It’s finished — and now has a new title, because the old one gave far too much away. Came out pretty good, I think. You’ll be able to read it on Patreon.
The police did not find me at the Pierce farm. Instead, they found me at the merrily-burning warehouse that had formerly illicitly hosted the Unnameable Still. I made no attempts to evade what I had done, and made sure to direct them back to the farm, on the off chance somebody hadn’t noticed the fire and gunplay (as it turned out, they had). I also made sure to tell them about the catalyst, the goo — particularly the goo — and that David had murdered three people before I maced him in self-defense and set the fire myself. Oh, I spoke at some length, and very, very freely.
And here I am, doing it again. Why? Because obviously I am mad. No sane person would have tried to make illegal alcohol using obscure magical texts, then claim how a rash of recent disappearances and deaths were all due to a malevolent goo! Clearly I am a maniac of some sort — although I insist that I am not a homicidal maniac — who snapped under the strain and who must be institutionalized for her own protection. I’m even confessing to all of it!
So lock me up. Have the doctors poke at me, work out what drama or trauma made me this way. It’s fine. It’s all perfectly fine. I won’t mind. Because I must be insane.
I absolutely must be.