Rhodes oh Rhodes

The very air in Shady Belle vibrated with an almost religious fervor as news of Dutch Van der Linde's arrival swept through the grounds like a wildfire. The gunfighters on duty, their faces flushed with a mixture of awe and unhinged devotion, stiffened at their posts, hands gripping their rifles so tightly their knuckles shone white.

Their eyes, wide and unnervingly fanatic, were fixed on the entrance of Shady Belle, as if anticipating a divine providence.

Inside the bustling factory, the women, usually hunched over their clattering machines, abruptly sat bolt upright. Their fingers, still pricked from needles, froze mid-stitch. Eyes wide, shimmering with unshed tears and fervent excitement, they stared, unblinking, at the gate, completely oblivious to their work, waiting for the arrival of their savior, Mr. Dutch Van der Linde.

For every single soul residing here, their lives, their very breath, were a willing sacrifice to Mr. Van der Linde. They would die for him, happily, without a second thought!

Before, their lives had been a gnawing hunger, a day-to-day struggle to simply exist. Several family members often shared a single, threadbare piece of clothing, and merely not starving each month was considered a miraculous blessing. They had frequently been forced to fight, tooth and nail, to snatch meager work from equally desperate hands. If they were lucky, they'd get a few coins; if not, they'd return home bruised, broken, and empty-handed. This relentless, grinding misery had long since worn away every last shred of hope, leaving them hollow.

But now? Now, they reveled in a prosperity they'd once only dreamed of. Well-fed, warmly clothed, with sturdy roofs over their heads and two glorious days off each month—days they used to take their children, their precious families, into Saint Denis for joyful shopping excursions and carefree entertainment.

Their children, wearing proper, decent clothes, attended school in the grand city, and every single day, Mr. Van der Linde personally ensured they received a cup of rich, nourishing milk, bolstering their frail bodies, helping them to grow.

Shit! Words were no longer enough to describe the bottomless well of their gratitude, the boundless ferocity of their loyalty. God, in all his divine majesty, they hoped would bless Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, the man they held close in their very souls.

Throughout their wretched, grateful lives, they would only believe in Dutch! Their greatest, most fervent pursuit in this life, their ultimate, unattainable dream, was to one day be acknowledged, truly acknowledged, as a legitimate member of the Van der Linde Gang, just like Mr. JD.

And this overwhelming surge of gratitude finally materialized, bursting forth like a dam break, when Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, riding tall in the saddle, appeared at the entrance of Shady Belle.

"Mr. Van der Linde!" someone suddenly shrieked, a voice cracking with raw emotion, utterly unable to control the tidal wave within.

But in the very next moment, that single, frantic shout was swallowed, drowned out by a deafening, unified roar that shook the very foundations of the earth.

"Van der Linde!"

"Van der Linde!"

"VAN DER LINDE!!!"

The sheer, immense sound was a physical force, so powerful it sent the lurking alligators in the swamp scattering into the murky depths, fleeing in terror. Birds exploded from the forest canopy, startled into continuous, frantic chirping. Needles, still impaled in the ladies' fingers, went unnoticed, forgotten in the ecstatic frenzy.

The Maxim gun's trigger, gripped by a gunfighter whose eyes were now glazed over with adoration, was almost pulled, yet no one reacted, no one cared. Mr. Van der Linde! The hope of all the downtrodden!

"Hahahahaha, hahahaha! Gentlemen, ladies! Long time no see!" Dutch boomed, riding into the courtyard, his laughter rich and infectious, echoing off the wooden walls. He waved grandly to the workers peering out from the factory windows, his face alight with a genuinely warm, expansive smile that seemed to encompass every single soul. And the workers' shouts, already bordering on the hysterical, grew even more fervent, more unhinged, because of his warmth, his recognition.

"Van der Linde! Van der Linde! Van der Linde!"

"Alright, gentlemen, ladies! Alright, that's enough!" Dutch chuckled, his voice still booming, but now repeatedly pressing his hands down, a calming gesture that, miraculously, finally quelled the roaring tide of adoration.

"Hahaha, thank you all for your immense affection for me!" he declared, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard. "I truly hope every single one of you can find your own happiness right here, at Hope Ranch. I have always believed, with every fiber of my being, that happiness is everyone's right! So, if you find your own slice of heaven, your own happiness, here… well, that will be my greatest honor!" He placed a hand over his heart, a gesture of profound, self-congratulatory sincerity.

The shouts, which had barely been suppressed, were instantly re-ignited by Dutch Van der Linde's words, exploding with renewed, incandescent fury.

"Van der Linde! Van der Linde! VAN DER LINDE!"

Shit! Who in this godforsaken world truly understood the immeasurable weight of Dutch's words? In this brutal, unforgiving era, here was a man who plucked you from a half-dead, hopeless existence, fed you, clothed you, freed you from the gnawing anxieties of survival, and then, inexplicably, gave your children a fighting chance, a glimmer of future success!

And then, this very man, this miraculous figure, stood before you and told you, with a heartfelt sincerity that brought tears to your eyes: everyone has the right to pursue happiness, and it is his honor if you find your happiness!

Shit! These weren't just words; these were the very pronouncements of a saint! These words brought tears to one's eyes, not of sorrow, but of profound, aching gratitude! These words inspired a fierce, unyielding loyalty! These words made one vow to be loyal unto death, to offer their very last breath!

Dutch pitied them, Dutch helped them, Dutch understood them! Dutch was everyone's confidant, their confessor, their leader!

(A bit of bread and cheese and you gonna live rent-free in their heads, good ol propaganda)

No one, not a single hardened soul in that courtyard, could remain unmoved by Dutch Van der Linde's stirring declaration. The shouts in the factory, previously a roaring chant, were now interwoven with desperate, guttural sobs.

And once the sobbing began, it swelled, growing stronger, more profound, a chorus of raw emotion. These were tears of gratitude, tears of newfound happiness, and, most powerfully, tears of unshakeable loyalty.

Sunny Quell, the meticulous, invigorated man in charge of Shady Belle, strode forward, his face alight with an almost manic excitement, practically vibrating with energy. He stopped before Dutch, bowing low.

"Boss!" Sunny practically worshipped the ground Dutch walked on.

"Mr. Sunny Quell," Dutch said, his voice firm but kind, "please tell everyone to stop crying. We are here for something important. Just now, we passed through Rhodes, and we found it in complete, utter chaos. The Lemoyne Raiders were robbing and killing frantically, endangering the very safety of the innocent people!"

Dutch's face darkened, a theatrical grimace of righteous indignation. "Shit! This simply will not do! Every single life is precious, Mr. Quell! Everyone has their own family, their own life to live! The actions of those Lemoyne Raiders are an insult to federal law and a blatant disregard for the lives of the common folk! This cannot stand, sir! Our Van der Linde Gang does not allow such depravity to occur on our watch! And so, I am conscripting twenty brave gunfighters and three of our magnificent Maxim guns from Shady Belle.

We will go to Rhodes, drive away those damn bandits, and restore a safe, peaceful living environment for the good people of Rhodes!" He struck a pose, chin up, chest out, radiating benevolent authority.

As soon as Dutch finished, a literal stampede erupted. Over fifty gunfighters, their faces contorted with a fervent, almost desperate eagerness, frantically signed up, pushing and shoving, practically tearing each other's clothes off to get a spot.

Shit! Mr. Van der Linde's words were far more effective than any imperial decree; an imperial decree was coercive, but Mr. Van der Linde's words were built on the unshakable bedrock of profound gratitude. To act out of gratitude—this wasn't coercion, this was voluntary service!

Every single one of them yearned to repay Mr. Van der Linde's kindness, even if they knew, deep down, they could never fully reciprocate. But that knowledge could not, would not, stop their fervent, dedicated hearts.

But Mr. Van der Linde, with a gracious wave of his hand, certainly would not allow such a crude display. Finally, after much jostling and a few choice curses, the twenty chosen gunfighters were selected, their faces beaming with pride.

The rest of the gunfighters, a picture of disciplined order, rested if they needed to, worked if they needed to, while Dutch, Arthur, John, and Charles led their newly assembled, magnificent force of twenty gunfighters majestically towards Rhodes.

What did twenty gunfighters mean? The Van der Linde Gang hadn't even mustered this many people when they attacked Cornwall's oil factory in the game. And it wasn't just twenty gunfighters; there were also three terrifying, water-cooled Maxim guns, mounted on sturdy carriages, gleaming ominously. This force, this display of raw, undeniable power, could completely encircle and obliterate Rhodes.

"Oh, shit! Dutch, I've never acted with so many people before!" Arthur exclaimed, his eyes wide with a boyish wonder, feeling the road tremble slightly beneath his horse's hooves as the twenty riders galloped in unison. He grinned like a madman.

"Shit! I can't even imagine that we could actually have so many gunfighters!" John was even more excited, his raspy voice almost a high-pitched squeak. He bounced in his saddle, unable to contain his giddy energy.

Charles, ever the stoic, nodded slowly, a rare, profound emotion on his face. "Well, after yesterday's… surgical procedure… I didn't feel much difference between us now and before, to be honest. But now… now I truly do." He looked at the impressive cavalcade, a quiet sense of pride swelling in his chest.

"Hoo hoo hoo! Charles, just look at these three Maxim guns!" Arthur laughed heartily, slapping his thigh, feeling an exhilarating rush course through him. "I feel so nervous just looking at them! It's magnificent!" This was his first time experiencing an operation with such a large, overwhelming force, and it felt utterly, thrillingly new.

Dutch threw his head back, laughing loudly, his booming voice cutting through the rumble of hooves and wheels. "Hahaha, alright, children, this is just the beginning! In the future, we will send out even more gunfighters to seize even more resources! Then, my boys, you will finally know what true, undeniable armed force truly is!"

Twenty-four gunfighters, a thundering phalanx of armed might, marched majestically towards Rhodes, a sight so imposing it almost made the few curious pedestrians on the road flee in terror, scrambling for cover. And upon reaching Rhodes, the display of armed force escalated to something truly outrageous, a spectacle of overwhelming power.

Arthur, John, and Charles didn't need to do anything at all. Dutch simply needed them to follow behind him, their voices booming in unison with his own.

"All citizens of Rhodes, get down and throw away your guns! All citizens of Rhodes, get down and throw away your guns!"

As their shouted demands echoed through the streets, the three Maxim guns, suddenly, terrifyingly, roared to life. Crimson bullet trajectories, like straight, deadly laser beams, swept across Rhodes, painting the air with a horrifying artistry.

The remaining dozen or so gunfighters, a disciplined perimeter, guarded every intersection, blocking all exits, standing vigilant against any desperate, hidden shots from the remnants of the Lemoyne Raiders and the surviving collateral members of the two fallen families.

"Da da da da da..."

The Maxim guns' continuous, thunderous firepower crisscrossed the streets, shredding everything in their path. The truly obedient citizens of Rhodes had long since flattened themselves against the ground, their faces buried in the dirt.

Those who weren't on the ground? They were Lemoyne Raiders. And those who hadn't thrown away their guns? They were Lemoyne Raiders. Any, any Lemoyne Raider foolish enough to stand would be instantly, mercilessly met with a deafening torrent of machine gun fire.

And these, Dutch would later explain, were not just bullets; these were righteous bullets, righteous bullets fired by Mr. Dutch Van der Linde himself, simply to protect the good people of Rhodes when he happened to pass through and witness the vile deeds of those despicable Lemoyne Raiders!

Gunpowder, thick and acrid, mixed with the horrifying, fine mist of blood, wafted through the shattered streets of Rhodes. This battle, this terrifying, transformative event, was the apocalypse of Rhodes. But at the very same time, it was also its brutal, fiery rebirth.