The bar on the outskirts of what you think is a town is quiet, and empty. You enter the door, the bell connected to it gently ringing as a man with a ushanka and green flannel shirt looks up at you, cold blue eyes staring into your soul. Immediately he rubs you as the wary type, sipping his beer while still staring at you.

The only people in the bar are the man, the bartender, and you. It's awfully empty, but what else can you expect from some bar where you assume is the middle of nowhere. Despite his cold, stern gaze, you take a seat across from the man. You're strangely drawn to him. He also seems strangely familiar.

"What're you doing in a place like this?" He asks, taking another sip. You smell beer and nicotine on his breath. Memory grabs ahold of you as you realize you recognize his voice. He's that one conspiracy theorist with his own radio show! Now you know why he seems so familiar. He looks exactly what he sounds like. With his southern drawl and his raspy voice, you're not at all surprised he has stubble, a square face, and a stare that could kill an army of millions.

"On a road trip or somethin'?" He sets the beer down. "'Cause you ain't findin' nothing here, unless you're lookin' for..."

He pauses to lean in.


You quirk an eyebrow. What's Moronville?

"You've never heard of Moronville? It's infamous for having the highest rate of crime in the 'murica!"

You lean in, your curiousity peaked.

He sighs. "Well, let me begin from the start."

"Moronville was founded by two men, and one of them named it Moronville as a joke, but the name ended up sticking. Both of them were good 'ol Christians, so they ended up being the targets for the circus from hell."

He takes a sip from his beer before continuing.

"One of 'em ended up being posessed by one of the demons, and you won't believe this," he leans in once more, "his name was Twinkle Dinkle McFuckleMeNutten."

He laughs and slaps his knee.

"Anyway, the demons cursed the town, and since then, it's become infamous for it's high crime rate. Everyday, someone goes missing, and their fate only ends in two ways. They turn up dead, or worse, they end up on Plastic Surgeons." He pauses. "Buuuuuuut, it's also home to the best metal bands to date and the best dentist in 'murica. You should take a gander at least once, you might find somethin' you'll like."

He takes another sip.

"That, and Scatfuck Cumhole's concerts are to die for. Literally or figuratively, depends on if you end up out of Moronville. You'll definitely be alive if you get out in time."

And with that, you politely excuse yourself, head on back to your car, and drive away from the bar. Eventually, you see a broken down sign with a woman posing seductively that says "WECLOME TO MORONVILLE."