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Postal Nation The "Other" POSTAL Movie Censored, Music Project Full Speed Ahead, Art, Photos, Fiction and oh, SO Much More…
POSTAL Movie Cancelled by Parents; Fans Finally Grateful for Uwe Boll? The idea behind the Postal Fan Flick was to make a 90 minute movie. Of course, we were going to stay as true to the game material as possible [What filmmaker wouldn't? –The Gimp]. We started off on a Monday and we were already running into problems. For some strange reason, we couldn't convince the local bank to allow us to have actors enter the place with ski masks on and pretend rob them for our movie. So, we had to switch some of the errands around. We were also working with a very limited budget ($0 to be exact.) The only weapons we had were the rifle (a pellet gun), a .45 caliber pistol (fake) and a sawed off shotgun (which was actually another pellet gun with the barrel sawed off.) The shotgun only makes an appearance at the beginning of the movie, but it would have been picked up later on. A few ideas that we were kicking around were a katana killing spree, a machete killing spree, and a scythe killing spree. Unfortunately, we only began to start filming the katana killing spree before the movie got cancelled. The footage from the katana killing spree was unfortunately lost in a drive wipe. It started off with the Postal Dude walking into a room and arming his pistol. He walks to the fireplace where there is a katana hanging on the wall. He picks it up and pulls it out of the sheath. The song "Nowhere to run" by Martha Reeves & The Vandellas starts playing. The camera cuts to the kitchen. A person standing there says: "Hey, you can't be in here!" The Postal Dude charges in from off screen and impales him with the Katana. That's all we recorded. The bum shot was really cool because the sword pushed him off the ground and the person who played the bum ( Joel Martin ) did a really good death motion. Anyways, that's all we had filmed before a "concerned" parent called the police on us. My parents forced us to cancel the project. Since I live under their roof I have to play by their rules. Also, I have to play by their rules if I hope to get any help for college. I also moved so I lost a lot of my actors, except for the Postal Dude, who was played by me. I hope everyone enjoyed what we put out there. We put a lot of work into it and it really sucks that we can't finish it (at least not right now). I have some ideas brewing though for some parts to add, so who knows? Maybe we may finish this project. (Foreshadowing.)
Music to Go POSTAL By According to RWS CEO Vince "Puff " Desi , our attorney is in the process of drafting the music license, Mike J has our recording artists primed and we're looking to get all the contracts signed and have a gold master in hand by the end of this month with a possible launch date of November 1 (All Saints Day). RWS now has so many POSTAL brand-related products and deals in the works that our next RWS Newsletter may have to add a special Multimedia Section! Casting Call: Who's Gonna Be The Dude? So, Tim here at RWS has assembled the "fan favorites" – the people most POSTALites feel would best portray the game's iconic characters. It's POSTAL PIKS time, gang, so here we go: TIM : Almost everyone I talk to and encounter on all the different forums seem to overwhelmingly agree that the best actor to play the Postal Dude would be John McGinley ("Doctor Cox" from Scrubs). He has the perfect look, sarcastic attitude and ability to become the seminal psycho. Politician: Gary Coleman :
POSTAL PIKS Announced * Music * Movies * Viral Videos * Games * Individual MySpace Site Tell us why you enjoy that site and every issue one letter will be selected as our favorite and the writer will win themselves a genuine POSTAL T-shirt. So send your votes to GameDoctorKunkel@gopostal.com and we'll try to set up links with your fave sites. New French POSTAL2 Mod Debuts
RWS SPOTLIGHT on Fiction: "Still Wantz Pillz " by Z Burroughs Still Wantz Pillz Bar opened his eyes very slowly. Long night. Now well into the following day. He listened with disinterest to his voice mail recording frantic pleas from another desperate caller and heard his mother moving around in the living room. He remembered yesterday. Yesterday which had really sucked. Yesterday when they buried Dino Prentiss , who OD'd on booze and the Xanax that Bar had sold him a week earlier. Bar had been to several funerals lately, and his little multicolored soldiers had been at too many of the death scenes. Not that he felt guilt. Hell, you can kill yourself in a car; does that make the dude who sold you that vehicle a murderer? Fuck no. Fuck. No. Then another phone call. Damn, but these people were persistent. In any case, Bar was getting out of this business, so screw them all. He still had some generic H-Bombs to get rid of (Mitch will buy them, he decided) and all that Dilaudid that Rory ripped off from Value Drugs in Thousand Oaks, but you can always sell Dilaudid. Very solid drug. Not that he'd ever touch it himself; Bar was a booze and coke man, though he smoked pot and took the occasional tranquilizer to get some sleep after a hard night with the shooters and the Peruvian Marching Powder. His hardcore pillhead customers, though, were true idiots; trust fund pukes who didn't live with their fucking mothers. Well, soon he'd be a long way from here, so fuck them all. Fuck. Them. All. The phone was ringing yet again and this time he snatched it up. “Bar!” came the voice at the other end of his cell phone. He scanned his Caller ID. It was David Eiserman . “Hello, David . Wassup?” “Umm, a special order, Bar.” “So spit it out. I'm kind of rushed.” “I'm looking for some of those nice gunboats you told me about.” That meant he wanted Xanax. But David sounded nervous. “You have, maybe... 150?” David whispered. Bar's eyes widened. Shit yeah, he had them – well, he could certainly get them – but, well, this was a way high order for this dude. “That's quite a bit larger than your ordinary, D-Man. And you know I can't do quantity discounts because I don't get—” “It's okay, Bar. It's for a friend. He'll pay the trey apiece. It's worth it for the gunboats.” This referred to the long two milligram pills. All kinds of sixth sense shit started whacking at Bar's head. This deal had a bogus smell to it. “ David ?” Silence. “Earth to David .” “I'm here, Bar.” “And you want how many?” “One-five-oh.” “Why?” Silence. “ David ? Why?” “Dude! What's with this third degree? If you don't have them, forget it.” “Let me call you back,” Bar decided. “I'll be out.” “I'll call your cell.” Click. Fuck. Bar didn't trust that scumbag. That's what D-Man was, a scumbag. Bar didn't trust any of them, and that was the truth. The hell with them; he was out of here and there's the damned phone again ! “WHAT?” Bar demanded, barking into his cell. “Pills, Bar," a strangely familiar voice on the other end replied. "I want... pills.” The rage disappeared inside Bar and he went cold. It was the voice on the phone. It was— “Who is this?” Bar demanded. Nothing was showing up on Caller ID for some reason. Silence followed, then a strange, unidentifiable sound. “WHO-IS-THIS?” Bar repeated, with emphasis. “Pills. I want pills, Bar!” Bar was going to demand his caller's identity once again but didn't. He was afraid he might get an answer. Besides, in his gut he already knew whose voice it was. It was Prentiss. Dead and buried Dean Prentiss . Of course it couldn't be. That was whack. Was he dreaming or what? Was this some kind of brain damage thing? “I don't know anything about pills,” Bar hissed into his cell phone, then snapped it shut. The phone was ringing again in a heartbeat. “Pills, Bar!” the distorted but still recognizable voice demanded. “Want some... pills !” Bar fought against his fear. Instinctively, he reached for the .45 he kept in the drawer beside his bed, fumbling for the clip as he put the phone on speaker. The voice sounded more terrible through the phone's tiny speaker, the amplification providing a resonance the earpiece alone somehow lacked. The words that were delivered in Prentiss' voice entreated Bar, who fell back against his bed and pushed himself up against the wall with his legs and feet, fumbling as he forced the clip into the automatic pistol. Finally, Bar spoke, asking in a very small voice: “Prentiss?” “Yeah, Bar. It's me.” Bar shook his head. “Man, you're dead!” Silence, then the voice exploded in rage. “ So what ? Does that make me a bad person? I was a good customer, Bar." A short pause and then: "Fuck you, Bar ! I want pills !” “But man, you're dead; you don't need pills no more.” There was a crackling sound. “I never NEEDED pills, Bar. I just WANTED them. I WANT them now.” Bar heard his mother approach his room. This was going to be even worse than yesterday. * Bar sat across from Louis at the Breakers, sipping a gin and tonic, sucking on a cigarette. He had three valiums churning through his system, but it generated no balm. That was really odd as he took the pills so infrequently that they had never before failed to appease his raging mind. But this time, his gut was roiling, his head spinning. “I saw something like this once,” Louis told him earnestly. “It was a Hitchcock or Twilight Zone or something, and this old bitch kept getting calls in this, like, ghostly voice, and you know what it turned out?” Bar wasn't listening. Louis ' blathering was getting on his nerves. “ It turned out that a phone line was down and it fell down right onto a grave, man !” Bar turned and stared at him vacantly. “Are you sure this is Prentiss?” Louis wanted to know. “It's not a sting or something?” That he heard. “A sting?” Bar wondered. “Yeah. Some scam the cops got going. Or somebody hates your guts and they're trying to drive you nuts.” “That makes sense,” Bar admitted with sudden astonishment. Then he started to build up the evidence. He had it all solid in his head until his cell phone went off and he looked at it. Instead of a name and number, however, the Caller ID read simply: “P-I-L-L-S”. Bar dropped the phone like it was on fire, put out his cigarette, and walked out the door. All the way home, he kept looking back over his shoulder. * The next morning when he went on-line to retrieve his e-mail, Bar was not altogether surprised that he had received the following digital missive lodged among the day's spam and legitimate communications: TO: BarSinistr FROM: Wantzpilz SUBJECT: pills MESSAGE: bar that was rude of you to hang up on me i only want some pills whats wrong with you you always have pills for me i want pillspillspillspillspillspillspillspills yr friend Prentiss * The calls continued as did the texting, emails and instant messages whenever Bar was online. He immediately dumped his e-mail account and bought a new cell phone. He was eating more and more of his own product, including some heavy stuff — some Percodan, a little Demerol. Then this weird acid arrived and he accidentally dropped two tabs, forgetting what they were. Soon thereafter Bar started to freak and immediately consumed enough Halcion to trank an elephant and wound up in the hospital, his system caught somewhere between psychedelic splendor and cardiac arrest. In the middle of the night following his arrival at the hospital, he woke up and Prentiss was up on the television in his private room, addressing him calmly, as if facing an invisible board of directors. “And so we've reached the point,” Prentiss was telling his unknown audience, “where our desire to acquire pharmaceuticals is being stifled by a heartless bureaucracy so jaded and hypocritical that it would deny business with the dead !” Then Prentiss' image turned to face Bar directly. Other than the fact that Dean was obviously dead, he was very sharply dressed and cut an imposing figure on the small screen. “Bar? I-want-PILLS! And I'm prepared to go to the wall on this one.” And then the TV switched itself off. Or maybe it was never on. The blank looks on the faces of his nurse and doctor during Prentiss' video segment certainly led Bar to believe that the viewing had been intended for his eyes and ears alone. He was being haunted by a dead pillhead. Well fuck this, he thought. I can end this farce. So, the next day he checked himself out of the hospital and went directly home where he trembled while he waited for the phone to ring. It rang real soon. “I want pills.” Bar steadied himself. “Sure. I've got pills, Prentiss – just like always! But I have several problems. First, how am I going to get these to you and, secondly — and this is the real difficulty — how are you going to pay me?” Silence, then an odd scraping sound. “PILLS! You've got them?!” “Yes, but, how—?” Bar dropped to the bed, the phone frozen to his ear as his dead customer spoke. After a moment, he gulped, and began jabbering into the speaker. “Prentiss? PRENTISS? PRENTISS!! Come back, you dead cocksucker!” No answer. Just that final message, delivered in a tone so familiar Bar hadn't been able to respond for several seconds, by which time the connection was gone. So he just sat there on the bed, holding the phone in a trembling hand. A long time passed, and suddenly Bar roused himself and began collecting every pill in the house, dumping the contents of several dozen bottles onto his bed. Percodans, Librium, Xanax, Valium, Flexoril, Demerol, Darvon, even two vintage 'ludes he'd squirreled away years earlier. They lay in a great, multi-colored heap sprawled across his bedspread. When he was done, and every pill in his house had been collected, Bar grinned like an idiot. Prentiss would be happy with the selection. And Prentiss would go away and leave him alone. Sure he would. After all, Prentiss had told him: “I'll be right over.” “He can have everything!” Bar announced to no one. “And then he'll go away.” Right. Just like all the other pillheads had gone away. “They NEVER go away!” Bar wailed suddenly, as if remembering the most obvious thing about his customers. “Pillheads NEVER go away — they keep coming back!” For Dean Prentiss , the need for pharmaceuticals now transcended even death. The need was everything. Or, as a very wise man once observed: “The only anxiety that tranquilizers relieve is the anxiety over not having any tranquilizers.” “I'll be right over,” dead Prentiss the Pillhead had promised. And they always showed up when they made an appointment. So Bar began eating pills, all different kids, frantically gulping them down with a bottle of Wild Turkey. And while he prepared himself for the various pharmaceuticals to kick in, he carefully cleaned and loaded his gun and waited for his best customer to arrive.
-Z Burroughs
Letters, Blogs & Sites From the Postal Nation Now Vince . I know you probably get this a lot, but my AW disc is scratched to VINCE RESPONDS: Dude, once when I was in college my dog ate my term paper, no shit, I couldn't believe it! In any case, I'll have Mike J take care of you. * NitricAciD writes: You guys kick ass and chew bubble gum... Oh, wait… wrong videogame. My Testimonial:
P.S.: If anyone actually reads this letter please note that the 'Testimonial' section is simply for entertainment purposes and I nor anyone I know that plays POSTAL 2 actually commits such crimes. * Andrey Fomichoff from Poltava in the Ukraine writes:
THE GIMP RESPONDS: Thank YOU, Andrey – and thanks for that "POSTAL Che" piece of artwork. And, speaking of artwork, I'm sure you regulars are wondering why there's no Ricsi art in this issue. Well, the fact is he actually sent a piece entitled "POSTAL Teams Vs Smiley Team", but AOL lost it on me. We wrote to Ricsi requesting that he resend it but haven't heard back yet. Hopefully we'll get to see it next issue. * Matthew Van Hoesen of TycoonStudios.com writes: I wanted to pass along the information for my brand new website, TycoonStudios.com . TycoonStudios.com is a place for original funny short videos on the Internet. Be sure to check back often because we'll will be updating with new videos and content on a weekly basis. Sign-up for the TycoonStudios.com Newsletter, shop official merchandise at the TycoonStudios.com , even store, and post your own thoughts on one of the TycoonStudios.com Message Boards. VINCE RESPONDS: I love it, great service you're providing. Please be sure to link with us, and we will mention the site in our next newsletter. Also, we have funny videos of the pitbull Champ, the RWS mascot. * Marcus P. Meleton Jr., President, Sharkbait Press writes: My site is now recovered and being updated. I have put your link in. MailScanner has detected a possible fraud attempt from "www.sharkbaitpress.com.i" claiming to be us. [Sharkbait Press publishes the Pete the Postal Worker comicbook series among other things. Check 'em out!]
* Guff writes: I just found your site and saw the name of your company is "Running With Scissors". What a winner for a company name. I did this sketch in maybe 20 minutes max. Saw you had some sort of art section so thought I may as well send it.
THE GIMP RESPONDS: Glad you did! Welcome to the group.
And that's a wrap for this issue. We want to thank everyone who contributed to this Very Special Episode of the RWS Newsletter – you send 'em and we'll print 'em. In the meantime, we'll be back in a month or so with MAJOR news on POSTAL 3, the POSTAL movie, the POSTAL Babe DVD, Music to Go Postal By and so many other projects that Vince had to send me a long list in order to keep track of them! --The Gimp
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