Well, seeing as I haven't written much beyond Monster Mash or RP-related stuff this year, I thought it would be a nice treat for you guys to review a DVD double-pack that I recently purchased for around £12 whilst helping my mother with the shopping. Now, keep in mind that because I don't know shit about transfer quality or stuff like that when it comes to DVD's, I'll just be looking at the movies on their own rather than the technical aspects of the DVD release that most critics do.
With that out of the way, Clash of the Titans and Wrath of the Titans.
Greek Myths vs. The Mullet of Doom
Clash of the Titans is a 2010 remake of the classic 1981 fantasy film, based on the myth in which Perseus slew Medusa and saved a town from the sea monster Kraken. Wrath of the Titans is the 2012 sequel in which Perseus, now with the world's most ridiculous mullet, must free his father Zeus from the Underworld and stop the titan Kronos from gaining his revenge for being imprisoned millions of years ago. Both films star Sam Worthington in the lead role and also feature Liam Neeson as Zeus, Alexa Davalos as Andromeda and Ralph Fiennes as Hades, with Bubo the mechanical owl from the 1981 film making cameo appearances along the way.
Now both films aren't trying to be smart. This is a given, considering we're dealing with Greek mythology and angry swordsmen fighting hideous monsters. Neither Clash nor Wrath wants to inspire people, send a heartfelt message or adress a sensitive issue. They just want to be bombastic action flicks, full of swordfights and special effects, that you can kick back and watch with mates and let yourself be thrilled by. And to their credit, the films do provide that. They're both drama mixed with action mixed with a sprinkling of comedy, mostly at the expense of everyone who isn't Perseus or his immediate friends. They're fun flicks that don't try to make you think too hard about anything, and sometimes that's all we want.
That said, however, I wholeheartedly reccomend Clash over Wrath.
"I leave for five minutes and you trash the place! You're unbearable, Zeus!"
Due to the fact that it's sort of shackled to the original film plot-wise, Clash does try to make an effort to suck you into the world that it's trying to build. It has a nice, slow start where it sets up the scene and tells us that mortal man has finally gotten sick of dealing with their prick gods and have declared war on them. It takes time to develop Perseus as a character and show us scenes of him with his foster family, so we can understand what motivates him to save Andromeda. We feel worried when Calibos shows up, we feel tense and nervous as we sail the river Styx to find Medusa, we boo when Hades betrays Zeus and we cheer when Perseus finally defeats the Kraken and flies away into the sunset. It's coherant, epic without being overwhelming and you definitely feel for the character's struggles and motivations.
Wrath's problem is that it's trying too hard to be bigger than the previous film. If Clash is Pirates of the Carribean by way of 300, then Wrath is trying to ape Michael Bay's Transformers without grasping the subtleties. It's trying to be this huge, massive film where the stakes are high and the CGI fills the screen, but in order to do so it sacrifices a lot of what made the first film enjoyable and crams the spaces with more computer-generated beasties and mindless action. And as a result it ends up making several fatal mistakes that definitely cause it to drop in quality when compared to Clash, on top of a sudden drop in cinematography that causes the camera to shake like the cameraman is standing on a trampoline.
And these mistakes, briefly, are:
1. Retreading Old Ground
The first problem one encounters with Wrath is that, especially in the first half, it feels incredibly similar to Clash. Perseus may be going to different locations and trying to defeat different monsters, but there's almost a bit of a formula going on - The Djin from Clash are replaced with Cyclopes, Hephaestus (played by Bill Nighy, of all folks) stands in for the Stygian Witches, Ares replaces Calibos, the nameless hunters are swapped out for Agenor, son of Poseidon (think Jack Sparrow minus the charisma and likeability) and Kronos takes the Kraken's place as the Giant Monster Antagonist of the film. Even whole sequences get interchanged - the Djin leading the heroes across the desert to the Witches turns into the Cyclopes showing the way to Hephaestus's temple, an underground maze replaces the Styx and the Fury attack at the start of the first film is replaced with an angry Chimera.
"Alright, own up - who superglued this wig to my head?"
For a sequel that aims to be bigger than the first film, this is kind of sad. It's as if the film doesn't trust itself with trying anything new and is just going through what it's comfortable with because that's all it knows. Things do get interesting later, when Ares finally snaps and takes on Perseus one-on-one, but for the most part there's a heavy air of "been there, done that" about the film that seems almost cynical.
2. Lack of Pacing
As mentioned before, Clash has a slow start in order to ensure that the audience is drawn in, and then mixes up the action with moments of tense anticipation or wonder in order to keep us interested. Wrath throws any notion of pacing out of the window - first five minutes in and a Chimera is breathing fire everywhere. From then on we get sweeping vistas with Pegaus flying about, a bombastic struggle with the Cyclopes, panic as the shifting Labyrinth nearly crushes our heroes, a fist-fight with a Minotaur and then it all spirals into a chaotic mess of betrayals, confrontations, reconciliations and an over-the-top battle against Kronos before the film finally calms down.
The film seems afraid that if it stops being huge and full of action and digital beasts, it's going to lose the audience's attention. And that's not a good thing - without calm moments to juxtapose against the tension or epicness, then we've got no point of comparison and anything afterwards is either dull by comparison or just disorienting. In it's haste to try and eleveate itself in scale compared to it's predecessor, Wrath cuts out all the more focused drama from Clash and crams more juvenile explosions into the gaps, and the result is the cinemaic equivalent of jangling your car keys in front of a cat's face for two and a half hours.
3. No Subtlety
Speaking of subtlety, a sequence that stuck out in my mind was when the Chimera was attacking Perseus' village. In one instance, the creature clearly demonstrates that it creates fire by breathing out a flammable spray from it's left head, then igniting the vapor with sparks from the right head. As I watched this, an off-screen villager felt the need to shout out "Look out, it's venom catches fire!" I had to laugh at that moment, not only at how corny the line was, but at the fact that the film needed to include it as a means to explain what we could clearly see with our own eyes.
Why it didn't eat the annoying kid, however, was never explained.
Wrath as a whole suffers from a dire need to simply "Show, Don't Tell", as the rule goes. Things are outright stated that would help the movie infinitely more if they were simply implied or hinted at, as if the film doesn't trust us to simply use our heads and make our own deductions. To take that Chimera scene, for example: what does that screaming villager really add? Nothing in the way of drama or tension, so what was that line even for? Why did the film feel it needed to explain what the Chimera was doing when we could clearly see it? Would it not be better if we could simply, you know, assume with our brains that it has flammable venom, without being told so? Give your audience some credit, Wrath - you know not everyone in the theatre's a total moron!
4. No Feel For The Stakes
This is probably my biggest gripe with the movie, and the point I'm probably going to write the most paragraphs about. As part of it's ongoing quest to overshadow Clash in scale and bombastic-ness, Wrath tells us that the stakes are higher than ever, and all of the universe is in danger if Hades and his wicked plan is not stopped. Unfortunately, as an unfortunate side-effect of the previous problem, the film doesn't take the neccesary steps to show us that the stakes are, indeed, raised. And even if it did, it would be kind of meaningless to us as viewers.
Firstly, Kronos is stated to have the power to tear apart the entire universe - pretty ambitious, for a man made of lava. But when he finally does emerge from his volcanic prison, all he really does is stumble forward, groaning in an unidentifiable movie language and smashing apart a few villages with his massive hands. For the most part, it's his Makhai soldiers that do most of the killing or get involved with the heroes. Yes, we see Hades and Zeus try to fight him, but he brushes them aside regardless of whatever power these gods seem to have. We never see Kronos show any power other than spitting lava everywhere, so I hardly see how it makes him any more powerful or dangerous than the Kraken from Clash was stated to be.
"OH GOD I KNEW I SHOULDN'T HAVE HAD ALL THAT CURRY"
Secondly, the scene where Zeus is chained up so Kronos can drain his life force is also a little confusing. Does this process hurt Zeus in any way? It turns him older, yes, but doesn't it cause him any pain? He's having his own life drained away here - the least he could do is maybe howl in pain or struggle to break his chains. But the old god just stays calm and takes it rather well, considering the process could very well kill him or worse. Seeing this, one gets the feeling that this horrible disaster isn't really so horrible or diastrous, and if Perseus fucks up we could always just send another guy in tomorrow or something.
"Sorry I'm late, dad, had to pick up some fish and chips for dinner."
On top of that, the film has raised the stakes a little too high for the audiencr to swallow. From an entire town and the life of a beautiful princess we've jumped straight into the entire universe being at risk, with no middle ground in between. It's too big and overwhelming - the audience can't comprehend the scale of the danger, and thus they can't empathise with the heroes' efforts. Either the stakes are so high that they are meaningless to the audience, or the danger that is stated to be present doesn't seem as... dangerous as claimed. Either way, the whole thing falls flat because the film is either trying too hard or not hard enough.
In summary, while both films are good-hearted, action-y romps that ensure many a spectacle, Wrath feels like a bloated slog that doesn't trust itself to take any risks or the audience to go along with the story. When it's not treading the same ground as the first film, it's stuffing itself with overblown sword fights and CGI images to try and distract us from the shaky writing, annoying characters and cliche'd drama. By being smaller in scale due to it's ties to the original film, Clash actually manages to be the better story - it focuses on being just a part of a huge, epic world where Gods and Men hate each other, rather than trying to set loose another ancient abomination to destroy the world. If you ever have the chance to pick up one of these films, I reccomend the first, every time. It's not particularly deep or congruous, but you're guaranteed to be entertained all the way through.
Um... Hello. This is still The Monster Mash 199X, and I'm still Connor Hardy.
Only...
We've had to make a bit of a reschedule. See, we were originally gonna stage THE SHOWDOWN IN THE SERENGETTI between Jeuri the Dinocroc from Africa and Zancudo the Mansquito from Spain. Unfortunately, outside circumstances have forced us to shuffle our timetable around a bit. If you're wondering why I'm reporting to you from a hospital bed with a tube up my nose, well... you'll find out in a moment.
So GaiaCorp realized that just watching giant animals whaling on each other isn't very exciting. The public wants to see something more exciting than just oversized versions of everyday creatures! We have "Monster" in our title, so why don't we have some actual monsters?! Well, turns out we do - the contenders up for this week's fight are based around mythical or legendary animals that haunt the real world today, with science still unable to come up with plausible answers for them! Brace yourself, sports fans, for the face-off between mythical monstrosities we call THE CONFLICT IN COSTA RICA! IN THE BLUE CORNER...
So Mexico is now a feudal monarchy. Don't ask us how it happened - GaiaCorp deals in mad, unethical sience, not underhanded politics and crippling losses of money. But that's how it is, and now the New Kingdom of Mexico consists mostly of peasants kowtowing to a royal figure with too many privalges and too much money. And every royal figure eventually starts looking for ways to make themselves look more outlandish and wacko compared to anyone else. Like an exotic pet, for example. And what pet could be more exotic than Perez the CHUPACABRA?
To the people of Mexico, the Chupacabra is the monstrous
bloodsucker that preys on livestock and haunts your nightmares. To GaiaCorp,
the Chupacabra is our birthday gift to Eleanor Juarez, Princess of Mexico –
mostly because her father paid a shitload of money for it, and mostly because
she needed something other than another strapping young male concubine to keep
her occupied. Several hours of mixing the DNA of vampire bats, lizards and
kangaroos in a vat later, and this was the result. A hopping, high-speed ball
of scales, teeth, claws and anger that doesn’t stop until it’s drained
everything it can catch of blood. And maybe not even then.
The Chupacabra is a vicious, hyperactive little bugger
that moves quickly and fights relentlessly. Capable of leaping up to 20 feet in
a single bound, with claws over 4.7 inches long, this rowdy reptile specialises
in fast, unpredictable strikes from multiple angles that make it difficult to
form a counterattack. It’s light frame makes it speedy, but unfortunately that
comes with a frail, hollow skeleton that the scientists have yet to breed out
of their current stock. Moreover, every time this thing fights, it goes into a
wild frenzy, and landing a killing blow when your nostrils are full of the
smell of blood is a tricky thing. Let’s hope Perez can pull that off.
IN THE RED CORNER...
December 15, 1967. The Silver Bridge that linked Point Pleasant, West Virginia and Gallipolis, Ohio suddenly collapsed, resulting in the tragic deaths of 46 people. Investigators blamed a faulty eyebar in a poorly-maintained suspension chain for the accident. Others, however, claim that a more sinister agency lurks behind the incident, a conspiracy revolving around a specific, mysterious figure. A terrifying, red-eyed, leathery-winged figure that haunted the Point Pleasant area from 15th of November last year. The media was quick to dismiss sightings of the creature as a fantasy.
It's not. It's not a fucking fantasy, it's real and it attacked me. It was in the helicopter we were in during last week's match, and it just straight-up hijacked the thing and crashed it into the ocean. I know I sound crazy right now, but answer me this - where are the pilots? Why were their bodies never found, hm? It took them, that's why! It took them away and I can still hear them screaming and what it was saying to them and-
Okay, keep calm, Connor. Keep it professional...
It goes by many names, this thing. It's "masters" call it Coșmar. It prefers Indrid Cold.
But let's call it what it is - THE MOTHMAN.
Okay, let's get this out of the way - this isn't a publicity stunt. Mothman isn’t ours. Not
one of our scientists or splicers or mixing vats is responsible for this… nightmare. We only know the
Transylvanians made it because this is the sort of thing they get raging
vampire boners over. It just turned up outside our offices and it hasn’t gone
away since. It keeps turning up in dark corners, watching us with those awful red
eyes and that gaping mouth, and you feel sick to your stomach every time it
looks at you. We’ve tried everything to get rid of it – bug spray, machine
guns, even fucking ATR’s were fired at that thing. And the dust cleared and it
just sat there. Grinning at us.
It’s intelligent, we know it is, and it knows we know. Bright
lights are the only thing that keeps it away, but it’s getting bolder, because
it knows we can’t do anything else to hurt it. It flies, of course – those
wings aren’t just for show – about Mach 2, we reckon, although Johnny swore he
saw it fly faster. And one time, I was brushing my teeth and then it came out of the fucking mirror, oh god,can’t get those eyes away, those staring
eyes, someone kill it, please-
THE ARENA
Okay, I'm back, I'm calm...
So Costa Rica isn't really anything to write home about. It got turned into a nature reserve a while back after someone discovered some rare flowers in it, then also became neutral ground when things got tense with the Amazon Territories, and now it's just sort of... there. True, it's full of lakes and pools and it's got lots of nice wildlife, and it's got an electric fence and steel-forged radar dishes and a titanium bunker for the park rangers. But it's kind of boring and nondescript, in GaiaCorp terms. Which is why we decided to let our competitors duke it out here, where there's no environmental advantage to either one of them. As far as we know.
So, sports fans, which will it be? Perez, the Royal Reptile with a thirst for blood? Or that red-eyed... thing from the darkest corners of Romania? Place your bets folks, while the booths are still open and the attendees not thinking about their next coffee break! And warn someone, warn everyone that it's back, and it's going to OH GOD LOOK BEHIND YOU-
VOTE NOW!
UPDATE: After several complaints/shrieking temper tantrums from Her Royal Highness, we've been forced to take drastic measures. In order to preserve a semblance of balance within our tournament seedings, we've gone ahead and released several of our current stock of Chupacabras to join Perez in his battle against the Mothman. There's now at least twelve of the things leaping about and making a right mess of the place, but hopefully their combined strength will be equal to or greater than Coșmar's, with a significant numbers advantage in their favour.
Welcome back, sports fans around the globe! We at GaiaCorp would like to apologize for the spider-related hiatus, but we won't, because it's Russia's fault, not ours.
Seriously, FUCK SPIDERS.
But anyway, now we are glad to announce that The Monster Mash 199X is back with a ferocious vengance! Tonight's match sees my reporting helicopter lined with lead and me in a protective hazmat suit as we hover over the ruins of France, the once-proud nation now locked in the grip of an eternal nuclear winter! This is the night where we answer the question of who would win in a fight between a psychopathic alligator and a swarm of pack-hunting spiders, in a tussle to the death we call...
Connor Hardy, reporting live as it happens...
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Ol' Fangs the Gatoroid prises open one gummy eye and tries to work out where he is.
It's not a landscape he likes the look of. Gone is the comforting water and reeds of his old bayou home, the humming of insects in the air and the hot sun beating down on his back. The greens and blues have been replaced with a uniform iron grey, from the skeletal bushes in front of his muzzle to the cloud-covered sky above him. A fine layer of snow covers the ground like a blanket, and even more of it rushes down from the 'bove in torrents, clouding over the ruined houses in front of him. The howling of the wind in his ear canals is the exact opposite of what is comfortable for the colossal crocodillian's mind, and there isn't a glimmer of sunlight piercing through the steely clouds to give him any comfort.
On top of that, it's cold.
He hates the cold.
With a groan, the giagantic 'gator pushes himself to his feet, snow sliding off of his back in a minature avalanche, and gets moving. What remains of his soup-like wits is nervous and suspicious of his surroundings - the white sand feels wrong under his feet, and crunches horribly with every step. The cold makes his movements sluggish as his metabolism slows, making him lethargic on top of his bewilderment. And for reasons he does not understand, mostly because he hasn't heard of tranquilizers, a horrible burning thirst lurks at the back of his throat like a prickly hedgehog has taken up residence in his esophagus and insists on taking the bed by the tonsils.
He needs water, and fast.
Mind swimming, joints aching, Gatoroid plods slowly into the war-torn ruins of Saint-Tropez.
--------
They knew it was there long before they saw it coming.
How could they not know? It was literally announcing it's presence to them as it moved, every footfall a rumbling shout through the earth. And hearing not by sound but by touch, they felt every one of those shouts, and felt them grow louder as it approached, unsteady and weak in an environment it was not used to. The knowledge spread among them like a fire in a drought-parched savannah, and the news filtered through each of them, level by level and caste by caste, until eventually a solid command broke through the hubbub and down to even the lowest of the low.
Prepare.
And they prepared, oh how they prepared for the hunt that was to come. Webs were spun, in dark corners and abandoned lanes where anyone could blunder in without looking. Traps and ambushes were laid in narrow bottlenecks and dead-ends where nothing could possibly escape. Some of them lurked on snow-covered roofs, peering down from their perches with beady eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of their prey and report back to the rest. Others hid in alleyways, their low-slung bodies incospicuous against the shadows of their surroundings.
The ambush was laid.
Now all they had to do was wait.
-------
Ol' Fangs doesn't take long to find water.
Where the town square used to be is pretty much a crater, absent of buildings or trees. That's what happens when nuclear missiles hit things - they tend to stop existing very quickly. The place is the same drab, snow-covered terrain as it has been so far, except the melting tarmac has congealed in rockly lumps that, under the snow, give at least some variety. But the roided-up reptile doesn't care for the scenery, for he has his rolling yellow eyes on the shwllow pond in the middle of the crater, formed by melting snow and the occasional rain shower. The average human would know at once that no water in this landscape is safe to drink - that pool is a death trap.
Gatoroid doesn't know this. Nor does he care. He's thirsty now, damn it.
With slow, deliberate movements, the Australian contender slips over the lip of the crater and ambles towards the pool. The slope is not steep by any measure, but Ol' Fangs is taking no chances here - nothing about this place is in any way reassuring to him. It's not just the fact that it's not his usual element, which is bad enough, but there's a distinct feel of wrongness to the place, like something terrible happened here that his addled brains can only dimly imagine. The ground and air seem to hum with a horrible presence, like the smell of rotting meat. By no means is Saxton Hale's Personal Tag Team Partner smart, but he knows that he probably shouldn't stay here for long.
Right after this drink, of course. The massive beast reaches the pool and, with a satisfied growl, slides his scaly chin into the water.
He barely takes a few gulps when he sees the spider.
It's big, really big, and it's built like a tarantula on steroids. And it's just crested the lip of the crater and is approaching Gatoroid at an incredible speed, thick legs and dust flying everywhere as it scuttles across the dusty slope. Horrible black eyes stare unblinkingly at it's target as it reaches the opposite side of the pool towards the surprised reptile, stopping just short of the water's edge. Then it raises it's front legs - and at least half of it's body - into the air in a threatening pose, brandishing it's fang-tipped pedipalps and emitting a series of agressive hisses and clicks. The sounds rattle through the still, cold air like knives in a cutlery drawer.
This threat display severely unnerves poor Gatoroid, who had no idea that something like this would be lurking around here. As it is, the sudden appearance and seemingly unwarranted aggresiveness from the arachnid has set of alarm bells in the collosal crocodillian's brain, the ones that tel him when he's commited a social faux-pas. Has he intruded on the spider's drinking patch by accident? A little embarrased, Ol' Fangs lifts his head away from the water and turns to go.
And that's when he sees them.
Another spider appears over the lip of the crater, on his general left, and scuttles down. Then another appears, moving in from the right. And two more. It isn't long before a small pack of the oversized arachnids is surging down the slope towards the reptile in a mass of legs and abdomens, kicking up duts with every step. Each and every one of them is a Bruiser - the muscular attack troops of the hive mind known as Okhotniki, and just a fraction of the numbers of that dreadful hive. As they charge across the crater and around the pool, they emit a rapid-fire series of clicks and chirps, communicating and directing their fellows to surround their prey.
This is enough for Ol' Fangs. With a panicked bellow, the alligator turns and lumbers back the way he came, up the slope of the crater and away from the water, thirst completely forgotten. He has no idea where the spiders came from, or how they're surviving in this cold wasteland, but there is no way he is going to stick around when at least a dozen or so of the things is trying to swarm him and eat him for lunch. Somehow, he manages to outrun the horrible hunters, pulling himself over the lip of the crater and heading towards the outskirts of town.
And straight into a trap.
The Bruisers never intended to catch him - all they had to do was chase him out of the crater and into the open. Now, a screeching noise from the leader causes even more spiders to dash out from the shadows - this time the low-slung, crab-like Runners that are to Okhotniki what the average drone is to an ant colony. Chittering with excitement, these new Ice Spiders catch up to the giagantic 'gator before he can blink and set about harassing him, nipping at his heels and sides with their claw-like mandibles. It's like watching small dogs setting about the legs of a giant green cow, except more horrifying.
The bites can't pierce Ol' Fangs' scales, but being swarmed like this is trouble enough. The terrified reptile snarls and tries to defend himself, massive colum-feet stomping around him and tail swishing madly as he runs. But the Runners are too quick, their long legs giving them the advantage of speed that, in this cold environment, the Gatoroid just doesn't have. Every stomp meets snow or tarmac, and every tail sweep is dodged with shocking nimbleness, the spiders clucking in an almost mocking tone at his efforts. Mind clouded by panic, the collosal crocodillian turns and heads down a different alleyway, putting on a spurt to try and escape his tormentors.
And blunders straight into a web.
It's a big web. One can't help but wonder at how long it must have taken to weave it - it stretches across the alleyway like a massive fishing net dragged between two ships. The Australian entry finds himself entangled in ropes as thick as telephone cables, strehcing around him like a sock and tangling his limbs together like a bolas. He roars and stumbles about, bashing into buildings and shaking about in attempt to shake the horrid thing off of him, but all it does is make a lot of noise and cause a lot of property destruction, houses folding up like cards as the panicking predator stumbles against them. The shrivelled and bound corpes of the unfortunate Camel Spiders, left over from the preliminaries, become unstuck from his form and tumble away and out of sight.
And then out come the Hunters.
Slender and silent, they emerge from the alleyways like wraiths to join the horde already rushing the hapless alligator down. One by one they crouch down low, curve their abdomens up and fire streams of sticky webbing up and over the tangled reptile, filling the air with shining ropes like party streamers. The strings harden in the air as they alight on the scaled body and the surrounding buildings, forming shackles of silk that refuse to snap as the terrified beast pulls desperately and erattically on them, trying to escape. It isn't long before Gatoroid is pinned to the floor, lying partly on his side, coated in ghostly white webbing like macabre cotton and unable to move.
Okhotniki closes in.
For the first few minutes, the spiders get no result. Ol' Fangs is trapped, but none of his captors seem to be able to get any damage through his thick skin and plate-like scales. Even the mighty fangs of the Bruisers just don't seem to cut through the alligator's armour plating, and it isn't long before squeals of frustration ring through the pack as they repeatedly fail to make a dent of any kind. Even the Hunters join in, but their needle fangs produce no results either, sliding past scutes but unable to piece skin. Gatoroid whines and struggles, detesting the feel of bites poking him and thin legs cruawling all over his back, struggling to draw breath through nostrills clogged with silk. On top of that, his stomach is starting to feel a bit hot...
And then a single Runner manages to get a bite in - at the throat just underneath the jaw, where the skin is softer. Blood flows, and the captive reptile jerks his head upwards with a muffled roar of pain. But that's a bad move - the rest of his throat and his chest are now exposed, and the spiders have been tipped off to his weakness. Like a multi-legged tide the spiders move downward to the unprotected underbelly, biting and biting and biting. From every puncture wound left by their fangs comes streams of blood, and the hungry spiders chitter in glee as they sup from these warm fountains, feasting before their prey is even dead.
For the first time in his life, Gatoroid knows pain.
And the shock of it causes something in his tiny mind to go snap.
The bellow that tears itself from Ol' Fangs' lungs shakes the earth itself as, with sudden strength, the raging reptile heaves itself sideways and pulls. The twanging of snapping strings fills the air, and the Ice Spiders shriek in surprise as their captive suddenly begins to roll over, ripping himself free of his silken prison as he moves. The massive armoured bulk bears down on the houses, crushing them to powder beneath the scutes, and those spiders slow on the uptake are caught between the 'gator's back and the concrete, with resounding cracks as they are crushed underneath the massive weight. The rest of them quickly leap off the moving bulk, chittering in panic and confusion as they behold their carefully-laid trap falling apart.
Hauling himself to his feet, Gatoroid turns towards his former torturers and bellows again. He's covered in crushed spiders and torn silk and his belly and neck drip with blood, but his mind is so full of thundering, apocalyptic anger that he can't register it. His brain is surging with the cocktails of anabolic steroids bred into his blood over generations, and ever nerve and muscle is on fire with the same sort of buzzing energy one gets from an energy drink binge. Ol' Fangs is finally sick of the Russian contedner's shit, and he's going to pay them back tenfold for what they've done to him.
He charges, sending rubble everywhere.
For the next few moments, all is chaos. Okhotniki's ambush has gone wrong - the Ice Spiders weren't even aware their prey would be willing to put up any sort of fight at all. Bewildered and dismayed, the awful arachnids try to salvage what they can of the situation by launching a full-on assault on Ol' Fangs. Hunters cast their silken strings to try and shackle him once more. Brusiers leap up towards his muzzle, trying to stab their fangs into his eyes. Runners dart under his body and between his legs, seeking to trip him up with repeated bites to the insides of his shins. Most over animals would have succumbed to this continued onslaught in seconds.
But the Australian entrant is having none of it. For every spider that leaps up at his face, he catches it in midair and crunches it between his teeth. For every string that lands on his body, he yanks it to pieces with his weight. And for every bite to his ankles, he returns it with a stomp or tail smash that cracks carapace and mangles innards. The river of drug-addled rage boiling within the reptile's mind is overflowing it's banks, and so much ancestral fight and spite is coursing through him it glints off of his teeth and sizzles in his mad, rolling eyes as he bites and stamps and swats. More spiders pour in, spiders have been recorded to stop tanks, elephants and charging rhinos. But for a few minutes, Ol' Fangs the Gatoroid could have brought down an entire country.
One by one, the numbers of the foul creatures dwindle as they meet their ends by foot and tail and jaw, their hutning tactics gone to pieces. Their fangs fail to find weak spots, their strings no longer hold him down and their usually well-co-ordinated movements are becoming frantic and desperate. The Ice Spiders, for once in their lives, are fighting a losing battle, and panic is seeping into whatever they have for brains as their morale begins to break down and their situation looks increasingly hopeless. There doesn't seem to be a way they can stop the Gatoroid.
And in the midst of it all, one spider makes a fatal mistake. This specemin, a bone-white thing proportioned like a black widow, has been lurking amongst the rest of Okhotniki for the duration of this fight, chittering and giving orders to the Brusiers and Runners as they battle the scaled titan in front of them. For she is the queen of the Ice Spiders, the one who commanded her brood to prepare the ambush against the belligerant brute as it stumbled towards their territory, and directed their assault. But now her soldiers are failing, many of them breaking ranks to scuttle away into dark corners and deserting their comrades, and this is not a thing that she will tolerate. She is not prepared to lose.
Thinking to inspire her children, she give a chittering war cry and scuttles forward, seeking to piece the monster's jugular and end it all.
FUCK YOUR SHIT
And that's enough for the rest of Okhotniki. Upon seeing their queen's demise, the whole pack simply turns and scuttles away, no longer willing to fight this thing anymore. They have bitten off more than they can chew, and are not prepared to risk the demise of the whole pack any longer. Like a nightmarish tide of legs, chittering and wailing their dismay, the Ice Spiders melt into the dark tunnels and cracks and corners of Saint-Tropez, hiding away to nurse their pride and wounds and build up their strength. This is a crippling loss, and it may take days for the colony to recover from the devastation.
It is a further five minutes before Ol' Fangs collapses from exhaustion, blood loss, the cold and raidation sickness.
WINNER: GATOROID!
-------
Well, sports fans, there you have it! Undeniable proof that GaiaCorp has what it takes to put on a show and not get loads of people killed! Now go collect your winnings from the official Monster Mash Betting Booths, purchase Mann Co. licensed merchandise at 50% off and revel in a safer, spider-less future for all to come! On top of that, TAKE THAT, RUSSIA! Thought you could rig our battles in your favour, huh? HAH!
Well, that's all for now, folks! But join in next time, where we stage a SHOWDOWN IN THE-
Ever wondered if there was a better word for "excellent"? Or how to come up with creative insults and exclamations? Or why an entire page in a book would be completely censored out?
Well, WONDER NO MORE, MOTHERFUCKERS!
That's right, folks! From the author of Ironsights: A Mechspositionary Tale comes the complete guide to keeping track of the hundreds of quotables and worditudes that rebellious rascal Dirk Angelos drops on a daily baisis! Begrudingly published by the original Paragon of the Publishers, Count Horatio Longardeaux VI, the Unabridged Dirktionary contains everything you need to know on how to think, act and, most inportantly, talk like everyone's favourite dark angel! Within these pages, you'll find:
A Complete, Unadultered Collection of Dirk's favourite words and sayings - even the stuff he makes up!
Full-Colour Diagrams for an enhanced reading experience, drawn by the finest Corinthian artists!
A Guide to Prefixing and Suffixing: Ever wanted to combine camels and bakery in one swift, cutting jibe? Now you can!
A Full Collection of Verbal Utterances: For when words aren't good enough to express your indifference or utter loathing!
Hairstyle Tips for the aspiring Dirk fan! With such ground-breaking styles as "Cocaine Hangover Monday!"
The Ultimate Guide to Polite Coversahahahahaha no!
Hear what readers, critics and pursuers of witty reparte alike have been saying about the Unabridged Dirktionary!
"A laugh riot!"
-Zoofights Chronicle
"A literary breakfast ceral of some kind!"
-Librarian's Ponderings
"What the hell am I even reading?!"
-The Hub Guild of Writers and Readers
"Dear God, my eyes!"
-Some schmuck we pulled off the street
But don't just take their words for it! What does that esteemed Guardian of Grammar Count Longardeaux say about his latest publishing masterpiece?
"Mein Dieu, ze complete disregard for basic syntax! Ze anarchic shunning of prose! Ze rampant butchering of sentence structure and logical grammar! And as for ze illustrations...! You vould not believe ze number of editors I 'ave lost to zis abomination! Vat vos I thinking, agreeing to vork with zat little bas-"
Hoo! You dang right!
Count Longardeaux's
UNABRIDGED DIRKTIONARY
Available from all good(?) bookstores!
-------
"...You cannot be serious, Dirk."
"I am so serious, bro, that if this was a TV show you'd have to set it to Hans Zimmer music."
"What coked-up dream even inspired you to make that thing?!"
"Nah, it was crystal meth this time. Now hush, I feel another Mechspositionary Tale coming on!"
