With help from an attorney he kept on retainer following a stalking incident in season one, Cushing successfully delayed production of American Myths and Monsters for three weeks.

During this time, James Cushing would undergo treatment for an unfortunate heroin addiction in Ventura. While his unscrupulous lawyer forged paperwork, Cushing made accommodations at the hotel for he and Brian. They would use Brian's phone to film and edit it, so the network would have no claim over the documentary.

Cushing was elated, as was the subject of his film, Maverick Casey. At the moment, Brian lagged behind Cushing and Maverick as the monster hunter led them to his home and base of operations.

Rain recently washed out the road, so they would need to walk up to the house. In his mind, Cushing pictured a small frame house, something rustic with a picturesque level of neglect.

On the walk, Cushing tried to keep pace and maintain a strong voice, suppressing the urge to wheeze and struggle for breath.

"So, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say this sighting changed your life?" Cushing asked. He motioned for Brian to catch up.

"No, sir. It was life changing. You can't have an experience like that and it not change you, you know? I saw something, Bigfoot or whatever you want to call it," Maverick said, maintaining a walk that seemed relaxed yet always several feet ahead of Cushing and Brian. Brian carried the phone in front of him, which was encased in a PVC pipe structure.

"You okay?" Maverick asked.

"Of course," Cushing wheezed. "Let's just keep going."

"You sure a phone is all we need?" Maverick asked.

"Trust me," Brian said. "I have the lenses. I have my little PVC pipe steadicam rig, we are golden."

Kicking through the fallen leaves, brown and strangled from the heat, Maverick pointed to the crumbling mobile home ahead.

"Home sweet home."

"Tell me you're getting this," Cushing whispered to Brian, who responded with a thumbs up from the hand not supporting the phone.

"It's a bit worn out," Maverick said. "The roof needs some work."

"I'd say it's seventy percent duct tape!" Cushing laughed.

The house's back appeared broken, caving in the middle where the fire occurred. The paint was worn away, exposing the metal siding underneath. The house resembled a sick and wounded animal.

"It's seen better days," Casey admitted.

"Is the roof supposed to sink in like that?" Cushing asked.

"Well, there was a fire and all that. Look, I'm not a handyman, but the place keeps me warm and dry."

"How?" Cushing asked. "Do you even have insulation or do the rats in the wall suffice?"

Cushing continued to rail against the home, suggesting with a smile burning it down or that a homeless person could wrangle up a sturdier refrigerator box.

"You done?" Maverick asked.

"It's leaning!" Cushing cried.

"You ever live in a mobile home, Mr. Cushing?"

"No," Cushing said. "But I've also never stepped in front of a moving truck or drank lighter fluid."

Ignoring Cushing, who asked in a low whisper if Brian managed to capture all of his one liners, Maverick made his way up the creaking steps to the front door.

"Uh-oh," Casey said with a sigh. "Another one of these."

Cushing glanced at the envelope and nodded for Brian to move in for a better shot. In Maverick's hand was a plain manila envelope with the words, "Bigfoot Proof! Photos!!!" scrawled in sharpie on the front.

"Photos, huh?" Cushing said. "People send you stuff like this often?"

"Well," Maverick sighed. "One person. And they aren't Bigfoot pictures."

Roman had been sending pictures of his dick to Maverick for years. Initially, they started as a chance to tease the local nut. Roman was a thin man with a shaved head. His arms were covered in a mesh of tattoos, always displayed due to Roman's penchant for sleeveless shirts.

When Maverick finally caught Roman in the process of dropping the pictures off, they started talking. Comparing notes on their lives, they found a lot of common ground, including malaise at growing older and racking up failed marriages.

Maverick hoped this budding friendship would stop the stream of photos. Instead, they arrived with greater frequency. Along with poorly lit pictures of his genitalia, Roman included a number of tasteless and potentially illegal images from the Internet.

"Roman's pretty much my best friend," Maverick said. "I mean, he watches out for me and more importantly, the guy believes me."

Later, Cushing would enjoy the privilege of speaking to Roman himself:

ROMAN: So, you guys filming a documentary on his last search? All these shows like on History and Discovery are always coming down here, they act all interested, but they usually make Mav look like an asshole.

CUSHING: But you keep sending him pictures of your genitals?

ROMAN: (Laughs) I send him pictures of all kinds of stuff. Yeah, I started sending them just to fuck with him; he caught me dropping one off one day. We started talking about work, ex-wives, the usual stuff. Realized we had a lot in common, knew the same people. He's a good guy.

CUSHING: So, you believe him?

ROMAN: Do I believe him? Yeah, I believe him. He saw something. Why else would he be doing this? He even said he shot it once, but it got away. He was so close. He got so excited, then come home to find his dad ran out on him. That's Casey's luck. Look, he's not making money; everyone thinks he's bat shit. I got a maintenance gig, I got retirement, I got bonuses. What's Mav got? His wife left him and he makes scratch picking up trash on the square four days a week. Oh, don't call him a trash man, he's real sensitive about that. He changes his clothes mid-shift. Before he goes to empty the trash at city hall he puts on slacks, a dress shirt, polished shoes and what not. He just needs to be okay with who he is, you know. Find that center. (Points to chest) In here.

Roman and Maverick were lonely people. Maverick's quest cost him the respect of the town and led to isolation. Roman, as Maverick explained, suffered from a horrific accident that caused him to become unpredictable and have issues with anger.

"Yeah," Maverick said. "Roman is an odd guy. Mainly from the accident. When you see him, he has this scar on his head. When he was like twenty, he was driving on this old country road, kinda drizzly, when a car slams into him. Nearly killed him. He spends all this time recovering; his head is all fucked up."

CUSHING: Mr. Casey told us you had an accident in your youth?

ROMAN: Casey told you about that, huh? Yeah, I uh-the accident did some weird stuff to my brain. I couldn't control emotions for a long time. I would just fly off the handle over nothing. Weird shit. I stabbed my brother with a mini-pick. We were arguing over who was a better Van Halen front man, Roth or Hagar. I was apparently a very passionate fan of Sammy Hagar. So, there's that. But hey, Mav gets me. People may laugh, but I don't know, he has plenty of reasons to hate my fucking guts. But he doesn't. He's good people, as they say.

Inside Maverick's home, Cushing noted the house looked like a war zone.

"Close," Maverick said. "But I bet there are fewer stacks of old TV Guides in Syria."

Upon entering, an open space greeted guests, divided down the center by a change in flooring to separate kitchen from living room. On the left was a thin hallway that led to Maverick's bedroom.

Around an empty recliner were piles of curling TV guides, forming a mountain range of mildewing paper. Until recently, Maverick lived alone here with his mother. She felt there was little purpose in obtaining new TV Guides as nothing was ever new on TV. She consulted them as one would a Bible, a gateway into her past.

Maverick did his best to avoid his home when possible.

"Cancer, huh?" Cushing said.

"Yeah."

"I guess it gets us all at one time or another," Cushing said. Maverick didn't reply.

They were alone; Brian elected to take a brief bathroom break in the bushes by the edge of the yard. Cushing admitted cancer tore his mother away as well. He said it to goad Maverick on, but the truth was, Cushing missed his mother. Even saying her name was enough to bring that small ping to the chest, a quiet voice that lets you know again and again: She's not coming back. He missed her. But he had work to do.

"Cancer is something everyone has in common, I guess." Cushing said.

"Near the end, she pretty much slept around the clock. At least it seemed that way. I kept a baby monitor in my room in case she needed me. I got so used to the static that I kept the damn thing on for a month after she passed. Beth helped out. She was our Hospice nurse. She moved her, bathed her, the stuff I wasn't exactly eager to do. But momma was a firecracker. Said whatever was on her mind. Used to say, 'Maverick, you're a god-damned trash man, not a monster hunter.'" Maverick laughed.

"Ouch," Cushing said.

"I suspect it came from a place of love. She loved as well as she could, but her childhood was hard on her. My dad running out sure didn't help."

Another slice of common ground between Cushing and Casey.

"I guess that's its own cancer. When I was younger, after he left, I would come home from school and she'd be sitting by the window, Pall Mall in hand. She'd ask me how my day was, I'd answer and she'd nod. She wasn't listening. Then it was off for her evening shift at Julio's... You don't want to hear this-" Maverick stopped, knocking dust off the top of the recliner.

Cushing urged him on. He first asked whether Maverick would be able to repeat this all the Brian when he returned and maybe add a slight tremble to his voice.

"And if you gotta cry, that's okay, too."

"Seriously?" Maverick asked.

"Sorry," Cushing said. "I'm just saying. A little emotional showcase will help this thing soar. Just saying. Sorry! Go on."

"Fine, fine. Anyway, momma didn't give up. At least not vocally, you know? But I mean, with every pound she put on and every pack of Pall Malls she left all crumpled up on the floor...it was obvious. Well, to me at least."

Cushing understood. His mother, as little as he saw her between her two jobs, always strived for the brave face, unaware that there isn't a child in existence who can't see the fear and despair just beneath the surface of the brave face.

The only real joy Cushing attained from the show, aside from the occasional recognition on the street, was the paycheck. For a short time at least, he felt he could pay his mother back for everything she lost caring for him. But only for a short time.

Cushing explained this, working the tremble in his voice, before stopping his monologue to explain how the emotion in his voice really sold the story.

"That was fake?" Maverick fumed.

"No," Cushing said. "Not fake. But useful."

Maverick shook his head and continued his tour. "Well, it's a mess, but this is basically my command center. I got my poster from the Legend of Boggy Creek. Jet, my ex-wife, she got that for me."

"Jet?" Cushing asked.

"She changed it after we got married. Her real name is Isis. Her parents were...different."

"No, they were cruel," Cushing said.

"They were also addicted to PCP. Her old man was busted for trying to punch his way through a McDonalds window," Maverick said.

Maverick cleared off a spot on the couch, brushing the fast food containers on to the floor. "Just hang here, let me grab something. Your show has been kind of uh...an inspiration."

"Good to know we're making a difference," Cushing said.

The floor bounced as Maverick jogged down the hallway. Brian pushed open the squeaking screen door.

"Finally! What, were you setting a world record? Get the camera ready, guy," Cushing said.

"It's okay, man." Brian sat down next to Cushing.

"I'm paying you out of my own pocket, man. Come on! And hey, doesn't this violate your simpler life thing?"

"No way, I have it on airplane mode. For now, this thing is just a camera. I'm still disconnected from the world and taking it in."

An irritating screech echoed down the hall as Maverick returned, dragging a large plastic tub over the linoleum. The tub hissed as Maverick pulled it along the carpet of the living room and dropped it in front of Brian and Cushing.

"And what is this?" Cushing asked.

"My gear. Everything. I worked pretty hard to get all this stuff," Maverick said. He popped off the lid and pulled out the contents one by one.

"I got digital cameras, a couple of camera traps-"

"And all on a trash man's salary," Cushing said.

"Maintenance man. All on a maintenance man's salary," Maverick corrected.

"Let's split the difference and call it a janitor's salary," Cushing said.

Brian recognized all the equipment, including the digital recorders and infrared camera.

"You got our set up, dude," Brian said.

"Pretty much," Maverick said.

"What has all this got you?" Cushing asked.

"Well," Maverick admitted. "About the same as you. Lots of pictures of local wildlife. Deer, bobcats, and such. I thought I hit pay dirt once, but it was a picture of me checking the other camera trap."

"Exquisite," Cushing muttered.

"But the real pride and joy is the monstomobile."

"I'm almost scared to ask," Cushing said.

"It's how I get around. I got a good deal on an old food truck and turned it into the ultimate Bigfooting mobile. Roman helped a little, too."

"My God," Cushing said. "Is 'bigfooting' a real term now?"

"Do you want a documentary on my search or a documentary on a sarcastic asshole who can't shut his damn mouth for five seconds?" Maverick asked.

Cushing apologized. He nodded toward the box by the couch. "What's in there?"

"That?" Maverick mumbled. "Not much."

Opening the box, Cushing saw frames and papers tossed haphazardly into the box. One featured a picture of a younger, leaner Maverick on the front page of the local paper.

"I used to be kind of a celebrity, you know." Maverick said.

"Fortean Times, a couple more papers, a newsletter for the 'International Society of Cryptozoology'...is that a thing?"

"At one time," Maverick said. "Hey, this is boring, why don't we check out the monstomobile."