Massacre

My continued desire to see zombies done right prevents me from being as tired of them as everyone else. I would be fine with a zombie DLC. Red Dead Redemption came closer than any other game I've played, and I feel like Rockstar could nail it with another attempt. I do not feel, however, like they will make the attempt. Aliens are hinted at a lot, but personally, I think it's just Rockstar going overboard with mocking the people who were looking for UFOs in San Andreas. Then again, the people looking for UFOs went overboard, so maybe the response is fitting. I have my fingers crossed for some sort of paranormal DLC, but I don't have my hopes up.

I hope I get the same options. The perma-wounds on his face have gotten a bit old. Although, I've never seen anyone else with them. Does make him feel a bit more unique...

Lester provides an email directing you to specific Gauntlets you must steal. One of the three characters should have the email.

Good news, the Mediterranean region is comfortable all year. By taking a ferry from Italy to Greece, you're skipping the areas that are not. You are missing out by not going to Portugal, though.

Just leave later in the year. You can get to Germany in time for Oktoberfest, and it won't matter that it's winter if you're in southern Italy, Greece, or Turkey. Of course, I've ignored a lot of this topic, so I don't know if you have a reason for your chosen time frame.

Regardless of his calling out your error in the use of an irrelevant language, he did direct you to the topic your crew recruitment should have been posted in.

That's a Primo, not a Premier.

Because the Nordic regions are just like England, Ireland, Scotland, and the Caribbean. As soon as people stopped killing, raping, pillaging, and flat-out stopped having fun, the areas ceased to be worth visiting, and the residents turned into a bunch of irredeemable pussies. Ireland gets a pass because of the IRA. Love those guys.

Why would you want to leave Nevada? I mean, Vegas gets boring after a while, but nothing is better than the desert. Danger and desolation around every corner and behind every rock is my kind of place. I would be living in the Mojave desert right now, if I didn't have a craving for toxic industrial fumes. My ultimate goal is to buy 10 square miles of an abandoned industrial sector in Detroit (which should cost around $12, the way things are going in the area) and convert one of the central buildings into a fortress. You can all come visit.

Canadian weed and a blueberry tart > Norway Go visit gtagrl.

History that is older than Christianity or Catholicism and more interesting than anything the two have spawned.

Your mouth will get you in trouble if you go to Turkey. Or anywhere in the Middle East.

Calling someone a proud american really helps them get their shit together.

Meh. I didn't have a lot of time and I was the only staff member on, just threw it up there. Was good enough, at the time.

News'd.

Lol, no one wants to buy a Jew.

I would be less annoyed with that, were 8 feet enough distance to even complete a rotation like that without intending to do so.

Fuck that. Just walk. Stop whenever you see something interesting. Run out of money in a small village in southern Italy. Become a farmhand to make your way. But the farmer who employs you, he has a daughter. The two of you fall in love, marry, start a family. But one day, the Sicilians roll into town, and it's time for the village to pay up. You stand up for yourself, for everyone, and it costs you dearly. The Sicilians murder your wife and infant son, and your world falls apart. You try to cope, but you know what must be done. You go into the attic of your home, where your father-in-law kept an old, dusty trunk. You unbutton your shirt, and, moving your bag of Jew gold aside, pull from your necklace a small, rusted skeleton key. The key to the chest, trusted to you when the old farmer passed. You open the chest, the hinges creaking, and find a rifle, a pair of pistols, and an old, moth-eaten trench coat, the last remnant of your father-in-law's old life. You load the weapons and adorn the coat, and take the first ferry to Sicily. As you set foot on the island, you wonder if you're in over your head, if you can do what you know must be done. Pushing your doubts aside, your trudge onward. You've been here before, brought much-needed supplies that are only grown on the mainland. You know the streets. The people. The way the crowds fade into empty streets as you approach the bistro where the Mafiosi congregate. You realize that it's too late for doubts, for changing your mind. You know that 'now or never' doesn't apply to you anymore. It's now. Only now. You quickly unload the rifle into the gangsters seated around the room, killing most of them instantly. The rifle is empty, and you drop it, immediately drawing your pistols. Reinforcements have arrived from the bistro's back room, harbingers of the man whose blood you came to spill. You effortlessly gun them down, fueled by your rage, the rage cause by the man who enters your field of view now. You raise your weapons, aiming for his head, realizing all too late, that in your bloodlust-driven haze... you forgot to count your shots. No sooner than you realize that you're out of ammo, you feel the burning, churning pain of .45 caliber hollowpoints penetrating your flesh, splitting into pieces, shredding your vital organs. You feel your life slipping away before you've even hit the ground, though you do live long enough to do so. Your vision goes in and out of focus, blood runs from your mouth, only a hint of the damage your stomach and lungs have fallen prey to, and you grit your teeth in fury as the man who destroyed your world slowly kneels before you, a mocking grin on his face. You cannot hear what he says to you, you can barely think straight. Your death is close. You are briefly able to focus, too see the twisted grin that remains on the face of your killer, taunting you to the bitter end. The grin fades, however, when you flash one in return, only second before drawing the knife from your belt and burying it in the man's stomach, driving the blade upward, your hand digging into the wound and thrusting the blade upward still, into his heart. He collapses next to you, mocking you no longer. Your work is done. Your family avenged. You let your gaze drift to a nearby window, and see the sun setting in the distance. A fitting metaphor for your end. A smile spreads across your face. You know you'll be with your family again soon. ... What the fuck did I just do?

That's fucking awesome.

Every time I do a gang attack, the crates de-spawn before I can get to them.

If I am approached with a baby, I always immediately tell the person that I will drop their baby if they try to hand it to me. It has never failed. Probably because I mean it.

Nick Swardson, a favorite standup comedian of mine, equated it to hanging out with a really drunk guy. Shit quality, but here it is. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pz9kDY9f3ac

Kids freak me out. Too small and wiry. They're like goblins, without all the pointy weapons and gold hoarding.

Fancy neon dinners ftw.

The cost would add up rather quickly, if you had anything ambitious in mind.