Across the pond there lived an old man.

He whistled as he whittled and was a cheerful, old, wise elder. He didn’t do much besides whittle away and listen to the wind and the bees buzz; the hum of swaying corn and early dawn cracking birds; the crackling of campfire wood and the smells of fresh cut grass.

The old man knew much about the town and was at one time the head of the Fire Department. He was a diligent worker as a young man and only grew kinder and more fondly looked upon as he aged with much grace.

Only he never seemed to leave his yard unless he went in his house. He didn’t even have a car. The lights were never on in his home.

The only way he got in and out were his secret tunnels. He left in the night every night where no one would know where he was. The pond looked deep but was very shallow. Underneath his own rooms for whatever he chose to do with them. But what did he choose to do with them?

Commit.

Arson.

The mysterious fires over the years? Where’d they start? Who knows, but the fire department? Always seemed to get there promptly to the start… Intriguing. The townspeople trusted the fire department so. They adored the men and women that were always to the rescue almost immediately every time. They had the full trust of all the people. Many donations were given to the department. And so from there, a cult was born. Where they did underground business and trading and could funnel more and more money into their schemes with their donations from their arsonistic tendencies.