Gator's Creek

Leave your name at the edge of the bayou—what walks in won’t be the same.

Town setting

Once upon a time, Gator Creek had a heartbeat—a paper mill that kept food on tables and money in pockets, Friday night football games that made locals feel like kings, and a main street that wasn’t just boarded-up storefronts and faded signs. But the mill shut down, the jobs dried up, and now all that’s left are the people too stubborn or too broken to leave.The gas station’s neon flickers like it’s given up, where the clerk always looks half-asleep or halfway to robbing the place himself. The grocery store’s has more empty shelves than stocked ones. And the only places still making money? The Copperhead Saloon and a rundown pawn shop that buys anything from fishing rods to wedding rings.The sheriff turns a blind eye to most things as long as folks keep it quiet, but trouble has a way of bubbling up like the swamp mud—slow, steady, and impossible to ignore forever.

The People

Gator Creek’s full of folks with nowhere else to go. Old-timers who remember better days, young kids already planning their escape, and everyone in between just trying to make it through another long, sweaty day. It’s the kind of town where people judge you by your last name, where gossip travels faster than the internet, and where grudges last longer than lifetimes.

The Gators

Gator sightings are just a part of life here. They'll be by the banks, slipping beneath the water like ghosts, or dragging some unlucky creature into the depths. Every local has a story—some real, some bullshit—about the time they were "this close" to losing a limb. The warning signs at the creek are half-faded, but everyone knows the rule: stay out of the water after dark unless you wanna be dinner.

The Bayou's Secret

The swamp is older than the town, and some say it’s got a will of its own. It’s taken things—people, too—and given nothing back but silence. Some folks whisper about the disappearances over the years, how men with debts or grudges just… vanished. If you ask around, you’ll hear the same phrase over and over: "The bayou don’t give up its dead."

The feud

The Breaux family sees Fangs and Throttle MC for what they are—wild, rabid mutts, too loud and broken to be useful, too reckless to be anything but a problem. Fangs and Throttle see the Breauxs as old dogs rotting behind crumbling walls, clinging to a dying empire built on polished lies and bloody handshakes.Fights break out over what's left—smuggling routes, swamp trails, the bodies nobody claims. Sometimes it’s a shattered nose and a warning. Sometimes it’s a corpse face-down in the mud, already half-eaten by the time anyone finds it.Everyone in Gator Creek knows the truth, but no one says it out loud: there’s not enough swamp, not enough silence, not enough blood to keep both monsters fed. And when the full moon cuts through the bayou mist, you can almost hear the land itself breathing heavy—tired, angry, waiting for the war it already knows is coming.The bayou doesn't take sides. It just watches, patient and hungry, knowing in the end it’ll bury them all.

towns folk

Mick Hargrove (Bar Owner):

Owner of Copperhead Saloon, Mick Hargrove is a grizzled Vietnam vet in his early 70s, with a permanent limp from shrapnel that never quite healed and hands that never stop moving—wiping down the bar, counting cash, lighting another cigarette before the last one’s even burned out. He’s a man of few words, but his presence carries weight.Mick’s been in Gator Creek longer than most, watching the town rot from the inside out while keeping his bar as neutral ground. He’s seen fights, heartbreak, and deals made over cheap whiskey, and he’s got no patience for bullshit. His hearing isn’t what it used to be—too many explosions, too many nights in the jungle listening for things that weren’t there—but he still catches every whispered secret that passes through his bar.Despite his gruff demeanour, Mick’s got a sharp eye for lost causes, and he’s got a bad habit of trying to keep them from drowning. He won’t admit to giving a damn about anyone, but if he starts pouring your drinks before you order, you’ve earned a spot in whatever’s left of his blackened heart.

Dr. Elena Santos (Local Doctor):

Dr. Elena Santos is Gator Creek’s only real doctor—the kind who stitches up bar fights, delivers babies in the middle of a blackout, and still makes house calls when the old-timers are too stubborn to come in. Mid-40s, sharp-eyed, and sharp-tongued, she’s got the kind of no-nonsense attitude that comes from years of patching up people too reckless or too stupid to take care of themselves.She grew up in Gator Creek but left for med school, vowing never to come back. Life had other plans. A family tragedy pulled her home, and before she knew it, she was running the tiny clinic on Main Street, treating everything from alligator bites to broken spirits. The town leans on her, though half of them wouldn’t admit it.She works too much, sleeps too little, and drinks her coffee black as sin. If Mick Hargrove is the town’s backbone, Elena is its failing heartbeat—still keeping the blood pumping, even if she’s not sure how much longer she can do it.

Sheriff Jim Hawkins (Gator Creek’s Lawman):

Sheriff Jim Hawkins has been wearing the badge in Gator Creek longer than most folks have been alive, and some say he’s been running the place just as long. Pushing 60, built like an old bulldog—thick in the shoulders, slow-moving but all muscle under the beer gut—he’s got a face that looks like it’s been carved from rawhide and a voice that sounds like it’s been soaked in whiskey and cigarette smoke.Jim’s the kind of lawman who believes in keeping the peace, not necessarily enforcing the law. Gator Creek runs on its own kind of justice, and Jim’s got no interest in upsetting the balance. He knows which fights to break up, which backroom deals to look the other way on, and which names to write down when shit really hits the fan.

Mack Johnson (Scrapyard Boss):

Mack Johnson runs Johnson Salvage & Scrap, the kind of place where rusted metal piles up higher than the trees and half the machinery looks like it could collapse at any second. He’s in his late 50s, built like an old linebacker gone soft around the middle, with a permanent sunburn and hands so calloused they feel like sandpaper. He smells like motor oil, cheap chewing tobacco, and bad decisions.Mack’s been running the yard for decades, ever since his old man keeled over from a heart attack out by the crusher. He doesn’t waste time on small talk, doesn’t do favors, and sure as hell doesn’t hand out charity—unless you’re willing to bust your ass for it.Mack don't like to ask questions. As long as the work gets done, they don’t have a problem. He'd seen plenty of men who come back from war, from prison, from wherever the hell they went thinking they could outrun themselves. It never ends well. He doesn’t say much about it, but every once in a while, he’ll toss those beaten up pup an extra shift or let him take a beat-up old truck home to fix up. Not because he gives a damn, of course. Just easier to keep a man busy than to dig him out of a ditch later.

Coach Harris (Old High School Football Coach):

Coach Harris has been stomping up and down the sidelines of Gator Creek High for longer than most folks can remember. He’s pushing 70 now, all gristle and old injuries, with a voice that still carries across a football field like a shotgun blast. His knees are shot, his back’s worse, and his doctor keeps telling him to retire before he keels over mid-practice—but hell will freeze over before Coach Harris walks away from his team.Once upon a time, he was the only real authority figure in town that boys like Duke and Wayne halfway respected. He coached them both back in the day—Duke, the relentless linebacker who never quit, and Wayne, the cocky quarterback who thought he ran the world. He saw their potential, but he also saw the cracks before anybody else did. Some kids leave town and make something of themselves. Others come back dragging ghosts. Coach Harris might be old, might be tired, but he still believes in second chances—even for men who don’t believe in them themselves.

Stacey (Copperhead Saloon Waitress)

Stacey is a bottle-blonde, barely 22, and dumb as a box of rocks—but in a sweet, harmless kind of way. She’s been working at the Copperhead Saloon since she was old enough to lie about her age, slinging drinks and batting her mascara-caked lashes at the rougher crowd like she doesn’t have a single self-preservation instinct.She’s got a high-pitched giggle, a tendency to overshare, and the attention span of a gnat. Ask her what day it is, and she’ll probably have to check her phone. But she’s got a way of drifting through life untouched, like nothing bad ever sticks to her.Mick keeps her around because, despite everything, she’s good for tips and keeps the regulars entertained. Duke mostly ignores her, but Wayne? Wayne flirts just to see how long it takes for her to realize he’s messing with her. Spoiler Alert: she never does.

FANGS AND THROTTLE MC

Fang & Throttle owns the dead roads and drowning fields of the bayou, where the sun don't reach and the swamp swallows whatever it's given. Their world is rust, bone, and black water—where every crumbling bridge and half-sunk hideout stinks of old violence, places where the water hides more than just gators. The club's rumble echoes through the swamp, a warning to outsiders: This far, no farther.Built on venom, blood, and chrome, F&T runs guns, brews poison-laced street drugs, and enforces their reign with claws and fangs. You don’t cross them unless you’re ready to be swallowed whole.

The Breauxs might polish their floors and play kings down south, but up here, it’s different. Up here, the bayou remembers. Old hate runs deeper than the mud, and loyalty bleeds out slow. In the end, the swamp will bury them all—just a matter of who sinks first.

The Breaux Family

There’s bad blood in the bayou, thick as the mud and twice as old. The Gator Creek Wolf Pack, led by the Breaux bloodline, claims the southern swamps and pine-choked backroads near the Delta edges—where their influence drips through Fenrir’s Den and their enemies tend to vanish without a splash.The Breauxs didn’t carve their empire out of the bayou—they bled it into existence. Long before the roads were paved or the creek had a name, they were already sinking roots into the muck, trading blood for power in a land that swallowed anything too weak to fight back. Each generation learned early: loyalty wasn’t earned, it was bred, and mercy was just another weakness to drown. They wrapped themselves around Gator Creek like a noose—owning judges, buying silence, and making enemies disappear beneath the swamp water, where even the gators wouldn’t feed.But north of Breaux territory, past the drowned roads and moss-strangled cypress, the land changes hands—and attitude. Fang & Throttle claim the broken edges of the bayou, where the swamp eats the roads and the bridges rot to rust. Every mile is a warning: no rules, no mercy. The deeper you ride, the clearer it gets—this is no man’s land, and you either bleed for it or get buried by it.

Notable locations

The Backdoor

Tucked between a rusted-out bait shack and a boarded-up gas station, The Backdoor glows with a flickering neon sign that reads "TOYS • FILMS • LIVE YOUR KINK" in garish pink.The building itself is a converted fishing supply store, its weathered cypress wood siding bleached gray by years of sun and swamp humidity. A screen door, perpetually off its hinges, slaps lazily against the frame whenever someone enters—which isn’t often, but when they do, they come with purpose. Inside, the air is thick with the musk of leather, silicone, and a faint undercurrent of mildew—unavoidable this close to the bayou.The shop is dimly lit, partly to preserve privacy, partly because half the bulbs burned out years ago and John never bothered replacing them. Dusty ceiling fans churn the heavy air, doing little more than shuffling the scent of sweat and cheap incense around.Shelves groan under the weight of lurid merchandise:
• Novelty items like gator-shaped lubes, Mardi Gras bead pasties, and a suspiciously well-stocked "Cajun Heat" anal numbing spray.
• High-end bondage gear next to dollar-bin knockoffs—real Japanese silk ropes beside frayed nylon cuffs.
• DVD racks curated with John’s personal favorites—mostly early 2000s gonzo porn, a few vintage loops, and a very well-worn section labeled "Stallion Classics" (which may or may not feature the owner himself).
• A glass counter displays the pricier items: engraved plugs, remote-controlled vibrators, and a single, ominous black box simply labeled "Ask About Me."At the back of the shop, four video booths lurk behind a beaded curtain, their sticky floors and duct-taped pleather seats a testament to decades of enthusiastic use.

Bayou's treasure

Monty’s shop, "Bayou Treasures," squats between two other weather-worn buildings like it’s always been there - too stubborn to leave, too proud to change. The paint on the front is sun-faded and flaking, the wooden sign hangs at a lazy tilt, and the display windows are streaked with a fine film of bayou dust and swamp grime.Inside, it's a chaotic blend of charm and clutter: overpriced souvenirs crammed onto crowded shelves, faded "authentic" maps, voodoo dolls with uneven eyes, and gator teeth necklaces dangling from hooks. There's a glass case full of mystery items Monty swears are “rare” and “totally not cursed,” and a stuffed raccoon in a Mardi Gras mask watching from the corner.Above it all, Monty lives in a small apartment. Just a few creaky stairs away from the chaos below. He inherited the place from his grandfather, but runs it with the least effort humanly possible. Still, it turns a profit, mostly because no one else in town’s selling voodoo dolls and half-truths with that kind of grin.

Belmont's Garage

Welcome to Belmont's Garage, a dilapidated shack on the outskirts of Gator’s Creek, where the swamp’s thick fog clings to the crumbling wood and rusted metal. The garage hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in years, and the flickering neon sign barely lights up the worn-down lot.Run by father Dennis and his son Rocky, the place is more of a refuge for broken-down cars—and broken-down people—than a business.The air smells of oil, dust, and something older, like the garage has been here long before the town. It’s not much to look at, but for the few souls who stumble through, Belmont’s Garage is the only place left in Gator’s Creek that still feels like it’s hanging on.

Big Little Spoon

Big Little Spoon sits in town in a weathered cottage; it is Charlotte Reaux's legacy. Inside, the bistro glows with with a warm light. The walls showcase Charlotte's collection of family portraits alongside photos of old Louisiana, with a vintage radio in the corner. The wooden chairs and hand-sewn cushions tell stories of Charlotte's decades collecting pieces that felt "just right," creating a sanctuary where even the most hardened locals can let their guard down over a good meal.Now in the hands of Olivier Reaux, world famous culinary genius, he hasn't changed much about his grandmother's vision, but his presence has brought new energy to the kitchen. He's replaced the ancient stove with professional-grade equipment, but kept what he could. Olivier demands nothing short of excellence, his passionate outbursts becoming part of the experience. He'll cuss up a storm but then emerge from the kitchen, still scowling, to check that every customer is satisfied, softening only when someone closes their eyes in appreciation of his grandmother's crawfish étouffée recipe—the one thing he swears he'll never change.

Top

David's 'Gator's Guns' Shop

At the edge of Gator's Creek, where the swamp begins, stands the small firearms shop 'Gator's Guns.' David opened the shop when he returned to Still Creeks and since then has offered not only weapons and ammunition for all kinds of uses, but also animal traps. As an additional service, David cleans and repairs weapons or procures spare parts.The dimly lit shop lacks any cozy furnishings, which can make the salesroom feel oppressive. The smell of rust, gunpowder, and gun oil, as well as a hint of stale whiskey, dominates the interior. Combined with the creaking and cracking of the old wooden floorboards, the shop feels uninviting and uncomfortable, but regular customers, in particular, knew they were in good hands here.In addition to the wooden building with its inviting veranda and fully stocked salesroom, there is also a makeshift shooting range for testing purchased or repaired weapons.

Top

F&T Clubhouse

A rotting beast of a building, half-swallowed by swamp and time. The clubhouse squats at the end of a cracked, overgrown road, hidden by leaning cypress and thick curtains of moss. Its bones are old brick and rusted steel, patched together with scrap metal and stubborn rage. A broken neon sign flickers at the front, coughing out the club’s name in fits of dying light. The front row is lined with the bikes of the inner circle, each one scarred by the road and stained by things better left unsaid.No one’s welcomed here. Not unless you bleed for the club—or bleed because of it.

Inside, the air hangs heavy with oil, smoke, and the kind of silence that comes before bad decisions.Broken pool tables, battered leather couches, and walls tattooed with old colors tell the story—this isn’t a clubhouse; it’s a fortress where loyalty is carved in scars and betrayal gets buried out back.

Gator's Creek Motel

The Gator Creek Motel sits slumped at the far edge of town like it’s trying to forget it ever existed. Ten rooms circle a courtyard choked with weeds and creeping vines, the air thick with mildew and memory. Paint peels like sunburnt skin, and the flickering roadside sign fights a losing battle against the wind, its glow barely more than a ghost’s whisper.Behind the sagging lobby, Laurent Baptiste lives in a studio stuffed with relics—a shrine to what the motel once was. In its former life, it was a haven listed in The Negro Motorist Green Book, a sanctuary for weary Black travelers in a world that didn’t welcome them. Those days are long gone. Now the rooms mostly shelter the broken: barflies who drink too deep at The Copperhead, folks with nowhere left to run, and people trying to vanish without a trace.Laurent stays out of duty, not hope. His grandmother called the land sacred, and he’s kept her wards—charms above doorways, salt under floorboards. The veil here is thin. Some nights, the air hums with spirits who never moved on, and storms roll in without warning, full of rage and memory.The motel ain’t dead. Just waiting.

Top

Hudson's Drug Store

Hudson Drugs stands as another business clinging to existence in Gator's Creek, its faded green awning and flickering neon sign casting a crimson glow against the worn brick facade that has weathered decades of Louisiana storms.Inside, pharmacist William Hudson—third generation in a family business that barely breaks even each month—dispenses medications, folk remedies, and occasionally unsolicited advice from behind a scratched counter that's witnessed countless whispered conversations about ailments folks would rather keep private.The store's ancient bell still announces each customer with a cheerful ding that feels out of place in a building where the fluorescent lights buzz like trapped insects and the shelves hold dusty products that haven't moved since the mill closed, just another struggling establishment in a town where nothing seems to thrive anymore.

Top

The Copperhead Salon

If Gator Creek’s got a pulse, it beats inside the dimly lit walls of The Copperhead Saloon. Part bar, part diner, part last refuge for the town’s worn-down souls, it’s the kind of place that smells like cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and a past that just won’t let go. The neon sign out front flickers more often than it shines, and the parking lot is a mix of rusted-out pickups, battered motorcycles, and the occasional car that looks like it shouldn’t be here—and probably won’t be for long.Inside, the walls are stained with decades of bad decisions and half-forgotten nights. The jukebox leans heavy on old country and Southern rock—George Jones when folks are feeling sentimental, Lynyrd Skynyrd when they’re looking for trouble. A pool table in the back wobbles just enough to make a good game impossible, and the dartboard's missing more than a few darts. Fights happen often enough that Mick, the owner, doesn’t even look up unless there’s blood.The regulars have their usual seats, their usual drinks, and their usual stories—though whether they’re true or not depends on how many rounds they’ve had.The kitchen’s open late, serving up greasy burgers, fried catfish, and the kind of chili that could kill a weaker man. The beer is cheap, the whiskey cheaper, and if you’re looking for something stronger, you just need to know who to ask. The sheriff doesn’t come around much unless he’s got a reason, and folks here like it that way.On any given night, The Copperhead is a place where the lost, the lonely, and the barely-holding-on gather, drowning their regrets in liquor and pretending—just for a little while—that they’re not stuck in Gator Creek.

Top

Fenrir's Den

Fenrir’s Den sits rotting at the edge of Gator Creek, pretending at glamour while the swamp gnaws at its foundations. Inside, red and gold lights try to make the cracked leather booths and stained velvet curtains look like luxury, but nothing can cover the stink of desperation. The blues bands play to half-empty rooms, the whiskey’s overpriced, and every smile hides a threat.The Breaux family keeps the place alive on paper, but everyone knows Fenrir’s Den is just a prettier graveyard for the town’s last scraps of power—contraband, secrets, and blood, traded in whispers and clenched fists. Deals happen in the dark corners, promises made and broken before the night's even over. Out here, it’s easy to forget how to dream, and easier to lose your soul one bad night at a time.The swamp outside waits patient and hungry, and inside, Fenrir’s Den just teaches you how to drown slower.

Top

Johnsons’s Salvage and Scrap

A graveyard for rusted-out trucks, twisted metal, and dreams that never made it out of Gator Creek. Johnson’s Salvage & Scrap sits on the outskirts of town, past the old paper mill, where the dirt road turns to gravel and the air smells like oil, sweat, and burning metal. It ain’t much to look at—just a chain-link fence patched with scrap tin, a beat-up trailer serving as the office, and a sprawling junkyard full of busted cars, broken appliances, and the kind of junk that might be worthless or valuable, depending on who’s asking.Mack Johnson runs the place and he’s been here longer than anyone can remember, paying cash for scrap, fixing up the occasional wreck, and keeping an eye on the town’s more desperate folks who come looking for work. His crew is a mix of ex-cons, high school dropouts, and men who just never found anything better. Work here is hard, dirty, and pays just enough to keep folks coming back.Most of the cars sitting in the yard have stories—some good, some bad, some best left alone. A few still got bullet holes in ‘em, and Mack don’t ask questions when people pay extra to have certain vehicles stripped down fast. The sheriff pretends not to notice, so long as nothing obvious turns up.At night, the place takes on a different feel. The wind rattles through rusted metal, shadows stretch long between the stacks of old cars, and the swamp beyond the fence hums with the sound of unseen creatures. Folks say if you listen real close, you can hear voices in the dark—maybe just the wind, maybe something else. Either way, nobody sticks around after sundown unless they have to.

Top

The Paper Mill

Once the backbone of Gator Creek, the old paper mill still clings to life—but just barely. It used to roar with the sound of machinery and the shouts of workers, back when it gave the town its only real shot at an honest living. Now, it wheezes along like a dying animal, its smokestacks coughing up half-hearted plumes that barely stain the sky anymore.The workforce has shrunk to a skeleton crew—men too old to start over and too stubborn to quit, punching in because they don’t know what else to do. Most of the old departments are shut down, entire sections of the mill gathering dust and rust, but a handful of machines still churn out cheap cardboard and packaging paper. The paychecks are late more often than not, and rumors swirl that the company is looking for an excuse to shut it all down for good.The air reeks of chemicals and wet pulp, clinging to the workers like a second skin. The floor is slick with water and grease, the lights flicker, and nobody bothers fixing the leaks in the roof anymore. Some guys say you can still hear the voices of all the men who got chewed up by the machines over the years—accidents, mostly, but Gator Creek has a way of keeping its ghosts close.A few younger guys still work there, but they’re just biding their time, counting the days until something better comes along. Trouble is, in Gator Creek, nothing better ever does.

Top

The Pawnshop

A dusty, cluttered relic of Gator Creek, the pawn shop is filled with mismatched items: fishing rods, old tools, tarnished jewelry, and forgotten trinkets. It’s the last stop for those desperate enough to trade anything they’ve got—whether it’s a broken TV or a prized possession. The man behind the counter doesn’t ask questions, and he doesn’t offer much of a deal. You give him what you’ve got, and he’ll give you whatever he thinks it’s worth. That’s the deal. No more, no less.The front window’s perpetually dim, and the place feels more like a graveyard for lost hopes than a shop. At night, it’s locked up tight, a quiet reminder that sometimes, in Gator Creek, you trade your past for cash and move on.

Top

Pete’s Gas & Co

Tucked off the main road, the gas station is a last stop before the long stretch of nothing. The flickering neon sign does little to hide the rust on the pumps, and the cracked asphalt in the parking lot looks like it’s been there longer than anyone can remember. The place isn’t exactly bustling, but there’s always someone hanging around—usually with nowhere to be.Inside, the shelves are stocked with the bare essentials: cheap snacks, dented cans of soup, and a few dusty bottles of water. The smell of stale coffee hangs thick in the air, mingling with the faint scent of gasoline that seeps from the pumps outside. The clerk behind the counter is often dozing off, staring out the cracked window at the empty road, maybe hoping for a car to pull up, or maybe just wishing for something different.The gas station has seen better days, but so has everything in Gator Creek. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep people from running on fumes, both literally and metaphorically. You can’t say it’s a friendly place—there’s a cool distance between the clerk and the customers, like everyone’s trying to keep their own secrets buried. The only sound, other than the hiss of the pump, is the hum of the fridge in the corner, keeping the beer cold for when someone finally needs a drink.Once the sun starts to set, the place gets even quieter. The lights flicker a little more, and the occasional car that stops seems to carry more dust than life. It’s a pit stop for travelers who don’t plan on sticking around—just enough to fill the tank before they drive on. Because in Gator Creek, nobody stays if they can help it.

Top

Withered ink Tattoo Parlour

Between a hardware store and a thrift shop, Withered Ink waits—quiet, forgotten, like the town itself. The glass-front window bears handwritten notes few bother to read. The flickering "CLOSED" sign clings to life, much like the shop inside.It breathes—barely. A worn leather chair, fading sketches, the scent of ink and disinfectant—remnants of an artist who once had places to go. Marcel Dupuis never meant to stay, but tragedy pulled him back. Now, he sketches tattoos no one gets, watches the door, and wonders if anything will ever change.Gators Creek doesn’t inspire. People settle, not thrive. But Withered Ink is still here. And Marcel? He’s still waiting—for someone willing to carry a story on their skin.

Top