I know. Why in the hell would I ever want to carry on a name like Batchbottom? If we’re so rich, why wouldn’t we change our name to something normal that we could be proud of, like Smyth or Johnson or something cool like De’VampireKiller? Or just improve on what’s already there—maybe Betterbottom or Bottombetter or Betyourbottom.
For one, my name having the word bottom in it has served me just fine already. Two, I never wanted to be normal, and neither did my father or grandfather. There are some benefits to having a unique surname because not many people would confuse you with someone else, and there wouldn’t be two of you in the room at the same time, so you’d never have that in question when someone calls out your last name. Also, alphabetically, the letter B is close to the front of the list, so that’s always been quite great. Plus, the name is established. It would be like taking the name of something iconic, such as a cereal that people have known for generations or a high-end sports car and naming it something bland. It wouldn’t be the same.
It all brings me to right now. I’m currently driving in a rental made for someone half of my six-foot-four size. The rental company had a mix up and this was the only car available. Obviously, great start to this freaking journey to nowhere. And when I say I was driving, I actually mean stuffed in the car while steering this godforsaken tiny little box on wheels towards my doom, which is approximately fifteen minutes away, or so my happy, peppy little box on wheels’ GPS tells me.
After I turn off the freeway, the road lasts for all of three and a half seconds before it turns into lethal stones and mud, known as the dreaded gravel back road. The GPS is still functioning, though I’m not sure how it knows where it’s going when it’s traversing the road to hell.
I have to grind my teeth behind the wheel, which is difficult because my head is turned sideways so that it doesn’t keep hitting the roof of the car, and my knees are practically jammed up into my chin. I’m already pissed at having to do this. For. Six. Months. It seems like an eternity. Why not just lock me in a dank, dark dungeon and throw away the key, medieval style? I swear it would probably be more sanitary than where I’m heading.
Roughly fifteen minutes later, my suspicions are confirmed. I turn down a long, winding driveway. There’s a mailbox at the top of it—a huge pig on a stick. The rump part of the pig actually opens and folds down, and the mail goes inside. I have to pull over the car and stare at it because it’s that strange.
Yup. Definitely descending into the world’s weirdest hell—farm hell, ax murder farm hell. Farm from hell? The place is likely full of firebreathing dragon cows, rabid chickens, and demon goats. Think about those ones you’ve seen with the pentagram around them—the scary ones. It seems like they’d call this place home, and it only gets worse from here on out.
My one consolation is that I don’t have to take a hiatus from the company. I might not be able to be in the office or on the floor, making decisions, but I can keep in touch through video conferencing, and I brought all my technology with me. As long as I’m here and fulfilling the conditions of the will, I’m good. It’s probably the only thing that’s going to make this bearable. The fact that I can stay in communication with my dad and keep my ties to my old life, also known as civilization. As long as this place has internet access, I’m golden.
Well, except nothing about this is golden, aside from all the endless fields which stretch on for miles and miles, and even then, those are more of a brownish green. This is what I’d imagine summer in hell looks like. Did I say hell? I meant Kansas. Oops.
The driveway juts and turns, and a huge red barn that looks brand new rises into view. It’s the typical barn, the kind of thing that people see in movies and read about in books. It’s fire-engine red, or perhaps barn red, since I believe that’s a real color. Go figure. There are a few other dilapidated sheds behind that, a sort of metal grain bin thing, and a bunch of wooden fencing to block off the animal pens. The yard stretches on. It’s neat enough, with what looks like a garden in the back. Of course, no token farm would be complete without a massive, ancient white farmhouse, and this one is all that and then some—with some peeling paint on clapboard and a charming little porch. It also has two stories and peeling green shingles. A huge tree—if I knew trees, I guess I’d be able to define it—overhangs everything, its leaves rustling gently in the breeze.