This episode plays out like Mad Max: Hippie edition, with Charles Manson leading a ragtag gang of desert weirdos who thought they were preparing for the apocalypse but really just look like extras from a bad B-movie. By Part 2, Manson’s “Family” has fully drunk the Kool-Aid (or maybe just the bad acid) and they’re carrying out his insane vision of Helter Skelter—a race war supposedly hidden in Beatles lyrics that only he could decode.

Nick and Ryan, sipping their way through the madness, paint the picture of Manson directing chaos like an off-Broadway producer with zero budget and way too much LSD. The “Family” isn’t so much a group of killers as they are the world’s worst improv troupe: Yes, and… let’s stab strangers to start the apocalypse

The comedy comes from the sheer absurdity: dune buggy war squads, desert hideouts that were supposed to be “end times headquarters,” and a cult leader whose only real talent was making nonsense sound profound to people who were too high to notice.

At its core, it’s an unflinching look at how one delusional wannabe rockstar managed to turn peace-loving hippies into the world’s least competent death squad.

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This episode is like That 70’s Show if everyone quit smoking weed and started listening to a lunatic with a busted guitar. Charles Manson, the world’s angriest pint-sized folk singer, strums a guitar badly enough to start a murder cult. He couldn’t land a record deal, so he settled for recruiting a bunch of barefoot hippies who thought desert dirt was a food group.

Nick and Ryan dive into Manson’s “career,” which is basically a blooper reel: stealing cars, bombing auditions, and somehow turning campfire kumbayas into cult recruitment sessions. Meanwhile, his “family” is out there treating felonies like summer camp crafts, nodding along as if the nonsense made sense.

Fueled by tequila and whiskey, the brothers roast Manson’s logic harder than a campfire marshmallow, pointing out how the scariest part isn’t just the murders, but the fact that Hollywood insiders actually entertained this guy’s music dreams. It’s a mix of cult psychology, 1960s chaos, and jokes sharp enough to cut through the acid haze.

It's a cocktail of horror and hilarity, proving that sometimes the only thing scarier than a cult leader is his mixtape.

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Stanley Milford Jr. didn’t sign up to fight monsters—he signed up to be a ranger. But on the Navajo rez, that meant one part lawman, one part tour guide, and one part “oh crap, was that a skinwalker doing 65 next to my Chevy?” Nick and Ryan dive into the career of the world’s first Supernatural Ranger—a guy who basically lived in a crossover episode of Cops and The X-Files.

His greatest hits? A demonic spellbook casually hanging out in his house, gas burners firing up like Gordon Ramsay’s hell kitchen, 26 sheep drained like vampiric Capri Suns, and Bigfoot treating sheep corrals like Golden Corral. Toss in UFO sightings, shadow stalkers, and locals who shrug off skinwalkers like they’re just another pothole. The locals shrug it off—“yep, skinwalkers again”—while Stanley files reports that read like porno scripts written by Stephen King: midnight pounding, heavy breathing, and invisible hands grabbing you in all the wrong places. And you’ve got the résumé from hell.

Nick and Ryan keep it all stitched together with whiskey reviews, Nicolas Cage tangents, and the eternal question: do you cuff Bigfoot or just let him go with a warning?

Bottom line: it’s less “protect and serve” and more “holy sh*t, swerve!”—a booze-soaked tragicomedy where law enforcement meets paranormal porn parody—which is equal parts terrifying, hilarious, and just raunchy enough to make you wonder if Bigfoot should have to register as a sex offender.

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