The grave of the last American outlaw sits off a dirt road in the
backwoods of Maggie Valley, North Carolina, the hillbilly haven where
Marvin “Popcorn” Sutton, the most notorious moonshiner ever, lived and
died in the wildest of ways. The most notable thing about the grave?
It’s empty.
I’m here to follow the path of Sutton’s exhumed bones and unravel the mystery behind this modern-day legend. A third-generation moonshiner, born in 1946, Popcorn spent his life distilling the secret recipe for corn whiskey that his Scotch-Irish forefathers brought over centuries ago. His white lightning wasn’t just potent and sweet—it was illegal. And Popcorn, who refused to pay taxes and considered moonshine part of his “don’t tread on me” heritage, wore his rebel badge with pride. As Hank Williams Jr. says of Popcorn, “This guy was real Appalachian Americana. He was a folk hero.” Even in death his battles wage on: Popcorn’s whiskey recently became available legally for the first time, but a family feud over his legacy shows no signs of resolution.
As I discover over several sweltering days and clandestine jugs of moonshine, Popcorn left a twisted trail: scorned women, abandoned kids, complicit cops, even homemade sex machines, exploding stills, and the tale of a throat-slit fiddler on the side of the road. At the center of it all was a guy who, right up until his bizarre death, defied his stereotype as much as he seemed to fulfill it. To the fans and celebs who came from around the world to buy his booze, Popcorn was the banjo-picking cracker with the long beard, grimy overalls, and bawdy stories. But to those who knew him, he was something more: a brilliant self-promoter and chemist who ultimately despised the persona he had crafted as expertly as his booze. “He hated the persona,” says his widow, Pam Sutton. Through it all, there was just one thing that guided him: his likker (as he liked to spell it). “I can brag about one thing,” Popcorn once said in his thick Southern drawl. “Making likker. They ain’t no damn body that can beat me making likker.” And, in the end, he chose to die rather than get beat.
I’m here to follow the path of Sutton’s exhumed bones and unravel the mystery behind this modern-day legend. A third-generation moonshiner, born in 1946, Popcorn spent his life distilling the secret recipe for corn whiskey that his Scotch-Irish forefathers brought over centuries ago. His white lightning wasn’t just potent and sweet—it was illegal. And Popcorn, who refused to pay taxes and considered moonshine part of his “don’t tread on me” heritage, wore his rebel badge with pride. As Hank Williams Jr. says of Popcorn, “This guy was real Appalachian Americana. He was a folk hero.” Even in death his battles wage on: Popcorn’s whiskey recently became available legally for the first time, but a family feud over his legacy shows no signs of resolution.
As I discover over several sweltering days and clandestine jugs of moonshine, Popcorn left a twisted trail: scorned women, abandoned kids, complicit cops, even homemade sex machines, exploding stills, and the tale of a throat-slit fiddler on the side of the road. At the center of it all was a guy who, right up until his bizarre death, defied his stereotype as much as he seemed to fulfill it. To the fans and celebs who came from around the world to buy his booze, Popcorn was the banjo-picking cracker with the long beard, grimy overalls, and bawdy stories. But to those who knew him, he was something more: a brilliant self-promoter and chemist who ultimately despised the persona he had crafted as expertly as his booze. “He hated the persona,” says his widow, Pam Sutton. Through it all, there was just one thing that guided him: his likker (as he liked to spell it). “I can brag about one thing,” Popcorn once said in his thick Southern drawl. “Making likker. They ain’t no damn body that can beat me making likker.” And, in the end, he chose to die rather than get beat.
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