Screenshots updated
Apr 8, 2008
OK, we’ve just shot a deer in the lung. The lung. It twitches and spasms for ten horrific seconds, then lies still. No motion. No noise. Just the odd poetry of blood on snow, and the silent reverence of a man for his bested quarry. Perhaps, after all, hunting is a noble sport. “AHHH’M SO PUMPED!” blare our speakers. BLAM. “Shot the spine!” Fortunately, criticisms of the game extend way past our subjective, fluffy middle-class ethics. ...