Not for fishing. Not for “relaxation.” I need it to park in my driveway, fill with gasoline, and use as a mobile fortress for when the National Guard shows up at 6 PM. Also, I heard you can run over Gary Coleman with a boat. On land. That’s the kind of freedom this town doesn’t understand.

I need a boat.

If you see me towing a speedboat through the trailer park while wearing a gas mask and clown shoes, mind your own business. Or don’t. I’ve got ammo for both choices.

So yeah. I’m skipping the errands. The bank’s on fire anyway. I’m taking my shovel, my last stick of dynamite, and that one severed head that still winks at me, and I’m walking to the marina.

Look. I’ve been peeing on doorsteps, shoveling parking tickets into a corpse pile, and setting cats on fire for three days straight. My wife is screaming about milk again. The cultists are having a barbecue on my lawn. And the Rednecks just blew up my mailbox for the fifth time.

Here’s an interesting, in-character “post” for Postal 2 , channeling the game’s signature tone of mundane violence and absurd logic: Posted by: The Dude (Aisle 3, not on fire… yet)