Everybody knew about her delicious concoction. Best for miles around. She’d won blue ribbons at the county fair for 40 years with that jam, but no more. Granny Byrd’s recipe is gonna be yours. But to get your hands on it, you gotta head way, way out to a run-down, broken-down farm at the far edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Word has it there are lots of copperheads around there, so be careful.

When you get to the farm’s huge barn – that’s got to be the headquarters of her jam operation with all that banging and clanging – you get the strange sense that something’s not right. Peeking in, you see that she’s cookin’ something alright – and in big, copper vats – but it sure ain’t jam. It’s something with quite a bit more bite that could get you in a huge heap of trouble if you’re caught with it.

After a sudden commotion, a shrill voice hollers:

“Trespassers! Y’all git outta here!”

A gun cocks and you high-tail it out.