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OYT do you see yourself in Turok somehow
| charles XII | 09/21/25 |
| charles XII | 09/21/25 |
| charles XII | 09/21/25 |
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Date: September 21st, 2025 11:14 PM Author: charles XII N64 antiheroes in western-developed Titles were Scummy as hell btw. They came from the gutters and the basements and the pawnshops, men who smelled of cheap smoke and damp carpets, hard-faced killers and wisecracking freaks. Duke Nukem with his mirrored shades and his pig cops, a strip-club cowboy who loved the end of the world. Turok, a half-breed dinosaur butcher with a bow and a grudge, slipping through jungles of steaming rot. Stone Cold Steve Austin stomping the ring like a prison riot in denim, spitting beer and middle fingers into the cheap seats. Conker the squirrel, drunk and leering, a red-furred punk with a hangover and a chainsaw. Shadow Man with dead eyes, a trench coat full of voodoo and the smell of wet graves. They were not heroes. They were the stink of the late shift and the broken marriage. They were liquor store clerks with shotguns under the counter, bouncers with blood under the nails, hunters who sold venison to pay rent. Their worlds were full of neon grease and scorched asphalt, the taste of cheap bourbon on an empty stomach. They did not save anything. They survived. They killed. They spat on the flag and called it a night.
The kids loved them because they told the truth of the lower orders: that life is ugly and money is short and the bosses lie. These antiheroes bled resentment and fried chicken grease. They were the roar of a mufflerless car tearing through a cracked suburban street at midnight, a promise that the scum at the bottom would have their day, even if it came in pixelated blood and the stink of cordite. |
Date: September 21st, 2025 11:17 PM Author: charles XII https://i.ytimg.com/vi/1usjYdXO1RE/maxresdefault.jpg "L.A.R.D." |
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Date: September 21st, 2025 11:19 PM Author: charles XII Hobocop was rot in clay. A drunk in rags and a badge, the filth of the alley fused with the cruelty of the state. Clayfighter 63 1/3 trotted him out like a gag: nightstick swings, garbage bombs, the stench of malt liquor. It wasn’t humor. It was contempt. A mockery of the homeless and the cops who break them, mashed into one sneering lump. He wasn’t a character. He was a spit in the face of everyone crushed beneath the century’s boot, a clay grin on the corpse of decency. Hobocop was a crime against humanity because he was true. He showed the player the gutter and called it entertainment. He wore the badge that broke skulls in alleys and the rags of the skulls themselves.
https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/clayfighter/images/3/32/Hobocop_Render.PNG/revision/latest/thumbnail/width/360/height/360?cb=20190222074534 |