Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,

Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd

Too terrible for the ear. The times have been

That, when the brains were out, the man would die,

And there an end; but now they rise again,

With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,

And push us from our stools: this is more strange

Than such a murder is. --Macbeth

The shopkeeper in Armadillo is an anti-Semite. Was, that is, until I shot him. There's more to the story.

I arrived in Armadillo one fine morning and decided to take a look around. After a drink at the saloon and a salty solicitation from a prostitute ("I'm a married man," I told her), I crossed the street and entered the general store.

The kindly shopkeeper welcomed me and mentioned something about torching the train station "if they wouldn't arrest me for it." That seemed a little odd, but I overlooked it and began surveying his inventory. Then he proudly proclaimed, ""I keep foreign and Jewish-made supplies out of my store. Help our American families."

Huh? I quickly changed my mind about buying anything and exited the store. No way was this idiot getting my business. I left town and headed back to the MacFarlane Ranch. The shopkeeper there is stingy, but at least he's not a wannabe-arsonist xenophobe.

The next day, I headed back to Armadillo and, purely out of curiosity, decided to visit the cordial racist shopkeeper again. When I entered the store he was speaking to another customer. "Seems like all the railroad does these days is drop off more and more foreigners." Then he noticed me and offered a warm greeting. "Welcome friend." When I approached the counter to speak to him, he reeled off another nugget of frontier enlightenment. "You won't find anything Jewish-made in this establishment, sir."

And that's when I shot him. I don't recall consciously deciding to do it. I just pulled my gun and plugged him. Then I walked into the street and waited for the sheriff's deputy to arrest me.

After serving my time in jail, I left town and busied myself with all sorts of other things. Exploring. Hunting. Sleeping under the stars. But that shopkeeper never left my mind. I had a nagging suspicion about him, and I needed to find out if I was right. Because, you see, I've played a few video games in my time.

So I returned to Armadillo and headed straight for the general store. I walked through the door...and sure enough there he was. Same bespectacled shopkeeper. Same bile. "I've never lost a single piece of merchandise. I keep mulattoes out of the store." Well, I thought to myself, at least he's spreading the hate around now. Then I shot him again.

This time, however, a message popped up on my screen informing me that, because I had killed the shopkeeper, the store would be closed for five days. To verify this fact, I repeatedly slept/saved to advance the clock and returned to the store at various hours on the following days. Indeed, the shopkeeper was nowhere to be found. I had discovered the opening I needed to dispense my own brand of frontier justice.

Now, the cordial racist shopkeeper and I have a relationship. Every five days I return to Armadillo; he warmly greets me, and I kill him. I've even found ways to avoid tedium. Sometimes a single shot to the head does the trick; other times I lasso and hogtie him before letting him have it. If I've had an especially bad day on the range, I let him tell me about the Jews before plugging him multiple times in the piehole, courtesy of my Dead Eye slo-mo skill. Occasionally I even shoot up the store. I guess you could say I'm a loyal customer.

Last night, however, my plan went strangely awry. I arrived in Armadillo on schedule and killed the shopkeeper. After fleeing the law (I no longer waste time in the hoosegow) and eliminating my bounty with a pardon letter, I decided to head over to the saloon for a little poker. I made my way to the back room, opened the door, and who did I find sitting at the table? You guessed it. The cordial racist shopkeeper, pretty as you please, with a stack of chips in front of him. You may also guess what I did next. Looted his body too.

See you soon, cordial racist shopkeeper. I'm your huckleberry.