At least about the beer and stewing part.
I could have talked readily about sipping on my seemingly bottomless glass of beer as I stewed over the best way to present Max Payne 3 a new chronicle in the life of one of gaming’s most troubled characters, and I’d be right. I could have thrown myself - pen in hand - through the air to dazzle in stylish spectacle. His life, torn asunder over and over again, could have been a metaphor for capturing the perfect story a revenge tale not at all unlike the one Max himself hoped he could write in blood, and follow up with a sequel.
I could have pretended I was an undercover journalist on the beat, walking through a snow-covered New York strip wondering where my old pal, Max Payne, was. I could have started this review with a cool film noire-esque intro.
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