The Lesser Known People Podcast

The Glasgow Ice Cream Wars were less "scoops and sprinkles" and more "pints and punches." In 1980s Scotland, rival ice cream van operators turned their turf battles into a bizarre yet brutal underworld saga, dealing more in drugs and stolen goods than soft-serve cones. Picture Goodfellas with a Mr. Whippy soundtrack, where the stakes weren’t just about who sold more cones, but who controlled the streets. What started as turf disputes escalated into violence, arson, and even murder, proving that in Glasgow, the competition over ice cream routes was chillingly intense.

In this episode, we’re diving into the story of Roselle, the guide dog with nerves of steel who led her human down 78 floors of the World Trade Center on September 11th. While everyone else was losing their minds, Roselle kept her cool, guided her human to safety, and set a new standard for “having it all together.” Join us for a look at this incredible canine hero who was just doing her job…better than any human could.

Katherine Knight stands out as one of Australia’s most infamous figures—think Down Under's answer to Hannibal Lecter, but somehow even more unsettling. Katherine was a butcher by trade, and when she wasn’t slicing meat at work, she was slicing up the hearts of anyone who dared to love her. Enter John Price, her unlucky boyfriend who thought he could handle her fiery temper. Unfortunately, he didn’t realize he’d end up as the main course. One night in 2000, Katherine decided to end things with Price in the most nightmarish way possible. When police arrived at the scene, they found a gruesome display that would leave even seasoned detectives wishing they could unsee it. Let’s just say, she set the table with a horror that looked straight out of a B-grade slasher flick, complete with place settings for his kids as if she was hosting some macabre dinner party. Today, Katherine is serving life in prison—no chance of parole, no knives, and hopefully no more cooking. Her story remains a dark reminder that sometimes, it’s better to swipe left when your date’s past involves a little too much butchery experience.

Our flagship Halloween epsiode. This is a draft of the best movies monsters from history and today. This one is for all the marbles.

We wanted to get into the Halloween season with some strange and unusual cryptids. We cover real life sandworms, ghost elephants, batsquatches, and the Dildo monster. Enjoy!

The gang relives the Halloween-themed childhood trauma inflicted on them by their parents poor choices. If you needs some dos and don'ts for this years Halloween costume, look no further.

Richard Montañez: Flamin’ Hot Fraud or Flavor God? So, let me set the scene. You’ve got this guy, Richard Montañez, who started out as a humble janitor at Frito-Lay and skyrocketed to fame by claiming he was the culinary genius behind Flamin' Hot Cheetos—the spicy snack that has burned the mouths (and stomach linings) of millions. But, much like biting into one too many of these fiery corn puffs, his rags-to-riches tale left us feeling a little… queasy. Montañez’s story was the stuff of legend: a Cinderella tale where instead of a glass slipper, we’ve got a bag of spicy Cheetos, and instead of a prince, we’ve got PepsiCo's executives listening to a janitor’s revolutionary pitch. According to him, he took inspiration from Mexican street food and his cultural heritage. Cue Hollywood, right? Literally. Eva Longoria directed the biopic, so this narrative was red-hot. But, oh boy, hold your fire extinguisher. Enter the Los Angeles Times like a bucket of cold water to throw over this spicy fairy tale. Turns out, Montañez didn’t invent Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Nope. The whole thing was more fiction than fact, like if Hans Christian Andersen had a weird snack obsession. Frito-Lay itself stepped in, like, “Yeah… about that,” and told the Times that “None of our records show Richard was involved in any capacity in the Flamin’ Hot test market.” Ouch. That’s the snack world equivalent of pulling the rug out from under a Dorito’s triangle. It gets worse—Lynne Greenfeld, a Frito-Lay employee, was actually the one who did lead the creation of the spicy snack in 1989. It’s like someone claiming to be the inventor of electricity while Ben Franklin’s there, kite and key in hand, saying, “Excuse me?” But here’s the twist—this man’s boldness is hotter than the Cheetos themselves. Montañez kept running with his story, earning up to $50,000 for speaking engagements, writing memoirs, and being immortalized in the aforementioned Longoria-directed film. He might not have invented Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, but he sure knew how to sell a good origin story. In a way, you can’t help but admire it. The guy took the snack aisle equivalent of Bigfoot and sold it as gospel. He wasn’t just eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, he became one: polarizing, fiery, and unforgettable. So next time you pop open a bag of these nuclear-red, crunchy napalm nuggets, remember: the true story behind them might not be as spicy as the myth, but it’s just as wild.

Forrest Fenn, the eccentric art dealer who decided that what the world needed most was an elaborate treasure hunt, spent his final years either reveling in the chaos he unleashed or wondering why anyone would trust a guy who buried literal treasure in the wilds of America. In 2010, after beating cancer, Fenn threw a chest full of gold coins, jewels, and artifacts into the Rocky Mountains, dropped a few cryptic clues in his memoir, and basically told the world, "Good luck, suckers." This wasn’t some harmless scavenger hunt, like searching for the remote control buried under couch cushions. Oh no. Fenn, with a twinkle in his eye and a shovel in his hand, challenged thrill-seekers to find this treasure, knowing full well that some of them couldn’t navigate their way out of a paper bag, let alone the Rockies. But the thing is—people believed him. Thousands packed their camping gear, bought bear spray, and quit their jobs (because who needs income when you’re on the verge of striking gold, right?) to venture into the wilderness. They followed his clues, most of which made sense only if you were either insane or Forrest Fenn himself. Here’s the thing, though: five people died. DIED. This hunt was so dangerous that the police had to beg Fenn to call it off. You know you've really hit peak chaos when the authorities are like, "Hey man, we love a good treasure hunt too, but could you not keep killing people?" To be fair, Fenn wasn’t completely oblivious to the carnage. His reaction to the growing body count? A shrug and something along the lines of, “Well, they should have brought a map.” Classic. For a decade, the Rocky Mountains became a giant Escape Room designed by Satan, with cryptic poetry and vague clues leading people to rivers, caves, and cliffs. By 2020, though, the treasure was found by Jack Stuef, a medical student who apparently had more free time than any med student in history. After thousands of adventurers failed, this guy rolled in, cracked the code, and dug up Fenn’s treasure, while the rest of the world collectively groaned, “Why didn’t I think of that?” But wait, it gets better: Jack didn’t even want the publicity. Like the least fun pirate of all time, he wanted to keep his haul under wraps. Meanwhile, people who had spent years searching for the treasure were left to sit at home in their khakis and mosquito-bitten limbs, feeling the sting of defeat as Jack quietly walked off into the sunset, like Indiana Jones with a medical degree. And then Forrest Fenn died—shortly after the treasure was found, almost as if he had been holding on just to see if anyone would actually finish his bizarre game. He’s gone, but the legend of his treasure lives on, a testament to human greed, stupidity, and the weird lengths people will go to for the promise of shiny objects buried in a box somewhere deep in the mountains. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a copy of Fenn’s poem to decode. There's got to be a sequel, right?

Ah, John Meehan, aka "Dirty John"—the guy who could con the pants off anyone... sometimes literally. The L.A. Times ran a six-part series on this con artist, which made his life sound like a soap opera that went off the rails and landed straight into Dateline territory. Let’s dive into the world of Dirty John, where love, manipulation, and a toxic mix of sleaze are shaken, not stirred. The Tinder Tale Gone Wild John Meehan was the kind of guy who had “walking red flag” stamped on his forehead, but that didn’t stop him from turning into every catfishing nightmare you’ve ever heard of. According to the L.A. Times series, Dirty John wasn’t just dirty—he was filthy. He played the classic “doctor” card to lure his victims, but this wasn’t Grey’s Anatomy. There were no steamy hospital dramas, just a dude with a syringe full of lies and a Tinder profile polished enough to make even the FBI blush. Picture it: a charming guy, oozing confidence, shows up in scrubs. Maybe he’s fresh off a 72-hour surgery or a shift saving orphans. Nope. In reality, John was more likely fresh off a scam or scoping out his next victim. His real skill was manipulating people—specifically, women. And he had a PhD in it, though I'm not sure from what shady online university. Love-Bombing: The Meehan Special John wasn’t your run-of-the-mill, “forget to text back” guy. No, no—John was all about the love bombing. He would swoop in, overwhelm his victims with affection and attention, and then BAM! The red flags start popping up faster than ads on a sketchy website. But by that time, his victims were already hooked like fish at a carnival game, and just like those prizes, the only thing you were winning was a lifetime of disappointment. The L.A. Times documented the lengths Meehan would go to in order to maintain his charade. He'd fake everything—credentials, stories, and even his life. The man had more aliases than a wannabe spy and more shady stories than your drunk uncle at Thanksgiving. The Medical Fraud Maestro John loved to play the “doctor” card, but the closest he got to medical expertise was probably watching re-runs of House. What he did know how to do was order drugs online, intimidate people, and get restraining orders filed against him. It’s like his Tinder bio should’ve just said: “Looking for love, emotional manipulation, and eventual legal action.” His con artistry had a special flavor, with a heavy sprinkle of “gaslighting.” Imagine him telling someone, “No, honey, I didn’t steal your credit card—must’ve been an identity theft thing.” Meanwhile, he's driving around in a car that you technically paid for, probably picking up flowers to gaslight his next victim. The Family that Fought Back Now here’s where things get spicy: his last victim, Debra Newell, wasn’t playing around. Sure, John fooled her initially, but she had a daughter with a finely tuned BS detector (which I imagine was essential growing up around this circus). When things got real dark and John’s true nature was revealed, Debra and her family fought back. In the end, it wasn’t a lawyer or judge that ended Dirty John—it was Debra’s daughter, Terra, who took him down like the villain in a Lifetime movie. By the time Terra was done, John was out of lives and out of luck. The showdown between them is the stuff that action movies are made of—only instead of a big-budget Hollywood blockbuster, we got a real-life "WTF just happened?" moment. Terra wasn’t having it. She put an end to the nightmare with a knife, and in doing so, gave a masterclass in self-defense. She’s the real MVP. Lesson Learned: Swipe Left So, what’s the moral of the Dirty John saga? Maybe it's to always Google your Tinder date before you meet them. Or perhaps it’s that anyone who says “I’m a doctor” but drives a car that screams “loan shark” should be instantly suspect. In any case, the L.A. Times six-part series shined a light on the shadows John Meehan cast over everyone in his life—and like all great villains, he eventually got what was coming to him. Dirty John’s story is a cautionary tale about trust, lies, and the dangers of wearing rose-colored glasses in the world of online dating. Just remember, if someone comes on too strong, too fast, with stories that sound straight out of a bad rom-com—grab your phone, delete the app, and maybe start attending some jiu-jitsu classes. Just in case.