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Max Payne: The Murders Continue

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I don't want to go there. It's the last place I'd want to end up. But that's where I always end up anyway. Only, it's not me talking to the pink Flamingo, but someone who looks the part down to the finest detail, except that he's evil. I'm hiding in the shadows, watching it all unfold. Before my very eyes.

The Flamingo speaks, it can speak here. It says:

"Mirs ah mo ten tan television."

That's "Mirrors are more fun than television." Somehow I know this, just don't ask me how.

And I, not me, but my double, nods and smirks at this like it was their funniest thing in the world.

And then something goes wrong. And suddenly they know I'm there, hiding behind them and they both turn to look at me with cold eyes. And the Flamingo speaks again:

"The Flesh of Fallen Angels."

I have no idea what that means.

And, that's when I always wake up to my own scream, in that bright-lillied white hospital room, strapped to my bed.

John Mirra's men had caught me. Their black van took me out of the city. The countryside was sickeningly pretty: The sun setting on a sweet summer day, rain sparkling on grass, birds in the trees, children playing. The Pink Bird Mental Institute. Mirra's men pretended to be hospital wardens.

The flesh. The flesh. I think I died. I think I'm dead. I don't know. I don't know. Death is coming. It's coming. They're here. They're here. Get away. Get away. I'm gonna hurt you. I'm gonna hurt you.

They said I was an escaped mental patient.

Diagnosis: Paranoid Schizophrenic. You are insane, psychotic. You have to eat plenty of pills to get better.

They lied that I had killed my girlfriend. John Mirra came to mock me in the bathroom mirror.

The flamingo was with him.

Mirrors are more fun than television

Mirra claimed my girlfriend had turned evil, joined him.

She has dyed her hair red.

I screamed.

I smashed the mirror. I'd kill them all.

I was trapped in a nightmare. My evil double had taken my girlfriend. Following him, I had somehow slipped into a twisted alternate reality, Noir York City. My double was John Mirra. He was the devil incarnate, a fallen angel.

The flesh of fallen angels.

He was a serial killer. He had framed me for his murders. I was hiding in a cheap motel. One night, I woke to a knock at the door. Someone slipped a note under the door. It was a clue. I descended into a mystery, desperate to catch him, to find my girlfriend, to save her. A labyrinth of my double's making, from one grisly murder scene to the next.

I was lost in the streets of Noir York. The city had swallowed Mirra and my girlfriend. I was part of some elaborate game, complex for it's own sake.

Ha! Ha! Ha! ha!

Every time I looked over my shoulder, I saw a shadow disappearing behind the corner, or the glint of binoculars in a window. They were spying on me, following my every move. When Mirra killed again, the map of the city changed.

A gunshot rang out and a Woman screamed.

Like a shifting glacier, a new crack appeared with every gunshot. I had abandoned all conventional methods of navigation. I was following the bloody signs he kept leaving me, and he was watching me do it.

The phone rang.

Wherever I went, the pay phones started to ring. Finally, I collected enough courage to answer one.

John? You must run. He is coming for you. They are closing in. John, I love you. Don't give up

I wasn't going to give up on her. I could hear her voice in my head wherever I went, guiding me. I traced my double to a classy uptown nightclub. 'Pink Flamingo'. It was happy hour, they were serving Flamingo cocktails. Somehow the Flamingo was tied to my double. A stripper in the bar looked just like my girlfriend. Mirra's men had found me. I ran.

Stop him! There he goes! Stop him! You can't escape! We're coming to take you away! You have nowhere to run!

Mirra was an influential figure in Noir York. His men chased me. They wore white uniforms. They looked so clean. They chased me in black vans with the logo of the Flamingo on them. I ran.

You have a tumor in your brain. It's making you mad. We're forced to operate...aggressively.

The fake doctors were trying to confuse me, saying I was John Mirra, pumping me full of drugs.

No, no, none of that! Give it back! He's loose! He has the drill! Restrain him! No! No! Ahh!

All right now! Easy... Easy, just hand it over, there's a good boy! Hey! Stay back! No! Aghh! [John: I was in charge, but still woozy from the drugs. I had to escape. I couldn't let them stop me.

Death is coming! It's coming! He's coming! Get away! Get away! Aghh! Other patient: The flesh! The flesh! Aghh!

The poet Pool, in his poem 'Somebody's been wearing my face again' wrote: 'In this hall of mirrors/Built by liars, I am a pale reflection of myself.'

I had escaped from the Pink Bird Mental Institute. I was lost in Noir York City. I couldn't find my way back home. John Mirra had made me a killer.

The Phone rang

I had become him, John Mirra, maybe I had always been him.

I picked up the phone

John Mirra?

Yes. This is he.

This is John Mirra. Welcome to the next level.

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