It was a few weeks later when he first heard the rumours. A home grown fully operational airforce unit working outta Finchingfield? He had to meet these guys! Maybe they could work together, share intel. His C.O. wanted action, but these guys were kinda elusive, ya know? Channels of communication weren’t normal. They were….bizarre. There ya go.

So it was that Picker found himself leaving a note under the third milk churn outside Bletherworp’s Farm in the dead of night. What happened next is anyone’s guess, but this is how I heard it. As he bent down to leave the note, Picker was overwhelmed by the smell of gorgonzola before being swept up and consumed by what he described as a ‘truck sized hay bail’. Yep. Guess we’ll never know.

Anyways when he woke up he found himself strapped to a chair in a barn, being poked and prodded by guys wearing masks, grilling him on what he knew about something they called ‘Ritual’ and whether or not he’d ever been to Bardfield. Bardfield? Where the heck’s that?! Name, rank and number, that’s all he gave ‘em -- till they brought out their truth serum. I dunno how they did it, but those guys had beer on tap in a barn in a field in the middle of nowhere! 

So after a few beers they’re all getting on like a house on fire. Masks off it’s Silas and Arnie, who talk for hours about the Cult and its secret rituals. Picker had grown up in a wasp nest of secret societies and woulda been happy to never see a hood again -- but this was different. This was warm, benevolent and giving….and our boy embraced the Cult like a child running into his Mama’s arms. Our boy had come home.