Free Real Estate 2.0

The military base, now a smoldering wreck, spewed a final, disgusted puff of smoke into the sky. Amidst the still-hot carnage, the Van der Linde Gang — a collection of hard-bitten gunmen with more lead in their bellies than sense in their heads — were picking through the wreckage like buzzards at a picnic. Bodies were being tossed like sacks of grain, and trash… well, trash was just getting kicked into the next smoldering pile.

This wasn't just a skirmish; it was a gut-punch that rattled the gang down to their spurs. Every last one of those trigger-happy sons of guns was left with their jaws agape.

"Holy hellfire!" Jack Robinson, a recent army washout whose uniform still reeked of Uncle Sam's cheap liquor, spat, surveying the devastation. "Does Mr. Van der Linde aim to build a whole damn empire here? Look at the firepower we just unleashed! You'd think we'd just leveled a small nation, not swiped some fabric from a fella who sells frilly petticoats! And this rifle… this here repeater feels like it was forged by Beelzebub himself. Never seen anything like it in the whole damn U.S. Army!"

Tom, a grizzled gunman who was currently dragging a corpse by one leg, grumbled, "Pipe down, Jack. You worry too much. Mr. Van der Linde can sprout wings and fly to the moon for all I care. Our job's to aim, shoot, and make sure he lands safely, preferably with a fat wad of cash in his pocket. So what if he's building a military base? So what if he fancies himself a warlord? Does your precious American loyalty chafe your britches that much?"

"Loyalty? To Uncle Sam?" Jack howled, his face contorting into a mask of pure indignation. "That tight-fisted, conniving bastard owes me fifteen dollars in discharge pay! Fifteen! And I ain't seen a single cent! Becoming a soldier was the biggest mistake since I tried to tame a wild mustang with a toothpick!"

"Then there you have it!" Tom retorted, nearly dropping his deceased burden. "So what if Mr. Van der Linde wants to be a warlord? He's already kinder than a preacher at a potluck. He's more generous than a drunken sailor on payday! It ain't his choice, I tell ya. Those snake-oil salesmen in Washington, those damn upper-crust senators, they've forced his hand! They'd sooner snatch a penny from a blind man than let Mr. Van der Linde keep his honest coin. I heard they even stole a shipment of our clothes right here on Guarma! Those sons of bitches! They pickpocket Mr. Van der Linde, they're picking our pockets! If he goes belly-up, where does that leave us? Starving on the streets like mangy dogs!" Tom's voice rose to a righteous roar. "They didn't just rob Mr. Van der Linde; they tried to set our whole damn families ablaze!"

Tom had seen the writing on the wall, plain as day: America's rise was nothing more than a glorified banditry convention, with robbery as the main event. So, in his eyes, Mr. Van der Linde was simply playing their game, just a bit more… forcefully.

Jack, who'd just heaved a body onto a cart, saw red. His eyes, usually the color of a placid pond, now glowed like embers in a dying fire. "Don't you dare go spouting such sour nonsense!" he roared, his voice laced with venom. "Let's see who's brave enough to cross Mr. Van der Linde! My kinfolk eat because of his generosity. My life, happy as a pig in mud, is all thanks to him. If those Washington jackals so much as sniff in his direction, they'll have to stomp over my cold, lifeless body first!"

"Oh, for God's sake! You infernal, thieving, conniving… AAAARRRGGHHH!" Jack's fury boiled over. He yanked his pistol and emptied the cylinder into the recently deposited corpse, each shot a testament to his rage. But even that wasn't enough. He then drew his machete and hacked at the poor, already dead soul, turning it into a gruesome abstract art piece.

The scene was a bloodbath, but the surrounding gunmen barely blinked. Many of the other corpses scattered about bore similar, creatively disfigured marks. Mr. Van der Linde's pockets were their pockets. If he lost a coin, they felt the pinch in their own bellies. They wished they could resurrect the Spanish soldiers just to kill them all over again.

Jack seethed, and Tom, despite his earlier complaints, nodded in grim agreement. The United States? They couldn't care less. In fact, without the government, they were freer than ever. But without Mr. Van der Linde? Their happy lives would vanish faster than a saloon girl's smile, and their families would be left to gnaw on their own boots.

Just as the two were about to launch into another tirade of righteous indignation, a voice, rich and commanding, cut through the clamor like a finely honed blade. It was Mr. Van der Linde himself.

"Mac, Charles, Flying Eagle, Lenny, Sean, my children!" Dutch's voice boomed, imbued with an almost theatrical flair. "Take five hundred of our finest warriors and scour this island of Guarma! I want only our brand of beautiful, bloody chaos here. As for the… unwilling guests," he continued, a subtle wink in his voice, "any who wish to become honest, hardworking laborers can gather for future assignments. Those who crave the sweet taste of freedom can wait for our ships. Remember, boys, humane enforcement! We are the Van der Linde Gang, a band of brothers, honest, righteous, and as friendly as a rattlesnake at a picnic!"

Dutch, ever the showman, addressed his lieutenants. To stray from their original, noble path because of a little power? Unthinkable! He was Dutch Van der Linde, not some greedy capitalist. He had a vision, a future for his boys, for their walnut-sized brains that couldn't outwit those city slickers. He'd be their shield, their death-exemption token! Even if they were outsmarted, a continuous stream of loyal, capable men would rise to face every conspiracy, every danger. Dutch truly was like a father, fretting endlessly over his peculiar brood.

"Aye, Dutch! Ain't we always been?" Mac replied, oblivious to the deeper machinations at play, waving a dismissive hand.

"And Hosea, old friend, our arms base beckons! Your task: shepherd our workers. First, the bunkers and factories. Then, the machinery. Once our mine roars to life, our arms factory will churn out weapons faster than a gossip column spreads rumors! John, you're Hosea's shadow. Keep him safe. Take at least thirty gunmen with you. Those fancy-pants nobles in Saint Denis and that snake, Mr. Fusal, won't rest easy after this. And Mr. Cornwall? We've poked the bear! Prepare for a whirlwind of his wrath!"

Hosea, ever the pragmatist, nodded. His gaze drifted to Arthur. "Child, keep Dutch safe. Mr. Cornwall and the whole damn Saint Denis elite are about to unleash hell on us. Those capitalists, they love a good assassination. Dutch, he cannot fall!"

"Right, I got it!" Arthur replied, his face tightening like a freshly strung banjo. Dutch's stern words, Hosea's gravitas – it stirred an old, familiar unease. He couldn't shake the memory of Dutch, half-dead on that snowy mountain, just months ago. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. No, not again. Never again.

Seeing Arthur's worried scowl, Dutch let out a booming laugh that echoed through the ruined base. "Hahahaha, Arthur, don't wrinkle that brow, child! Our strength now is so mighty, the whole of New Hanover, even Lemoyne, can do nothing against us! Those Saint Denis nobles are teetering on the edge. Once our mine, in glorious partnership with the Morgan Family, starts spitting out riches, we'll march right in and claim Saint Denis as our own!"

"It's a grand thing to have a mighty oak to lean on. Our bond with the Morgan Family means we can thumb our noses at the United States Federal Government, especially out here in the wild, wild West!" Dutch's eyes narrowed, a sly, knowing grin twisting his lips. The federal government's grip on these western territories was weaker than a newborn's grasp. Coupled with the Morgan Family's ironclad reputation, he, Dutch Van der Linde, would simply walk in and claim what was theirs through… abnormal means. Just like he did with Rhodes! In essence, he was simply replacing one warlord administrator – Mr. Fusal – in some backwater, unremarkable corner of the world. For the federal government, it was all the same. So long as it still technically belonged to them, who cared who held the reins? This was, after all, a federal system, a nation so precariously balanced it could split apart over a whisper, let alone a shot in the dark.