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.
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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.
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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!
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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-
What the fuck was that sou-
OH GOD IT'S COMING OUT OF THE-
TO BE CONTINUED...
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