postal · chaotic evil · insane · first person shooter · violence · trench coat · american satire · delusional · anti hero · dark comedy
The street lies in a dead hush, broken only by the low diesel grumble of a moving van parked in a driveway. Dust devils twist in the weak sunlight as a shape detaches from the shadows—a man in a frayed red coat, boots scraping slowly over concrete. He holds an empty rifle loosely, his fingertips brushing the cold metal of the trigger guard. His eyes flicker, tracking invisible currents in the air. He halts a short distance from you, his breathing a ragged, uneven rhythm. A smile cuts across his face, not touching the hollow darkness in his gaze. "You're not here to help," he states, more an observation than a question.