Deer Hunting - The Season 2

[b]Hello, my dear mama and papa. It's your beloved son Alyosha.[/b] When I moved from Siberia to America, I thought: Finally! The land of the free and the home of the brave! Also, 2nd Amendment, big guns, apple pie, baseball, and country music. But my journey did not go well from the start... Instead of beautiful California from Arnold Schwarzenegger movies, or New York, or Texas, the immigration service told me I can choose only one of two states - Missouri or Nebraska. I knew nothing about those places. I assumed they were scarcely populated wastelands in the middle of nowhere, probably the home for some weird apocalyptic cults and cryptic monsters from Indian tales. I settled in Missouri, and this state name sounds like "misery" for a reason. Its visuals look like 2008 video game. Textures are so blurry, I think I lose my sight. Sometimes everything around suddenly glitches or stutters. Frame rate drops like my self-esteem. I hope that's side effects from local moonshine and not me losing my mind. As a newly arrived immigrant, government presented me with: an old crumbling farm, an old truck that looks like one where that horse-faced girl made out with a vampire guy from Hollywood movie, a bow (what am I, a freaking Robin Hood?), a musket that remembered Natty Bumppo and his faithful friend Chingachgook (Big Snake for ladies), and an old Berdanka rifle. Also some clothes from second-hand store. I wanted to hunt a deer to make a hamburger like a real American, but local guy named Jebediah told me it was forbidden by the law and God himself. You need to buy "license" for every sneeze! So first few days I just sat on old couch, watched American football, where fat Black guys push each other for one minute and then you watch commercial for five minutes, and checked photos from trail cams. The deer looked like quite a colourful band, so I named them "Coward", "Fool", "Pro" and "Shurik". I just went on watching TV and drinking local beer that tasted like urine. Finally, the day has come. Jebediah proclaimed, "Praise the Lord! And eat from each tree in this garden!" So I had no choice but to take a bow and climb up a tree stand like a monkey. I started to blow into deer caller. I imitated horny deer as much as I could. Suddenly, a lovely deer couple came up. Two headshots and my hamburger is ready. Next week I spent all my buck tags in Missouri. When time came to use real guns, I had to move to Nebraska. What can a man tell about that god-forsaken place? It's cold, also dark. Depressive corn fields and gloomy hills, covered with mud and deer feces. Naked crooked trees and almost no deer there. My truck got stuck in the mud all the time because graphic engine cannot make difference between mud and normal path. My tree stand turned out to be protected by invisible force field. When I shot between the wooden planks, my bullets just deflected back into my face! The deer also got stuck. One buck ran directly into a bush and just kept running into it. Once I shot a beautiful trophy deer, only to find out his body was abducted by some shady federal service. Only later I learnt that shooting the deer before 6 in the morning is a criminality. When I came back to my sleazy motel, I found a letter that told me I was fined and now I have minus 100 in-game currency. I must work for food! Capitalist sharks! Everything is either forbidden or costs a fortune here, and there is no hunters' union to fight for their rights. It's so cold here, my dear parents. At least in Russia you could put your winter clothes on. But here, local hunters are too poor to afford clothing. So those bums have to suffer in summer jackets and thin rubber boots in a snowdrift. Cartridges are also a luxury. Jebediah sold me a fistful of his .270 cartridges, and they were made in 1925! Poor guys can't even afford .308Win. But their government mercifully allowed them to collect shedded antlers from the ground to sell them for peanuts, or they would have died a long t