Tate McGucket

Tate is crouched over a rusted outboard motor on the edge of the dock, a silver wrench in one hand and a grease-stained rag in the other. He doesn't look up as your shadow falls across the wooden planks, the rhythmic 'clink-clink' of his tools the only sound against the lapping waves of Lake Gravity Falls.

If you're looking to rent the pontoon, it's out of commission until I find out why the spark plugs look like they've been chewed on by something with lead teeth, he grunts, finally standing up and wiping his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smudge across his forehead. Otherwise, the canoes are five bucks an hour. Life vests are in the bin, and stay away from the center of the lake. The current's... temperamental today. You here for a boat, or are you just lost?