So, I have finished with the first “book” of Red Dead Redemption and moved on to Mexico. I cross the border and in the first town I enter I am accosted by three locals who immediately begin provoking me. One asks if I speak Spanish and I reply in Spanish that I speak only a little. I ask if they speak English.
“Sí, gringo, Hablo mucho inglés. Hablo "filthy fucking bean eater." Hablo "slippery little Mexican." Hablo "little piece of shit." ¿Comprende amigo? ¿Comprende?.”
They don’t know me for anything but being across the border and already they are assuming that I am a racist bastard. I didn’t say any of those things and, of course, it is absolutely clear where this is going. It is, however, played out as a cut scene and I don’t actually have to touch the game controller to shoot all three of them.
At which point, a guy steps off of a nearby porch to berate me.
“Oh, very good. Very good indeed, sir. What a great way to improve border relations. An illiterate farmer crossing the river, coming into this civilization and butchering the local peasants. Thank you very much, sir.”
This is Landon Rickets, a retired gunfighter. He looks like Sam Elliot and sounds like Lee Van Cleef, which should be awesome, but instead he’s just being a condescending jerk. Didn’t he just see that I walked into town, minding my own business, when these three locals started harassing me simply because I wasn’t from around here? They were obviously itching for a fight and were not going to back down or let me walk away. (Again, this is all cut scene so I, as a game player, had no choice in the outcome.) And “illiterate farmer?” Gunbelt. Rifle. Bandoleer with ammo enough for a small army. Heavily scarred face. Clint Eastwood squinty eyes. Farmer? Really?
Rickets: “You kill peasants, you become a peasant.”
Marston: “I never aspired to be anything more.”
Rickets: “Ah, a socialist, huh? No wonder you left America.”
Landon Rickets needs to look up in a dictionary or something as to the definition of “socialist.” Or rather, the game developers are forwarding their own limited and wildly inaccurate view of what socialism is and who socialists are to advance their anti-government agenda firmly established in the first chapter of the game.
Rickets then goes on to belittle my gunfighting skill
Rickets: “An angry man, a long way from home. A man who handles his gun as sloppy as you.”
Marston: “I can handle a gun okay, partner.”
Rickets: “Yeah, as long as you're killing quail or peasants. But if you have to face another man, you don't stand a chance.”
Wait. Didn’t you just see me face three armed men? I drew and fired, from just over arms length, dropping all three of them before any of their guns cleared leather. Even took my hat back from the head of one of them before he hit the ground, and you tell me about “not standing a chance?” At this point in the game I think my body count was something on the 600, a dozen in one-on-one duels but most of them killed in attacking groups of 5 or more.
Six hundred! That’s probably more than all the outlaws in all the West over the past half century. I’m a goram one-man-army.
Really, Landon. Don’t stand a chance? But fine. Have me shoot at three bottles so you can teach me a shooting lesson. Well, it is a mechanism for teaching how to use a new game control feature but do you have to make Rickets such a dick about it?
Rickets: “Well, you won't make it in the circus, but you can shoot. Keep on practicing.”
Six hundred. That’s well beyond practice in the goddamn circus.
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Date: 2013-08-05 01:33 am (UTC)“Sí, gringo, Hablo mucho inglés. Hablo "filthy fucking bean eater." Hablo "slippery little Mexican." Hablo "little piece of shit." ¿Comprende amigo? ¿Comprende?.”
They don’t know me for anything but being across the border and already they are assuming that I am a racist bastard. I didn’t say any of those things and, of course, it is absolutely clear where this is going. It is, however, played out as a cut scene and I don’t actually have to touch the game controller to shoot all three of them.
At which point, a guy steps off of a nearby porch to berate me.
“Oh, very good. Very good indeed, sir. What a great way to improve border relations. An illiterate farmer crossing the river, coming into this civilization and butchering the local peasants. Thank you very much, sir.”
This is Landon Rickets, a retired gunfighter. He looks like Sam Elliot and sounds like Lee Van Cleef, which should be awesome, but instead he’s just being a condescending jerk. Didn’t he just see that I walked into town, minding my own business, when these three locals started harassing me simply because I wasn’t from around here? They were obviously itching for a fight and were not going to back down or let me walk away. (Again, this is all cut scene so I, as a game player, had no choice in the outcome.) And “illiterate farmer?” Gunbelt. Rifle. Bandoleer with ammo enough for a small army. Heavily scarred face. Clint Eastwood squinty eyes. Farmer? Really?
Rickets: “You kill peasants, you become a peasant.”
Marston: “I never aspired to be anything more.”
Rickets: “Ah, a socialist, huh? No wonder you left America.”
Landon Rickets needs to look up in a dictionary or something as to the definition of “socialist.” Or rather, the game developers are forwarding their own limited and wildly inaccurate view of what socialism is and who socialists are to advance their anti-government agenda firmly established in the first chapter of the game.
Rickets then goes on to belittle my gunfighting skill
Rickets: “An angry man, a long way from home. A man who handles his gun as sloppy as you.”
Marston: “I can handle a gun okay, partner.”
Rickets: “Yeah, as long as you're killing quail or peasants. But if you have to face another man, you don't stand a chance.”
Wait. Didn’t you just see me face three armed men? I drew and fired, from just over arms length, dropping all three of them before any of their guns cleared leather. Even took my hat back from the head of one of them before he hit the ground, and you tell me about “not standing a chance?” At this point in the game I think my body count was something on the 600, a dozen in one-on-one duels but most of them killed in attacking groups of 5 or more.
Six hundred! That’s probably more than all the outlaws in all the West over the past half century. I’m a goram one-man-army.
Really, Landon. Don’t stand a chance? But fine. Have me shoot at three bottles so you can teach me a shooting lesson. Well, it is a mechanism for teaching how to use a new game control feature but do you have to make Rickets such a dick about it?
Rickets: “Well, you won't make it in the circus, but you can shoot. Keep on practicing.”
Six hundred. That’s well beyond practice in the goddamn circus.