If there’s anything that Joben had plenty of, it was hammers. They lined the eaves of his small cabin in north Georgia’s most hellacious holler. His daddy couldn’t afford tools. The son of a moonshiner he was no stranger to raisin’ hell on Friday night and holy rollin’ Sunday morning— though admittedly he said the church goin’ was mostly just to meet girls. In 1943 he jumped off the back of an aircraft carrier a couple miles off the coast of New York ‘cause he’d “seen just about as much of the world as he wanted to the first go around.” When a city slick failed to make good on his debt, he laid in the bed of a truck and sawed him in two with a shotgun as he walked by. He killed two of his three wives. Buried one in the front yard. Beat both court cases after he was found out. By all accounts he was a mean old bastard that neither man nor beast wanted to get tangled up with— that is ‘til the cancer got ahold of ‘em. Few months later he died.