Hi buddy, it is the time to always.

The Asshole Book

Robert C. Hanson, thought to be Alaska's most prolific serial killer, though the ghost of Israel keys might have something to say on that,

was a mystery, like most who decided to start fresh in the coldest corner of America.

Hanson made a name for himself in Anchorage as an expert bow hunter, solid family man, and hardworking entrepreneur,

a body with a plan unlike many of the destitute from the lower 49 whom flocked north to the future every summer,

only to find that a venture comes at a heavy price, most are in two-poor of shape, to pay.

Hanson, through the 70s, was known in Anchorage as Bob the Baker, due to his trade, and he fitting just fine from the start.

Perfectly, really, but he was a lie, the Baker, and in the end he'd be exposed for what he truly was.

Alaska's Butcher

The Butcher Baker officially has 17 confirmed kills pinned to his name, but is suspected that the actual number tallies much higher.

At least as high as the number of marks on his kill scroll, a well-worn aviation map covered in trees, rivers, mountains, and dozens of blood-red axes.

He was prolific, no doubt about it, but once apprehended, Hanson, like the aforementioned keys, was concerned solely about the impact his crimes would have on his family.

So he did everything in his power to limit the sensationalization of his well-sensational style of murder, leading investigators to a few partially closed and risk-bound skeletons out in the woods,

in return for his case to be processed as quickly and quietly as possible.

The boy who would become Baker, then Butcher, then Both, was born in small town Iowa, where he soon found himself at the mercy of his parents, and of the other children who would tease him incessantly.

Robert's father, a Danish immigrant, and Baker by trade, taught his son to work hard from an early age, work hard or get a beating that would end in a cloud of flour and a loaf of pumper nickel wrapped around Robert's skinny little neck.

Let's just say that it wasn't an easy childhood, and things only got slightly better through the boy's teenage years.

When young Robert wasn't needing dough, he was in need of dough, as he wasn't paid for the forced labor at his father's bakery.

Not that he'd have had much place to spend at the neighborhood kids, like I said, were mean, teased him about his acne, ridiculed him for the stutter.

A stutter that had presented itself around the time Robert's father had forced him to become right-handed.

He wasn't natural, little left-handed Bobby, he wasn't right, and soon any money he could get his confused hands on was stashed away, until it transformed into his first true friends, his first true loves, weapons.

...