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May 1977, San Jose, California. Ted Dabney pulls into the parking lot of a windowless, single-story building. Above the door, a sign reads, Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theater. Dabney is a 40-year-old former Marine with a horseshoe mustache. Five years ago, he co-founded Atari, the company that kickstarted the video game industry.
He no longer works there, but he's still friends with Atari's other co-founder, CEO Nolan Bushnell. So he didn't hesitate when Bushnell asked him to check out his latest venture. Bushnell described it as a pizzeria crossed with an arcade, where the main attraction is an animatronic showed to rival those at Disneyland.
Dabney enters and is hit with a wall of south. Kids running wild, screeches of dozens of coin-operated video games, change machines gushing quarters, staff shouting out order numbers. Ears reeling. Dabney weaves through the tight rows of tables. At one, there's a birthday party with balloons, paper cups, full of soda, and a cake.
And on the walls, looking down on it all, is a cast of motionless animatronic animals poking out of picture frames. At the counter, an acne-faced teenage girl in a t-shirt and flared jeans welcomes him. Welcome to Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theater. What can I get you? Uh, yeah, I'll have a regular pizza with Canadian bacon and mushrooms. And, uh, give me a large root beer. The teenager hands Daphne's drink and a fake coin the size of a quarter.
That's your free game token so you can play while you wait. Use the change machine if you want more. Your order number is 87, I'll holler when it's ready.
Dabney skips the games and finds a seat. He pushes the remains of a previous customer's meal away and makes a mental note to tell Bushnell his pizzeria's dirty. Then, the animatronic characters jerk into life. Kids rush back from the games to watch the show. Dabney cranes his neck up. On one wall is a hound dog with a banjo. On another, a cat in a basketball jersey. But the star has chucky cheese.
Chuck's got rough gray fur, two buck teeth, and a red derby hat. In one hand, he's clutching a microphone. In the other, a fat cigar. He's also a rat. A rat with a New Jersey accent. By now, it's probably no surprise to anybody that we've got a place day number coming up here. What's the surprise to me? I didn't even get a present. Me neither, Big C. That's because it's not your place day, Nick. 87. Oh, yeah.
Dabney and the other customers twist back and forth to keep track of which character is talking. He feels the need to keep looking up, giving him a crick in the neck.
Dabney joins in as the entire restaurant starts singing. The birthday girl clambers onto a table with icing smeared over her face. But then, he hears a voice buried beneath a den. Number 87. Dabney jumps up to collect his pizza. The teenager stares at him. I was calling you forever. Sorry, I couldn't hear over the show. Yeah, happens a lot, Pops.
Dabney carries his thin-crushed pizza back to his seat. He stares at the lukewarm pie. It looks sad. He picks up a slice and takes a bite. Tomato-y with indistinct cheese, tasteless mushrooms, and bland bacon. It's pizza, but not good pizza. Dabney leaves shaking his head and wonders how he's going to break the news to Bushnell, but the best thing he could do with his rat-themed pizzeria is call in an exterminator.
From the team behind American history tellers comes a new book, The Hidden History of the White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, intimate moments, shocking scandals that shaped our nation. From the War of 1812 to Watergate, available now wherever you get your books.
Redacted, declassified mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke Lamanna. Each week I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions. From covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts, follow redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm David Brown and this is Business Wars.
In this season, we explore the 80s pizza rivalry that captivated a generation of American kids. We're talking, of course, about the cook-off between Chuck E. Cheese and its copycat nemesis, Showbiz Pizza. Their fusion of pizza, arcades, and live entertainment from a cast of furry robotic entertainers made them the end thing for preteens hooked on Rubik's cubes and Knight Rider, and later inspired the creepy video game hit Five Nights at Freddy's.
But behind the smiles, these two chains were jostling to grab the biggest slice of the animatronic pizza market, a subcategory that turned extracting cash from mom and dad into a science. Their struggle was one packed with boardroom backstabbing, huge lawsuits, and shattered dreams. And it all began with a Silicon Valley entrepreneur with a taste for pizza and profits. This is episode one.
Rat Pizza. 1973, Redwood City, 30 miles south of San Francisco. In a busy pizzeria, the chatter subsides as a man in a tuxedo steps onto a stage at the front of the restaurant. He settles into a cushioned seat in front of an ornate, whirlitzer organ. Once upon a time, this gigantic musical instrument played the soundtracks for silent movies.
Now, it entertains pizza-munching families at pizza and pipes. The organist plays a chord. The organ pipes embedded in the wall, light up. The diners applaud. Then, the organist launches into the first tune of the night.
As he plays, places filled with sound and flashing lights. All the customers clap along, eyes glued to the organist and his musical light show. All the customers, except for one man, Nolan Bushnell, the shaggy-haired CEO of Atari, the company behind Pawn, the world's first hit video game. Tonight, he's here with his family, but while they're watching the show, he's watching the other diners.
And as he watches the clapping customers, he's forming a plan. Before founding Atari, he dreamed of starting a pizza chain where people would play pinball machines while waiting for their pies to cook. But the big problem was how to stand out enough from the other pizzerias to get people through the door. Pizza and pipes has solved that problem. It's not packed because it sells the best or cheapest pizza, but because it offers customers a good time with its live entertainment.
Just then, Bushnell turns back to the stage and sees a flaw. The organist. He's human. He needs to be paid. And given breaks, too. And when he's not playing, well, the fun stops. Pizza and pipes would make much more money if the organist was a robot. Robots don't talk back or demand paychecks. He recalls the animatronic robot shows he'd seen at Disneyland.
Those machines don't get any downtime. An equation forms in Bushnell's mind. Pizza plus animatronic entertainment equals mega profit. And as the CEO of the company that's just started the video game business, he's already got the engineers he needs to build his robotic entertainers. 1974, Los Gatos, California.
In Atari's headquarters, an excited Bushnell paints his vision for his executive team. The company's going to move into restaurants. He no longer thinks the idea he had at pizza and pipes is a good one. He now thinks it's an amazing one. He lounges back in his chair, taking puffs on his tobacco pipe as he talks. Here at Atari, we create and build video games and then sell them to arcades for $1,000. But those games make $15,000 in their lifetime.
We're on the wrong side of the business equation. A sales executive cuts in. Nolan, we can't get into the arcade business. We'd be competing against our own customers. Yes, I know that. So that's why we open arcades that are disguised as pizza parlors. Also, by doing that, we attract little kids and parents who think arcades are hangouts for teenage thugs.
All right, but why pizza? Why not hot dogs or steak? Well pizza takes 20 minutes to cook. Customers will play the games while they wait. Also pizza's got the perfect build schedule. Build schedule? You're opening a restaurant, not a factory.
I don't see the difference. You can mess up a steak, but pizza is simple to make. If you have good cheese, sauce, and dough, any old fool can make a passable pizza. The representative from the finance team raises an eyebrow. Who's gonna come for passable pizza? They won't come for the pizza. They'll come for the animatronic show. The pitch is we brought Disneyland to your neighborhood. It's why we don't need to open in prime locations. People will travel further because of the entertainment.
It's also why we can charge more for our pizza. Where are we getting the animatronics? Our engineers will figure it out. What matters is that the show appeals to kids, but has enough snark to entertain the parents, too. But first, we need a mascot. A character kids will latch onto. November, 1975. Atlanta, Georgia.
Bushnell is on the exhibition floor at the annual convention of the International Association of Amusement Parks and Attractions. Every year, this show brings together theme park buyers with sellers of coin-op games, roller coasters, cotton candy machines, and more. Bushnell is here to give a talk about the arcade business, but he's also here to check out the latest inventions. He's still thinking about how to start his robotic pizzeria. He's codenamed it Coyote Pizza.
and his engineers are making headway on the tech, but he still needs a mascot. But then Bushnell turns a corner and sees a huge display of walk-around costumes, the kind used for sports mascots and theme park greeters. He heads over in his eyes, widened and delighted as he notices the torso of a gray furred creature with a long nose and bucked teeth. A saleswoman from the stand notices his interest and moves in. Hey there, see anything you want?
Yeah, I need that coyote. The woman looks in the direction that Bushnell's pointing. The coyote? Uh, yeah, sure. You're paying by credit card? Perfect. Bushnell leaves grinning. The animatronic skeletons are almost ready. And now, he's found the perfect costume for his pizza chain's star attraction.
1976, Grass Valley, California. Nolan Bushnell enters the engineering floor of Atari's research facility. It's been a while since he had the Coyote costume shipped to the team and he's eager for an update. He spots the engineer leading the animatronic project and hurries over. Hey, how's the animatronic Coyote coming on?
Uh, the animatronics are running much smoother. Now, the computer control system and pneumatic air cylinders are working much better, I think. That's cool. And the Coyote? The engineer gives Bushnell a sideways look. What, Coyote? The Coyote? Come on, the one I had shipped out to you. Uh, Nolan, that wasn't a Coyote. It wasn't? No, it's a rat. A rat?
No, no, no, it's definitely a coyote. When did you last see a coyote with a pink tail? Show me. The engineer leads Bushnell to a side room. Inside, the costume Bushnell bought is hanging up with its long pink tail looped on the floor. Yeah, that's definitely a rat.
Okay, well, I guess I can't call the place Coyote Pizza anymore. Still, no problem, we'll just rename it. Rick Ratts Pizza. A few weeks later, Atari headquarters Sunnyvale, California. Bushnell puffs on his pipe as his marketing chief blows a fuse. You can't name the restaurant after a friggin rat. Why not?
Why not? Why not? Because rats are dirty. No one wants rat pizza, and that includes the folks at Warner Communications." Bushnell's size. He's in the process of selling Atari to movies and music giant Warner Communications, and they're not keen on his pizza project. But Bushnell's sure that once the pilot restaurant opens next year, they'll see the light. Bushnell looks at the marketing man.
Okay, can it be a rat, but we just de-emphasize the ratness? The marketing chief's size. Well, that might be just about okay, but you have to change the name. Rick Ratts Pizza Time Theater will not work. Okay, okay, fine. But you name him then, and I want him to have a happy name.
A week later, Atari's marketing department comes up with what it calls a three-smile name, a name that makes people smile three times when they say it. Chuck E. Cheese. After roughly three years in gestation, Bushnell's rat restaurant is ready. But now, it's got to prove to Atari's new masters at Warner Communications that this theme park arcade pizzeria mashup can catch fire.
This is a story that begins with a dying wish. My mother's last request that my sister and I finished writing the memoir she'd started about her German childhood when her father designed a secret superweapon for Adolf Hitler.
My grandfather, Robert Lusser, headed the Nazi project to build the world's first cruise missile, which terrorized millions and left a legacy that dogged my mother like a curse. She had some secrets. I'm Suzanne Rico. Join my sister and me as we search for the truth behind our grandfather's work and for the first time face the ghosts of our past.
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What's up, everybody? It's Jason Kelsey, and I'm here with my slightly famous little brother, Travis, aka Big Yeti Kelsey. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we're here to bring you a next-level entertainment experience with our show, New Heights. We're covering all the hardest-hitting topics in order of importance, UFO sightings, the ideal PB&J combo, and, of course, next-level access to life inside the NFL and in the booth. Listen to watch, New Heights, wherever you get your podcasts, and if you want to listen to us first, without any interruptions, and get bonus content, join 1.3 Plus in the Wondering App Apple Podcast or Spotify.
May 1977, Atari headquarters, Sunnyvale, California. In his office, Nolan Bushnell listens as his former business partner Ted Dabney. Reports on his experience at the first Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theater in San Jose.
Uh, Nolan, it's not good. The place is dirty for a start. Bushnell nods. He likes Dabney's focus on the practical. By his own admission, Bushnell is not much of a manager. Strategy and vision are his forte. Okay, Ted, I'll fix that. But Dabney is only getting started. It's too damn noisy. I could barely think. Let alone hold a conversation. Bushnell shrugs.
It's an arcade, Ted. It's for kids. I had to keep turning in my seat to watch the show. That's stupid. The show should be in one spot. Okay, okay, noted. Anything else? The pizza's expensive, and it's not good. Not good? It's mediocre at best, and in restaurants, anything less than good is unacceptable. Mediocre's fine. Parents decide when to go, but it's the kids who decide where to go.
And kids don't care about how the pizza tastes or how much it costs. I couldn't hear my damn order being called, and so my pizza was room temperature when I got it. Okay, okay, that is a problem. Any suggestions? Well, you could rig up a TV screen that shows the numbers as they're called. That'd be pretty simple to make. Okay, great. And since it's so simple, how about you build it for me?
Warner Communications headquarters, Manhattan. It's December 1977, and Bushnell's in the boardroom trying to get Warner's top executives to sign off on Atari's spending plans for the coming year. And pizzerias are one of his priorities.
The pilot Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theater in San Jose is doing great, or on track for sales of half a million a year. If anything, it's too small. 5,000 square feet isn't enough. Should have been 10,000. Warner's executives don't look impressed. They never wanted Chuck E. Cheese. They bought Atari to get into video games, not to take on Pizza Hut. Bushnell presses on.
The next step is to open a second restaurant to refine the concept. Then we franchise. Go nationwide. Manny Girard, the Warner executive who oversees Atari, shakes his head. Nolan, we don't want to be in the food business. This isn't about food. It's about vertical integration of the coin-op game business. Sorry, Nolan. We bought Atari to put video games into people's homes not to get into fast food. We're not funding another restaurant. Either shut it down or find a buyer.
You're crazy. This is going to be huge. All the better for you finding a buyer then. Bushnell spends two months looking for buyers and then hits on an alternative plan. If Warner doesn't want Chuck E. Cheese, he'll buy it himself, using the millions he made from selling Atari. He strikes a deal with Warner to buy the business for half a million dollars, paid over five years.
In June 1978, he founds Pizza Time Theater Incorporated and quickly opens a second restaurant, this time with more space and easier to watch show and TV screens to tell people when their pies are ready.
The second location rings up even more sales than the first. So when Bushnell falls out with Warner over strategy and leaves Atari in January 1979, he devotes himself to making his pizza chain a success. He recruits a Holiday Inn executive to sell franchises. And within weeks, that executive finds him a major league franchisee.
Summer, 1979, Cupertino, California. In the Pizza Time Theater Boardroom, Bushnell smiles at the guy sitting on the other side of the table. He is Robert Brock, the 54-year-old chairman of Topeka Inn Management, the biggest Holiday Inn franchisee in the U.S., operating more than 50 of its hotels. Brock's wearing a dark suit with flared trousers and polished black shoes. Bushnell makes his pitch.
Our animatronics are state-of-the-art. We've invested more than one and a half million dollars in their development. Outside Disneyland, nothing comes close. So their movements are still a little stiff. Kids don't mind, but the technology is only going to get better. Look at video games. Five years ago, they were simple bat and ball games. Now we have space invaders.
Rock feels reassured by Bushnell's promise. He's made his millions as a hotel franchisee, but he wants to take his Kansas-based company public next year. Getting in early on the next venture of this tech visionary will surely get Wall Street excited about his IPO.
Well I have to say Nolan, I've been in the hospitality business for years and these numbers are amazing. You're averaging close to ten dollars per family visit when the average pizzeria does less than six. So how much of the tab comes from the food? Eight percent from food and beverages. Two dollars from the games. It's our intention to sell more pizza in ten years than Pizza Hut.
Brock is sold. Okay, I'm in. But here's what I'm after. I don't want any old franchise agreement. I want a co-development deal. I want to open these restaurants across the Midwest and South. I'm talking 200 restaurants. That's a $100 to $200 million commitment. But for that, I need sweeter terms. Paying you 6% of gross sales is too much.
Bushnell squashes the urge to smile. He might have tech industry cred, but the restaurant industry still skeptical of him. This deal with Brock would be a vote of confidence that would have other would-be franchisees begging to come in. But Bushnell knows better than to take the first offer on the table. Well, Robert, there's a lot of interest right now. But if you raise that commitment to 300 restaurants, wing bring down the fees,
285 restaurants over five years and we'll go any higher. All right, agree. Brock grants and reaches over to shake Bushnell's hand. You know Nolan, I think we might have just done the biggest franchise deal in US history.
Deal signed? Brock starts a new division of Topeka Inn Management, dedicated to opening Chucky Cheese restaurant. He names the division Pizza Showbiz. But the name eventually morphs into Showbiz Pizza. He decides to open the first new Chucky Cheese in Kansas City in March, 1980.
And as Brock prepares to bring Chuck to the middle of the country, Bushnell starts opening new company-owned locations in California and striking deals with other franchisees. But the union between Bushnell and Brock is about to nosedive.
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I'm Tristan Redmond, and as a journalist, I've never believed in ghosts. But when I discovered that my wife's great-grandmother was murdered in the house next door to where I grew up, I started wondering about the inexplicable things that happened in my childhood bedroom. When I tried to find out more, I discovered that someone who slept in my room after me, someone I'd never met, was visited by the ghost of a faceless woman. So I started digging into the murder in my wife's family, and I unearthed family secrets nobody could have imagined.
Ghost Story won best documentary podcasts at the 2024 Ambeys and is a best true crime nominee at the British Podcast Awards 2024. Ghost Story is now the first ever Apple Podcast series essential. Each month, Apple Podcast's editors spotlight one series that has captivated listeners with masterful storytelling, creative excellence and a unique creative voice envision. To recognize Ghost Story being chosen as the first series essential, Wondering has made it ad-free for a limited time only on Apple Podcasts.
If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple Podcast to hear for yourself. It's November 1979, and in New Orleans, the International Association of Amusement Parks and Attractions Convention is rocking. On the exhibition floor, the Wolfpack Five are playing another set to a crowd of amazed, smiling delegates.
Good times, five times, rockin' on.
The Wolfpack 5 are an animatronic band built by a small company from Orlando called Creative Engineering. The lead singer is a crooning wolf, the drummers of Beagle, the bassist of polar bear and beach shorts. A lady fox handles backup vocals and a gorilla in a white tuxedo plays the keys. Their performances are wowing the convention's crowds with their smooth movements and nostalgia-heavy set list.
But while most of the delegates leave smiling, for two of the onlookers, the side of the Wolfpack 5, is anything but welcome. And that's because these two men work for Robert Brock's new Showbiz pizza division. They came here to scout coin op games to buy for the company's first chucky cheese. Instead,
They've uncovered an animatronic show that's a cut above Bushnell's scrappy rat and his friends. As the other delegates depart, the two executives agree they've got to call Brock right away and let him know that Bushnell's claim to have the best animatronics outside Disney doesn't hold water.
December 1979, Orlando, Florida. Inside a white single-story warehouse near the railroad tracks, Robert Brock follows a 25-year-old man in a Hawaiian shirt through a workshop packed with strange devices and machines.
But yeah, for the cables there, no idea what they're connected to. Brock carefully steps over the cables, snaking across the floor, and looks up to see a half-finished animatronic creature. Its outer layer of latex fur and fabric hangs open to reveal its metallic skeleton and the network of plastic tubes that push compressed air around to make it move. It's been a week since Brock's employees encountered the Wolfpack 5 in New Orleans.
So now, he's flown to Orlando to meet its creator, Aaron Fechter, the Hawaiian-shirted founder of creative engineering. Fechter turns a corner and leads Brock into his office. Brock notices a mattress on the floor. You sleep here? Yeah, I work 18-hour days. It's easier to sleep here than go home. So the Wolf Pack Five, you invented them? Yes, I also do some of the singing and play the piano on the songs when we record them in the studio.
That's impressive. How'd you get into this? Inventing? I started early. I was dismantling and reassembling radios by the time I was five. But I started creative engineering after inventing a high mileage car. A car? Yeah, it did 90 miles per gallon. But I couldn't get any backing. So then I made a pool cleaning device that I sold door to door. And one day I knock on this guy's door and he challenges me to make some animatronics for his theme part. That's where it got started.
So you've been doing animatronics for a while? Yeah, three years. Brock Ritz's teeth. Nolan Bushnell convinced him that only Disney and Pizza Time Theater had animatronics this good.
You've heard of Nolan Bushnell?" Sure, he tried to buy my company twice. I said no. Why? Because I believe in my creations. Right now it's kids' entertainment, but eventually we'll be able to make them perform Shakespeare plays. Only the Wolf Pack 5 could open for the Rolling Stones. They'd be more entertaining than most human opening acts. It'll take time, but I think that's the future.
Brock thinks for a moment. He bet big on Chuck E. Cheese's pizza time theater on the assumption that there will be no competition. But here's this kid selling better animatronics to anyone with enough money. And that changes everything. For Brock, the only reason to buy a pizza time theater franchise was the animatronics. Anyone can buy pizza ingredients, paper plates, and arcade machines.
It dawns on him that if he can get Fector to provide the animatronics, he won't need to buy franchises from Bushnell. He could sell the franchises himself. Brock looks at Fector. Say, kid, how would you like to go into business together?
January 1980, Topeka, Kansas. In his office, Brock is on the phone to Bushnell and trying to contain his fury. I want out. I signed our deal in good faith. I want it torn up. No, you don't just get to bail on a legal contract. It's not legal if there was misrepresentation. No, all that's happened is you've just found a better way to give your IPO more pizzazz. The deal is over, Nolan. Let it go.
You know, Robert, you're a very greedy guy. I'm not letting you breach your contract. You signed this deal. You made a commitment. Stick by it. It's over. Robert, if you breach this contract, we will sue. Yeah? Well, if you do, I'll sue pizza time and you personally for misrepresentation. There's a moment of silence. Then Bushnell replies.
On that case, I guess we'll see each other in court. Goodbye, Robert. Brock hangs up. A few days later, Pizza Time Theater sues for breach of contract, seeking $250 million in damages. Brock quickly countersoos for misrepresentation. While the legal letters fly, the opening day of Brock's answer to chucky cheese, nears.
March 1980, Kansas City, Missouri. In the Antioch Shopping Center, Aaron Fector watches with pride as the first customers indulge in pizza and play games at the first Showbiz Pizza Place. The past three months have been a crazy scramble to transform this 80,000-square-foot grocery store into a functioning rival to Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theater.
But now, it's real. At the counter, uniformed employees hand out free game tokens with every order.
In the kitchen, pizza pies are cooking in the ovens. Over in the game area, pre-teens rock on kitty rides while their siblings have alien hordes and race virtual cars on dozens of video game machines. At the gift shop, the merchandise is ready to sell. And at the tables, children are stuffing their faces with pizza and ice cream while staring in wonder at the wolf pack five characters on the stage.
But the Wolfpack 5 won't be here for long. Factor is already working on a new improved version of his animatronic rock and rollers. They're called the Rock-a-Fire Explosion.
and will become the house band at every showbiz pizza place. And its frontman will be Billy Bob, a singing bass strumming brown bear who wears red and yellow overalls. The showbiz team believes he's going to put Chuck E. Cheese out of business. And that team includes Factor II, because Brock gave him a 20% stake in the business to lock in his animatronic expertise.
But Brock's not stopping there. He's also promised to bankroll the creation of more high-grade animatronics and set Billy Bob and the Rock of Fire explosion on the path to global fame. And with Brock plotting to open 200 showbiz pizza places in the next five years.
The race for animatronic pizzerias is on. There's only one thing standing in their way now. One angry rat called Chuck E. Cheese. On the next episode, the animatronic pizza chain's craze Rock's America, Robert Brock and Nolan Bushnell clash in court, and Chuck E. Cheese undergoes a transformation.
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From Wondery, this is episode one of Chuck E. Cheese vs. Showbiz Pizza for Business Wars. We've used many sources for this season, including ShowbizPizza.com. If you're interested in hearing more about pizza rivalries, make sure to check out our season Pizza Hut vs. Domino's. A quick note about the recreations you've been hearing. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said. Those scenes are dramatizations, but they're based on historical research. I'm your host, David Brown. Tristan Donovan of Yellow Ant wrote this story. Research by David Walensky.
Our producers are Emily Frost and Grant Rutter, sound designed by Ryan Potester, voice acting by Caroline Kinley and Carrie Kavanaugh, fact checking by Gabrielle Trole. Our senior producers are Karen Lowe and Dave Schilling. Our managing producer is Desi Blayline. Our senior managing producer is Ryan Lour. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marshall Lewy, or Wondering.
In a quiet suburb, a community is shattered by the death of beloved wife and mother. But this tragic loss of life quickly turns into something even darker. Her husband had tried to hire a hitman on the dark web to kill her. And she wasn't the only target.
Because buried in the debt to the internet is the kill list. A cache of chilling documents containing names, photos, addresses and specific instructions for people's murders. This podcast is the true story of how it ended up in a race against time to warn those who lives were in danger.
And it turns out, convincing a total stranger someone wants them dead is not easy. Follow Kill List on The Wandriat or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Kill List and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid early and out of free right now by joining Wandri Plus. Check out Exhibit C in The Wandriat for all your true crime listening.
