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Entering that bunker, walking down those stairs...man, looking back, it was fucking crazy. Spoiler alert: this won’t be the last time I do some crazy-ass shit.

The steps were short, steep, and led into what seemed liked complete darkness. The air shifted—cooler, damp, thick with the scent of aged wood and that smell from your grandma's closet. You know with the moth balls, and what not. The kind of underground air that’s been trapped for decades, still and unmoving until you stir it up.

He flicks on the light.

The place opens up to a wide-open basement, like the ones you’d see in any old home, except this one was buried beneath a barn in the backwoods of Kentucky. This wasn't any ordinary basement of course; this was a stash spot. It was where I assumed Grandpa would sit on his couch that resembled the one my parents had when they were together. I remember that couch perfectly. It had the wooden arms, floral pattern, and probably not that comfortable.

The couch sat along the back wall as you entered the basement, and a TV hung across from it. A small bar tucked along the right wall stocked with bourbon was where I imagined a large number of cash counting, bourbon drinking rednecks would sit. The walls are all white, the floors cold concrete. Functional. Nothing fancy.

If you’ve ever stepped into a VFW lodge, you know the vibe. That half-forgotten grandpa’s junk room feel. A little hunting-camp-meets-bunker-meets-basement. A deer head stares at me from above the couch, its glassy eyes frozen in time, as if it’s watching me size up my surroundings.

And I am. I’m taking everything in, every detail, every possible exit, which is only one. The way I came in. Because that’s what you do when you’re young, standing on the edge of something bigger than you, unsure if you’ll be the one to fall or fly.

He keeps walking, deeper into the basement—yeah, let’s call it that. Not a bunker, not a trap, just a basement.

That’s when I see them.

Rows of massive Igloo coolers lined up against the far-left wall. Big enough to fit a full-grown man inside if you had to. At least 4 feet long, though in my memory, they stretch even farther.

It’s funny—the things that stick with you. I remember these coolers so vividly because I had to go buy one myself. Ended up at a Walmart days later, standing there staring at the same kind, knowing exactly why I needed it. But we’re not there yet. My mind’s getting ahead of itself again.

And honestly? As I write this, I can’t help but feel grateful. Grateful I’m safe now, that I made it through everything I'm about to tell you. Because the life I was living back then… it wasn’t always so kind to people. Not everyone made it out.

He stops, nods toward the coolers.

“This is what we have ready now,” he says, matter-of-fact, like he’s showing me his collection of fishing rods. “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.”

I can feel my own eyes widen, my brain lighting up like a fucking slot machine hitting triple sevens. Holy fuck. I wish I could have it all.

But I stay cool. I listen.

He keeps talking. “Alright, one unit is 1,600. If you get more than 10, we can talk about a price break.”

Then he stops. Turns. Looks me in the eyes.

And waits.

To be continued…