Cruelty Squad

My dear fellow English-speaking auditory, for I venture to assert that the hard-pressed burghers of the Eastern European provinces shall derive no more pleasure from this contraption than a hog from a hymn-book. I address these lines to you alone. Upon my solemn oath, what in the blazes did I just clap my orbs upon? Is this not the most gargantuan, gas-lit, anti-capitalist conspiracy theory chaos‑meme madness that ever issued from the infernal depths of a programmer’s fever‑dream? Forsooth, is this not precisely the visage that Satire herself must don in these raunchy, tumultuous times, when the very fabric of decency lies in tatters? I submit that it is. The lyrical hero of this theatrical contrivance, an unemployed ne’er‑do‑well of the lowest order, nurtures a singular aspiration to dispatch every living soul within his purview. Yet the game, in a twist of perverse and gentlemanly wit, does not so much encourage this bloodlust as it doth soundly thrash him about the jowls for indulging it. In his base pursuit of treasure, wealth, and earthly prosperity, this vagabond pumps his sinewy carcass ever fuller of grotesque mechanical implants, casting aside all moral compunction as one might cast aside a soiled cravat. At least, so it appears to this humble observer. What with these blasphemous “Devilish” modes and the infernal Mecha‑Flesh configurations, the whole spectacle presents a remarkably sophisticated, albeit queasy, blend of Biopunk, a broth brewed solely for the most peculiar amateur of the macabre. I deem it entirely worthy of one’s shillings and leisure hours. The allusions are thick as a London fog. One finds sly nods to the scandalous affairs of a certain nefarious American financier, alongside the most cutting mockery of our modern joint‑stock corporations. And pray, good sirs, do not neglect the dialogues of the incidental, non‑player characters, for they are dashed funny, I assure you, and provideth a right good chuckle amidst the carnage. A capital endeavour, upon my word.