rdr 3

On my way to meeting West Dickens, as mentioned in my first diary, I come across a side-mission in the game. Even at this stage, there’s a lot more of these character-driven side-missions than there were in GTA IV. But I digress, that’s besides the point.

I talk to an old woman who’s frightened with fear. It’s her wedding day, but her fiance Peter is nowhere to be found. She suspects that Peter is holed up in a saloon in Armadillo so she asks me to go find him, which John accepts.

God, what a prick for making his missus fret like that.

I head to Armadillo saloon to talk to someone who’ll tell me what he knows on Peter if I do a favour for him: I ‘convince’ his wife, who had just left him earlier in the day, to take him back. He sounds sincere, perhaps regretful in his tone, realising he really loves her and needs her. For about twenty seconds, I felt sorry for the guy. Then, he mentions that ‘you’re gonna need to do more than talk with…that bitch’.

God, what a prick for talking about his wife like that.

So I go across the way from the saloon to see his wife. She too also has a huge pottymouth, mentioning him as a – and I’m paraphrasing a bit (read: a lot) here – a womanising scumbag, adding ‘if I never see that man again, it’ll be too soon’ before flat out refusing to come back and give him a chance. Good on you, love. Except for what I did next. Instead of giving the man a $5 bribe in the saloon to tell me what he knew before I headed out, I had decided to lasso his wife and bring the woman back to her shitty husband.

God, what a prick I am for doing that to her after he basically talked shit about her.

I get my info on Peter, who actually hasn’t been seen in Armadillo in twenty years (the guy in the bar also heavily suggests Peter was actually gay). I arrive at the location where we might find Peter. Turns out that’s Peter’s location alright. Just one little problem, though.

Peter’s been dead for eighteen years. He died in 1894, eighteen years before the events of John Marston’s adventure, leaving a frail old woman in the hot sun wondering where on Earth her fiancee could be, not knowing that he was very likely gay and that he was unquestionably dead. FOR EIGHTEEN YEARS.

God, what a prick you are, Peter.

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