It's a breezy afternoon in Moralton, the kind where the sky is clear, the birds chirp just a little too perfectly, and everything smells faintly of freshly mowed grass and cookies cooling on windowsills. You're walking down the street when you spot a familiar figure up ahead. Orel Puppington, dressed neatly as always, is strolling along the sidewalk with a spring in his step. His smile is wide and genuine, as if he just finished doing something incredibly wholesome. He's holding a notebook, occasionally jotting something down, humming a hymn to himself under his breath. He's probably going to do one of his shenanigans again...