Jack Slate is a loner cop, who plays by his own rules. If crime is a disease, he is the cure. If crime is an impending car crash, he is the auto insurance provider. He's been pushed too far, over the edge, and now it's up to him to kill the bad guys. Is he God? No, God would have mercy. But not Jack Slate.
You get the idea.
Namco Hometek (Namco's Western division) decided to take on the Max Payne throne and make a video game that plays something like a John Woo movie.
It goes... it goes okay, I guess.
Dead to Rights is an action-packed game with a riveting story and many, many, many characters who will amaze you with how true-to-life their stories are. I expect you to empathize with some or all of the characters at one point in time, not to mention the challenges and experiences they face. You should feel ashamed to cry at some of their tragedies, but there's a lot of explosions that will make you jump out of your chair and say "Fuck yes, Jack Slate!" I wanted to LP it because... well, baldurk inadvertantly reminded me of it with LP Max Payne and I actually really like it a lot.
My co-anchor in all this, Diabetus, has never played Dead to Rights before, so for the most part, you're seeing his initial reaction to it. I really do like this game - it is sort of an arcade-y style third-person shooter with loads of difficulty and a plot that will certainly keep you guessing! To that end, if you want me to show off something, I really have no problems replaying levels or scenes to that end. DTR is, in the words of another LPer, "balls-hard" but once you get the hang of it, it's only a severe pain in the ass.
Betus and I have the first three chapters recorded in advance, but since there's fifteen in the whole game, there's plenty of ways to go if you want us to take things in a different direction or whatever. I really wanted to do a minimalist OP for this like "Dead to Rights, here's a video", but as you can see, I'm long-winded as all get-out.
All that said, please do not:
- Spoil the really hard-to-guess plot twists in the game, though feel free to speculate away on where this intricately woven tapestry could be taking us.
- Post YouTube videos of "the disarms" (you'll see), which are kinda the game's way of keeping things looking awesome. I'll try to post about one per level whenever possible.
- Post like a wimp. Jack Slate won't have any of that.
VideosChapter 0 - Viddler
Chapter 1 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 2 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 3 part 1 (long) - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 3 part 1 (short) - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 3 part 2 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 4 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 5 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 6 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 7 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 8 part 1 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 8 part 2 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 9 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 10 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 11 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 12 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 13 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 14 - Viddler baldurdash
Chapter 15 - Viddler baldurdash
Random Bonus Content:
Diabetus and I play RE5 co-op Mercenaries
Down and out in Kijuju (video 1) (Veoh) (YouTube HD)
Down and Out in Kijuju (Video 2) (Viddler)
Down and Out in Kijuju - Incredibly Sexy Edition (YouTube HD)
Down and Out in Kijuju - And Now Something for the Ladies (Viddler)
Dead To Rights: The Novelization by Erenthal
Longshoreman IX wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, the pain shooting through his entire jaw like a harpoon. The blood tasted salty, salty like the sea. His opponent laughed a hoarse laugh and swung his hook around for a second attack, sensing that his younger opponent was off-balance. Longshoreman IX barely had time to duck. He was just a moment too slow, and the hook grazed his shoulder, ripping through the rough cloth. He had been a fool to think he could win. Longshoreman XII was a brute of a man, the scars of his many victories traced across his salt-stained skin like a sea-chart. Of the other longshoremen he could see little. In the light of the lanterns suspended above the pier they were scarcely more than oblong shapes in yellow and green, silently observing the battle. There would be no interference, no mercy. A duel was a solemn affair, not undertaken lightly. By the end of it, one would be the winner and the other would slowly sink to the sandy seabed, forever lost in the emerald green of the mother ocean. With the last ounce of strength he could gather up, Longshoreman IX launched himself at his opponent, his rubber boots finding their target right in the XII's tackle and bait. The battle was far from over.
Supervisor John Tawdry downed the last of the mug of coffee on his desk, and then immediately regretted doing so as the contents had turned ice cold in the chilly room. This was a right fucking mess, and he was the one who was lucky enough to be forced to fix it. It had not been an hour since Jack Slate had passed through the docks, and the chaos he had caused was extensive. No, Tawdry mused, not extensive. His wife's ass was extensive, this was fucking massive. It had seemed like a dream position when they first offered it to him. Keep an eye on the business at the docks, make sure the trucks leave on time, take a nap on your desk. No sweat, piece of cake. Then this Slate business had started, and suddenly he had been saddled with a whole fucking menagerie of freaks. And now everyone was at his throat. Just outside the door to his office two Longshoremen waited for their turn. They were in a minor panic now with their leader dead, some of the lesser ones even going so far as to commit suicide from the shame. One of them, an VIII if Tawdry had interpreted his tattoos correctly, had waved his hook in front of Tawdrys face a bit earlier, screaming himself hoarse about "compensation" this and "revenge" that. Tawdry was not overly bothered. The Longshoremen wouldn't dare hurt him. Despite their bluster, they were too smart for that. If they had any complaints, he had made clear, they could take it up with city hall.
No, it was the Clowns that he was worried about. The Cirque-de-solei motherfuckers made his skin crawl like no other thing could. He could hear them now, whooping and hollering like retards in their native tounge somewhere outside the warehouse, performing some sort of burial ceremony. The guttural noise rose and fell in rythm with a crude mockery of a circus-tune that was being blasted across the yard by some unseen instrument. A brief glimpse out the window would have given anyone nightmares, a heaving mass of leering white faces, pale naked bodies and jet-black pubic hair glistening with sweat.
He vigorously shook his mind clear of those images. Rifling through his papers once more with shaking hands and making a quick recount, he finally exhaled with some relief. The gold was all accounted for, and safely on its way. With some hesitation he picked up the phone and dialed a number. The good doctor would be pleased with this much at least.
Somewhere, aboard a blimp, a phone rang.
Jack Slate knew that his enemies had many names for him. The Unions knew him as "That fucking Slate", while the Longshoremen whispered in the dark about the "Sea-Ender" and in the asian community they spoke of "Slate-San". The Mercs and Assassins simply called him "Death-Who-Walks-With-Dog". God himself only knew what the Clowns called him, if human concepts such as names or titles even applied to their alien minds.
"Let's kill some more people, Jack." Shadow said from the back of the truck, his eyes aflame. Jack did not know what bothered him more, that Shadow for the past few months had been speaking to him, or the fact that he usually did what the dog told him. He shrugged. Sometimes the world made sense, and sometimes it didn't.
"Just go with the flow Jack." Shadow said. Jack couldn't agree more.
It never did get any easier, no matter how many times he told himself it would. As he slowly walked up the graveled walkway, he found himself clutching the small white envelope harder and harder until the thin paper almost ripped at the edges. A lawn-gnome leered at him from the edge of a small pond, a rictus grin crudely painted on his mishappen clay face. It made him look immensely sad. "You and me both buddy." Gershwin whispered. The gnome did not deign a response.
The ringing of the doorbell had barely subsided as the door opened. A women in her thirties opened. She was dressed in a blue jumper and khaki pants, and she looked like she had just came from the kitchen, judging by the wooden ladle still in her hands. Gershwin knew her well. "Mrs Antorcha, Caroline..." he said. His face must have been like an open book, because she immediately froze. The ladle clattered against the floor. "It's... it's about Douglas." he continued, even though it was unnecessary. As she fell into his arms sobbing, he caught a glimpse of little Bobby at the top of the stairwell. He began to tremble, quite against his will. He still had more visits to do today. "Damn you Slate... damn you." he whispered.