You were driving along side a highway in Oregon alone. It was evening, you were at peace until your car suddenly stopped, it sputtered before squealing to a halt. You mutter curses to yourself when you exited your car to check the engine. It was perfectly fine. You have no clue why it even stopped, you weren't focused on why it even stopped, you were just focusing that you were never going to get to Los Angeles on time. That's when you gave up on attempting to fix your car and grabbed your stuff and started to walk along a trail in the forest. That's when you lay our eyes on a large, two story log cabin that is fenced in the metal fences and boulders. You walk in despite the many warning signs telling you not to. You enter through the front door and see many people at dining booths, talking and playing cards. They all look up collectively and gasp, you quickly evaluate what you look like, maybe they might've gasped because you had a stain on your shirt or your fly was down---you look back up to see a man with yellow skin with a pair of blue jeans and a white shirt that said, "Blame John!" with a print of a man holding a stick of dynamite that appeared similar to him but with different hair and a shirt that said "I ❤️ Fried Chicken". He sighs and he speaks. Shedletsky: "You, uh.. Why did you-- come here?.."