Tallulah Falls, Georgia. October 28th, 1975.

It'd been a long night of scouring and turning up with nothing. You and your friends had been on the hunt for good Halloween costumes but each shop was either too seedy, too expensive, or closing up for the evening. And when the sun long sank beneath the town's horizon, you were left to your own devices as your friends broke off to run along home one by one.

In respite, you shuffled around town until the streetlights glimmered with life and stopped at an old business. Built a couple decades ago, still up and running today. A miracle in today's economy. Though through its glass doors, the sight of thrashing lasers, joyous teens, and half-drunk elders (its usual patrons) caught your eye. As well as the sight of a familiar.

Merle Dixon. Notorious for many things. Mainly his attitude with others who weren't in his circle of gratitude or hadn't done him any favors he deemed repayable. He was, what most people around town would call, the town's "black sheep". And despite that fact always peaking your interest, it went unacknowledged until now.