The Massacre at Guthrie Farm
I just wanted to say hello.
I was out on my horse, exploring Red Dead Redemption 2 for the first time. I was overwhelmed, unsure of the controls and equally unsure of where to go.
I'd just skinned a bison and was combing my horse when I spotted a small farm on the horizon. There will be people there, I thought, and perhaps they'll have some important information for me. At the very least, they'll have something entertaining to say.
I slung the bison pelt on the back of my horse, made sure my guns were holstered and headed straight for the farmstead in search of conversation and companionship. I spotted a farmhand working the field a stone's throw from the house. "Howdy partner", I said in my head, in a silly cowboy voice. The middle-aged man took one look at me, shouted something unpleasant, and drew his weapon. What a dick.
Turns out Arthur (me) is a wanted man. Earlier that day, I'd unintentionally murdered a travelling salesman. I just wanted to steal his shit and send him on his way, but I was unsure of the controls and accidentally shot him eleven times in the face. I tried to dispose of the body, but I'd had the misfortune of killing him on a busy road and was therefore interrupted by a number of curious passers-by, five of whom are now dead. The sixth took me down. I re-spawned and forgot all about my new-found notoriety as the most bloodthirsty and inept gunslinger this side of Valentine.
Unfortunately, it seems that the farmers hadn't forgotten. I rifled the first man through his eye in an act of self defence. A second gentleman emerged from behind an outhouse, and I clipped him with my pistol. Mortally wounded, he tried to crawl away, but he made it only a few short feet before I calmly put a bullet in the back of his head.
Oh dear, I thought, this is bad. Murder bad.
I looted the bodies and moved them into a nearby shed, at which point I was attacked by a ferocious hound who took umbrage at the killing of his owner. I put him down. "Play dead" quipped Arthur, my quick-witted but psychopathic outlaw. I executed two other dogs on the property as a precaution. Dead dogs don't talk.
Next, I moved to the house, in search of old-timey snacks and cigarette cards. "You're not welcome here" bellowed an elderly gentleman sat by the bedroom door. I shot him in the chin and took his hat.
At this point, I decided that it was time to cover my tracks. I moved all the bodies into the house, shot the horses in the barn - they were looking at me funny - and shot up the lanterns in the kitchen in hopes of starting a fire. Fire would make everything better, I thought. The flames will cleanse this stain, this bloody misunderstanding. At this point a pair of bounty hunters arrived, but they were soon added to my grotesque bonfire. Unfortunately, the fire quickly fizzled away to naught. Five bodies, three dead dogs, two deceased horses and a kitchen in desperate need of renovation.
All the while my horse, Susan, watched on.
We rode for the nearest post office and I paid off my wanted level. All that depravity erased with a mere $16.
Money well spent.