Before Samantha Thompson moved to Bud Miller’s compound on the western side of the Adirondack Mountains, she was Sally Mae Thomas, a simple farm girl from Iowa. She was raised by two well-to-do middle-class Christians, the best parents any girl could possibly wish for in those times. Her mother only ever asked that she say her prayers, and her father that she marry young enough to let him be rid of her financial burden. But Sally Mae was smarter than she looked, and had been hotwiring her daddy’s good Christian car for as long as she had tits. Marriage wasn’t really something Sam wanted in life, so when Bud Miller came to town and asked her to steal a car for him, she jumped at the chance and never looked back. 

Bud was born in the back of a Dodge pick up truck in northern California on a warm winter’s day. Until the age of seven, Bud had four mothers and four fathers, and then they let him go. Seven was old enough to fend for yourself. And fend he did, all his life. By the age of twenty, he had killed ten people fending for himself. At that point, all concept of good and bad and morality had dissolved from any semblance of humanity he had left. 

But Bud was charming, as most wanderers are, and handsome in a very rugged country-boy way. He had dark gray eyes, almost the color of slate, and sandy blonde hair that always looked as if he’d just woken up from a nap in the haystacks. He was trim and short, small for a man, but he had a long, thin scar down the right side of his neck. A man he tried to rob had slit him open with a rusty screw in a street brawl, but the damage was minor, and the scar a tough new jacket Bud got to wear when he needed looking tough. Bud avoided fights with men, but enjoyed beating women because they’d always go back to him with his handsome face and his his deep sad eyes and his sandy hair and the long scar down the right side of his neck. 




...the beginning of something...