Devil May Cry, Bulletstorm, and God of War walk into a bar. They all sit, have a drink, and chat about revenge (or something). Suddenly, a gravel-voiced cowboy with p**sed off eyes and a six-shooter in his hand kicks the saloon doors in. “This is my turf, lads,” he says, sounding like he’s been on 12 packs of cigs a day since he was five years old. “We don’t need Norsemen, space edgelords, or the son of a demon king in the Old West.”
]]>