My scoutmaster’s house was a fucking pigsty. I still remember the smell and piles of junk…

The man had it out for me and was a pretty sad sack for zeroing in on a child while he was in his 50s. He used to rail on me for kicks and is the reason I left the scouts; made life but then said no.

Now his disgusting ass house is in my rearview mirror while I still live rent free in his tiny brain. I make more in a year than his stunted ass made in a decade while I hear tales of him mentioning me to new scouts… years after the fact.

All this is to say yea someone’s smell turned into a saga and I have lived it down. Meanwhile, with any luck their body burns up and fertilizes the rice fields of china with the cinders of his dead remains. *shellac