We once ruled an island in Rust — 5 deep, living like savages with shotguns and salvaged dreams.
We called ourselves the Oklahomies... a tribe bound by blood, bullets, and broken TC's.

Our fearless (and slightly power-hungry) leader, Holo, ran the squad like a dictatorship —
He gave orders. We farmed. He took the loot. We questioned nothing.
Some say it was abuse... we called it tradition.

Wiped more times than we can count,
but the memories? Permanent.
Oklahomie 'til the server dies