Random Reviews… Doesn’t Review Nothing Today. Instead…

Here are the first and second journal entries for my time in Red Dead Online. If you’ve played the main game at all, and actually took time to read all of Arthur Morgan and, later, John Marsten’s ramblings, you’ll be right at home.

Dear Journal:

Suppose it was only a matter of time…

Entry #1: I must apologise for all these incidents where a camera or a steady, artistic hand might have recorded these events as they transpire, and yet I was left utterly without on both. That I cannot help, for to capture the random is truly a fool’s errand. I recently ran into what’s called the joker gods by more experienced hands in these parts, and it happened in the desert regions of New Austin. That what for deity(s) known as the Hacker thought it a fun time fer all to transport us together, bounty hunters and traders and collectors and brigands from the hills alike, before besieging us with an endless army of their own making.

Divine judgement from an unjust jester comes, it seems, in the form of bears. Grizzlies native to the silver-peaked mountains bursting from behind the cacti and tumbleweeds of the desert, impervious to our firearms and impossible to kill. Those smarter folk ran for it, some perched atop buildings to watch as the monsters wreaked havoc below on wandering cowboys and the good citizens of these run-down towns. The dumber ones fought, and kept fighting until they died, for the bears were the furry heralds of the Reaper, and these heralds irresistible by mortal means. The smartest ones simply went to sleep, and hoped they woke up somewhere else, where these immature antics did not hold sway.

Entry #2: A ‘named’ fella ran by me as I was making the crossing from West Elizabeth into the Heartlands, and I saw that he was in possession of a tail of the most violent persuasion. Men followed his horse, shooting and hollering. Bullets skipped off nearby boulders, startling the fish in the waters and sending up flocks of birds to caw at them indignantly from the sky. As is the custom in these lands (or so I understand them to be), when one ‘named’ fella is being pressured like so, it only reads right that another, passing ‘named’ fella lean in to help him on his feet. I doubt he knew I was there. He had only two eyes and both were kept very busy. One for the road ahead leading to his escape, and one behind, on the guns riding hard at his back. He passed me and vanished into the woods, while I stayed, shot off his pursuers…

…only to find they were, somehow, lawmen, and apparently I had been aiding some criminal element.

Ignorance is innocence, as they say, but clearly such arguments fell on deaf ears as I was made a target for these eager deputies. In the mad, frantic exchange of bullets I cannot promise a few lives were not lost, perhaps unnecessarily. For all that, I was now a wanted man with a price on my head. The princely sum was now mine, and it was indeed a staggering total.

A whole 75 cents. For which, a two man posse decided to ride me down.

I am not familiar with these terms. I thought them not ‘named’ bounty hunters at first but your run-of-the-mill harriers like those I had carelessly (and stupidly) ran off before. I rode hard for camp, thinking to outlast the hunters there, and never knowing that on this occasion the white flag does nothing. Once I’m there, I get off my horse, clutching my shotgun to heart just in case things didn’t work out. Watch, as these two yokels with name-tags over their heads come charging over the hill. Relishing in their superiority of numbers they were not careful, and rode in too close to comfort. Each eat a buckshot to the face for their troubles, and topple from their saddles. So far, so Red Dead. This is the life we chose.

Then…

Parley.

From yokel #1. I’m thinking he’s suing for peace, and blessed as they say is the peacemaker, so I am inclined to forgive and forget. But after parley they come over anyway, and under said rules shoots Cripps down, knowing I can’t hurt them as reprisal. Of course, they tried to do the same by Horse, who is my horse, but apparently house animals are protected under parley. Poor Cripps done worth less than some filly I stole out of a barn for some horse thieves back in the day, but that was also not the point. The point is, they had time left on their bounty to pick another fight, and chose instead the worst, most cowardly of ways–even with numbers on their side, on a beach with their targeted quarry unmounted, and with nowhere to hide.

All that, for a paltry 75 cents (since paid off in full–and what a strain on my purse it was to do so!), and 4 whole dollars of my time taking Cripps to see a doctor.

I have marked their names, and if and when should I come across these men again, I will do better than them. I shall, in the spirit of ‘parley’, ride up before them, and shoot them in the face. Then I shall wait, to see if parley will once again come to me. If so, we will each go our separate ways. If not, if, in that interim, you have learned to grow a backbone, I will oblige you any way I can, whether it be shootouts at high noon or at midnight.