they changed one letter. My dad might as well have named me football. I need a cool nickname. What do you all think of Thorne? Ain't nobody calling you Thorne, baby. All right, why not? We're out of school. It's not like the chads and the travises are going to fuck with me now. Though I would kind of like to see him try. Brendan Grinde himself. Bad knee or nod, he could probably take most of the boys on the pine of yours offensive line if he came down to a fair fight. He might have spent this school year on crutches in the better part of the last six weeks in physical therapy, but he'd been all-region football and wrestling in his old school. And he'd done his best to keep the rest of his body in shape without doing himself further injury. Shug, for one, you don't get to pick your own nickname. You want to go down to the courthouse and change your government name? You can do that, but you don't get to pick your nickname. For two, you wouldn't be a Thorne. I see you as more of a sugar tits. Sugar tits? I mean, I had them working out my pecs lately. Brendan's truck an exaggerated bodybuilding pose, and Michael let out a cackle struck by the hilarity of their token jot for inflects and like a pro wrestler with his sparkly purple nails. He laughed so hard he had to set the nail polish down for fear of spilling it all over Denise's bed. Oh, yes, baby. Sugar Mania's running wild. Show us what you got. Brendan's got to make up and deliver the gentlest body slam he could onto Denise's daybed, nearly sending the box filled with her nail polish collection flying. Oh, God, I've been sugar slammed. As the hootin and laugh and reached his crescendo, Denise poked her head around the corner to see what the fuss was about. What's going on in here? Y'all already getting into the boon's farm without me? Micah, get off my bed. Oh, Brendan. I like your nails. Brendan held his hands out in front of him, wiggling his fingers while swinging his hips to the beat of the tape, shaking what the good lord gave him as John Atenapalitano wailed. All of them joining singing the final chorus to the beast. Laurie's powerful voice soaring above the others, harmonizing perfectly with the lead singer of concrete blonde signature crew. By the end of the song, all of them were leaning on each other and laughing, glowing with the kind of camaraderie that only comes along once or twice in a person's life. A sort of connection that would fade into the golden sunset of youth before they knew it. Denise hated to be the one to break this spell, but since her older brother Bradley had left town and had fallen to her to be the responsible one. And she needed to herd these cats into the car if they wanted to make it to the show on time. All right, let me go get my crap out of the back seat so y'all have a place to sit. We need to get on the road. Micah, make sure you put the lid back on the nail polished good and hot, okay? That purple glitter wasn't cheap. Laurie, can you make sure he does it right? Last time he spilled my Lincoln Park after dark and I still ain't found that exact color again. I got you, Shug. You twist him on good, young man. I got it. I got it. He come down. Denise walked down the hall through the living room and out the front door where their chariot awaited. The vet, as they called it, sat in the driveway and all its dusty gray glory. Bradley used to brag about the vet he got for his 16th birthday. The joke being the car in question was a shoved and not a corvette. In part of fact, he had received a cake from food line and the car would $10 in it when he reached that magical age. The car he bought himself, mowed with lawns and cleaning out gutters for two summers to save up enough to buy the ancient hatchback from Rogers Auto Sales a half mile down the road. He plastered the back window with band stickers, Sabbath and anthrax, and some old punk bands like Monter Threat and Social Distortion. Denise had been slowly adding her own to the mix since he'd inherited the car. The cure, of course. Bauhaus and Joy Division and a smattering of local bands like No More Light, Violent Fear and Punching Judy. Denise lit up a cigarette and leaned into the back seat, pulling out jackets and sweaters, a couple spare uniform tops and various other shits she would have taken inside ages ago. Her brother would have never allowed so much to accumulate. While in typical teenage fashion, his bedroom might have looked like the aftermath of a tornado, he had been meticulous about the vet. Spending a couple of hours every weekend washing, waxing and vacuuming out her interior, he'd been so proud of that car. The niece could hardly believe it when her brother had handed her the keys and now he told her he was leaving. The vet had been as much a part of Bradley Rami as his crooked smile with the sandy brown hair that he'd worn to his shirt collar since he was old enough to go to the barber shop by himself. She'd called lifelong shotgun the day he brought at home Bradley would let her drive at home after shows occasionally even before she had her own license when it was late and he'd had a beer or two too many. From time to time she'd taken it to work when their mama's car was in the shop but it felt weird to slip behind the wheel and claim the vet as her own and truth to tell she'd rather have him than the damn car. She missed her big brother. Four years older than Denise Bradley had hung around for a couple years after graduating late Morgan High taking classes during the day and delivering pizza at night. She had known he was trying to save up money to get out of East South County but it is still coming to shock when he told her he was leaving. He'd earned his certificate in welding from the local community college and was going to North Dakota of all places to work on the pop line. It was long hours but good money, far better money than he could earn anywhere around here and he could use to build a real life for himself. That's what he called it. A real life and it is struck Denise that maybe she too could dream of something beyond what Southwest Virginia had to offer. Her brother, like everyone else, assumed she would just get a job at a local salon after she passed her cosmetology exam but at this point Denise wasn't sure she even wanted to take the damn thing. Did she really want to spend the rest of her life putting her arms on the old ladies holding down the pews and her Uncle Bugs firing Brimstone Church? Sure she enjoyed doing hair and makeup but she wondered if she could do something more or hell just do it someplace else. She wished she could talk to Bradley about it but he didn't call much. He was pulling 14 hours shift six days a week he told her the last time they spoke. I mean he was obviously excited about his prospects but he sounded exhausted too. Her mama was no help. Debbie Rami was afraid to sit foot outside the mountains. Even their angel trip over to Paradise to buy school clothes at the mall had obviously made her a nervous wreck as she was convinced any town bigger than Clay Morgan was bound to be a hotbed of criminal activity. She would grab Denise's arm and clutch her purse if anyone other than a sales girl at JC Penny so much glanced in their direction and then snap at her daughter when Denise inevitably rolled her eyes. Bradley's easygoing manner and sense of humor had acted as something of a buffer between the two generations of Rami women. He could usually diffuse the arguments that flared up between them with increase in frequency as Denise grew older with the death change of subject or one of his goofy jokes. Without him the atmosphere in the single wide grew ever more tense. Denise heard the screen door bang open behind her interrupting her wool gathering as their tiny coterie marched out into the late afternoon sun. A rag tag company dressed in black the color drained from their faces courtesy of Maybelline and Mary Kay. It was strange to see them all gothed out in the middle of the day but she also felt a glow of pride. Here we are Cherry Hill your children of the night. What music we made. Hey hey shotgun. Oh man I wanted shotgun for one. The hell you say ladies up front sugar tits in the back. Mike and Brendan clambered into the back of the car grab acid and carrying on the way boys do. Denise stood just inside the open driver's side door hesitating for a moment before she took her place behind the wheel. You okay, Shug? Yeah I think so. I've never made a drop this for on my own. Bradley usually drove. Yeah I miss his dumb ass too. It's going to be fine. You got this. I can drive some on the way back if you need me too. No offense but you're blonde or the nigh I'm at not and you drive like a bad out of hill. All right let's go. With that the vet rumbled to life and the dark heart of Gleimorgan took to the road in search of good friends, good music and good times. About an hour after sundown in a house somewhere out near Big Gap Road in Baker's Gap a kitchen phone began to ring and Cody bled on his plucked it from its place on the wall before it could finish its chirping song the second time. Hello. There it's it's Glen Shelby. Hey Gleim everything all right up there? We do have a small situation. We brought Miss Veranda back to the property and told her very sternly that she was not to leave her rooms tonight but she got loose again. I know come across the CB about a 20 minutes ago. Ayrs boys spotted her getting into a service fan for an HVAC company out of severe vulnerable. They were following up on it. Oh good you know the Ayrs boys well enough I think could you reach out to them and see if they was too late Glen. They clocked her earlier today when she was in town like I said it it was on the CB everybody heard it. Bird called claim on it wouldn't surprise me if she's already in the wind. I'm sorry man there ain't nobody can reason with that woman once she's on the hunt. Oh I see thank you bear I'll see what we can do on Ayrs. Don't do nothing stupid now Glen this is bird we're talking about. You know I know I know you all have your protocols and we have a good night bear. You too Glen and for what it's worth I'm sorry. So am I bear. Well hey there family thank y'all for sticking with us as we journey into the deepest shadows of the early 90s here in the final arc of season five of old gods of Appalachia run like hell. We have bodies in motion from both sides of the proverbial state line headed towards the big city in Knoxville. Who do y'all think is following on their heels? Guess we'll have to come back next time and find out what bird of ill-ohman might be casted at shadow over our young folk both living and dead. I hope you'll join us I truly do. Now if you want even more stories of the green and the dark that wander all over the timeline from the 19th century through the late 20th you could cast your tithe into collection plate and join us over in the hall or our paid subscription service where you can access hours upon hours of exclusive storylines like build mama coffin black mouth dog familiar and beloved alongside studio productions of some of our live show stories such as easy money or the tithe that bind. If you can spare a few dollars a month head on over to old gods vappalachia.com slash the holler and join us today we promise that it's well worth your time and hard earned money. Now this is your there ain't no goth party like an apple at you goth party because an apple at you goth party don't stop even when people yell slurs from past and big up trucks reminder the old gods vappalachia is a production of deep nerd media and it's distributed by rusty quill today's story was written and produced by steve shell and cam collins our theme song is by brother land and blood and our outro music neon Dracula is by violent fear aka jake of danielson more and it's currently available over on jake of fan camp and you can find the link to that in the show notes the voice of maranda is andy marie tillman the voice of troy is adam kem porus the voice of nish ramey is autumn bogeman the voice of micro ramey is aaron bitley the voice of brinda mcdaniel is craig rise and the voice of lori powers is allyson mullins we'll talk to you soon family talk to you real soon there's a liberal I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... I just... You're life's already digital. You're life's already digital. You're life's already digital. You're life's already digital. You're life's already digital.