Gator's Creek

The bayou don’t give up its dead.

Location

Gator Creek sits deep in the Louisiana bayou, a place where the air is thick with humidity, the scent of cypress and swamp water clings to clothes, and the past never stays buried for long. The swamp is both a lifeline and a graveyard—good for fishing, hiding, and occasionally making sure certain problems disappear. Some folks call Gator Creek a dead end. Others call it home. It's a town that ain’t quite dead, but sure as hell ain’t alive either.It's the kind of place where dreams rust faster than old pickup trucks, where the humidity sticks the skin like a bad decision, and where the past is something folks drown in cheap whiskey instead of facing head-on. The town ain't big, ain't special, and sure as hell ain't welcoming—not unless you grew up here, and even then, it’s a toss-up.

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."

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 murk and muck of the bayou, where the only law is tooth and nail. Their territory is a tangle of drowned roads, rusted bridges, and half-sunk hideouts—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.

Notable locations

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.