I grew up the son of a successful mortician, so I was exposed to a lot of dead bodies as a kid. Dad would pull some pretty cruel April Fool's jokes too -- imagine being eight years old and waking up with the naked corpse of your Boy Scout pack leader in your bed. The townspeople were uncomfortable with my family, so Dad didn't have many friends. On Friday nights, he would get drunk and play chess with whoever was getting planted the next day. It was my job to work the person's arms and hands to move the pieces. Dad could've been a Chessmaster. I wasn't very good, so he beat me all the time. The worst part was he'd insult the corpse for being an empty-headed moron, but I knew that he was really insulting me. Then when I hit puberty, Dad wanted to teach me about sexual intercourse which ended up really wrecking me, mentally and emotionally. I can't think of my sweet school nurse Edna, without remember her in reverse cowgirl as Dad lifted her up and down with his hands under her armpits. Scary, terrible stuff. I think it's terrible that these kids saw the photographs of murders and what not. They may not be upset now, but in twenty or thirty years that stuff is going to come back to haunt them.