Hotline Miami User Reviews
It’s 1989, Miami, Florida. You’re at your bachelor pad when the phone rings, seems it’s gone to voice mail. Past neon colored carpets, a sleeping hooker, and flies hovering over left open pizza boxes, it’s almost like you can smell the cigarette smoke emanating from the game world as you walk over to the answering machine. The message says some nonsense about you having to pick up laundry, so naturally that means hopping in your 82 Delorean out front, driving to some hideout, and putting on a freaky animal mask before killing everyone inside with baseball bats, shotguns, and katanas. Maybe ...