Blog

Entering that bunker, walking down those stairs… man.
Looking back now—it was fucking crazy.

Spoiler alert: this won’t be the last time I do some crazy-ass shit.

The steps were steep and short, cut into a slant that dropped into near-total darkness. The air shifted—cooler, heavier, soaked in the scent of old wood, mothballs, and whatever lives in forgotten basements. You know that smell from your grandma’s closet? That musty, stale, chemical kind of comfort? That’s the one.

He flicks on the light.

The space opens up into a wide, raw basement—like the kind you’d find in any old Kentucky house, only this one lived beneath a barn in the middle of nowhere. This wasn’t some storm shelter. It was a stash spot. A sacred room for the business.

Against the back wall: a couch. Worn, floral print, wooden arms—the kind my parents had before they split. I remember that couch perfectly. Probably just as uncomfortable as it looked.

A TV hangs across from it.
To the right, a small bourbon bar sits tucked into the corner—nothing fancy, but I could picture the scene clearly: stacks of bills, redneck voices talking crop yields, rounds of bourbon poured like deals being sealed.

The walls? White.
The floor? Cold concrete.
The whole thing? Functional. Not stylish. Just real.

If you’ve ever stepped into a VFW lodge, you know the vibe. Half hunting camp, half grandpa’s cluttered basement. A deer head stares at me from above the couch—glass eyes unblinking, frozen mid-judgment as I scan the room like I’m about to be tested. And I am.

I take in every corner. Every object. Every possible way out—which, of course, is the same way I came in.

That’s what you do when you’re young and standing on the edge of something much bigger than you: you measure everything—your breath, your exit plan, your silence—and you wonder whether this is the moment you fall or finally start to fly.

He keeps walking—deeper into what I’ll just call “the basement.”
Not a bunker. Not a trap.
Just a basement.

And that’s when I see them.

Coolers.
Rows of massive Igloo coolers lined up against the far-left wall.
Four feet long. Big enough to fit a man, if it came to that.
In my memory, they stretch on forever.

It’s funny, the things that burn themselves into your brain.
I remember those coolers clearer than I remember the drive home.
Because days later, I’d be standing in Walmart, staring at the same model.
And I’d know—exactly—why I needed one.

But we’re not there yet.

My mind’s getting ahead of itself again, like it always does.

And honestly?
As I write this, I’m overwhelmed by something I didn’t feel then—gratitude. Gratitude that I’m here, safe, with the chance to tell this story. Because the life I was living back then didn’t come with guarantees. And not everybody made it out.

He stops. Nods toward the coolers.

“This is what we have ready now,” he says, casual as ever, like he’s pointing out fishing rods at a yard sale.

“As you saw, more is drying, more is being cut. I think we’ll hit 2,500 pounds this year when it’s all said and done.”

And just like that, my head lights up like a fucking slot machine—
Triple sevens. All bells. No breaks.

Holy fuck.
I want it all.

But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything yet.

I stay cool. I listen.

“Alright,” he continues,
“one unit is 1,600. If you get more than ten, we can talk about a price break.”

Then he stops.

Turns.

Looks me dead in the eyes.

And waits.

To be continued…