Hello again, sports fans, and thank you for your patience! I'm Connor Hardy, and my long recuperation in hospital has done me a world of good! Thanks to my physiotherapist, I don't freak out at the sight of bats or butterflies anymore, and red reflector lights aren't scary to me! Also, thanks a ton for the get well soon cards and presents - everyone at Monster Mash Public Relations was amazed by the response, and we'll put all that stuff in the vault to commemorate your support for The Monster Mash 199X!
Tonight's episode is the battle you all have been waiting for, folks! At this very moment, a team of cargo trucks is headed for the pristine, untouched wildlife reserve that is Costa Rica, which will soon be transformed into a deadly battlefield! Their cargo - a pack of rutheless, bloodsucking monstrosities kept as pets by the Spanish Royal Family, clamouring to sink their fangs into their prey! And a red-eyed, leathery-winged denzin of darksest Romania awaits them, lurking in the shadows of the park, ready to swoop down and deliver vengeance upon their souls! That's right - it's time for...
And, of course, I'll be reporting on it live as it happens! Stay tuned...
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It's almost midnight at the sprawling, country-sized national park that is Costa Rica. The air is sticky and warm, even at this time, and the moon casts a silvery glow onto everything below it. The grass and flowers glitter with it, the trees are coated in silver, and a far-off lake shimmers with prickles of light. It even glints off the grey steel of the electric fence and double-door loading gates that squat on the border of the park, a metal circle around a pristine canvas of colours.
And then the trucks arrive.
There are around three of them in total, huge black things that cruise across the dirt road towards the gates of the park in single file. Each one bears the familiar logo of GaiaCorp - the globe intersected by two DNA helixes - as they approach the gates, once used by the Spanish government to ferry sick animals from the park to nearby vetinary surgeons without causing danger to the rest of the park. Only these drivers are on a different mission entirely - for as they guide their vehicles down the narrow path, the growl of their high-powered engines fight to be heard above the cacophony of shrieking and snarling from within their trailers.
The moonlight glints off their iron hides as, one by one, they sidle up to their destinations like massive elephants lining up at a drinking hole. Then, with careful precision, their drivers back them towards the gates, and in response the three-inch-thick steel doors prise open with a hiss of hydraulics and a creak of disused, neglected hinges. Bit by bit, the trucks are inched through the gates until their trailers are at least half-in and half-out of the park, their wheels perilously close to crushing a bed of rare flowers. For a brief moment, except for the rumbling of the engines, there is silence.
And then the trailers swing open.
From within their black depths pour a pack of scaled monstrosities. Fanged, clawed and deformed, the horde of bipedal beasts dubbed the Chupacabras by their royal sponsors tumble from their confined prisons, four from each trailer, rolling and biting at each other in a blood-fuelled frenzy. Starved of their usual meat rations for a day before by the GaiaCorp scientists, they are in the perfect condition to take on their opponent - hungry, mad and just about ready to eat anything that gets in their way. And that, were it not for current circumstances, would include each other.
But a bark from one of their group brings them to a halt.
Perez, the de facto pack leader by virtue of being the biggest and toughest Chupacabra the labs have bred, stands tall in the moonlight as his nostrils quiver. He's picked up a scent, and not a pleasant one at that. It's the scent of disaster incarnate - of burnt wood, of spilled blood, of rusty metal and decay. But it's the scent that his handlers have trained him to detect - to perceive as an enemy, to stalk and to corner and to kill. And as Perez learned to hate that scent, he taught his packmates to hate it, with the same loathing and drive to destroy that he earned from the handling. And now it's here, and as the rest of the pack distangles itself, the scent reaches their nostrils too, and sets off all the triggers to hunt and kill in their minds.
Perez draws himself to his full height and screams, eyes glowing red and spines clattering together as he issues a challenge to his invisible foe. The call is taken up by the rest of the pack, and for an entire minute or so the park rings with the high-pitched battle cries of the horrid hybrids, sending birds flapping into the air and animals scurrying for cover in terror. Then silence falls once more as, as one, the pack splits up and disperses into the foliage. Some go in twos, some in threes - the instincts to stick together are strong in these vat-grown vermin, but they never seem to form a proper, cohesive group of any sort. The royal reptile even allows one scrawny specimen, the runt of the litter, to hop alongside him, stumbling and spitting as it tries to keep up.
One by one, each splinter pack dissapears into the shadows of the park, leaving only the shadows.
"S̊̓oͫ ͏B̡ͣ̔e̴ͫ̋͒̂͑̒ͨ ̏̿Ī͝ṫ̨.ͫ͂̓̓̔ͧ ͊̓͌͒̇Cͥͣͥo͂͛̿M̒ͮͦ͂̎e̓̾̾̍͊͝
̆̔̊́̽̀Á̄̏̊͡nͪ̓̃͜D̂̊͡ ̋͌ͦͮ͑ͫm̈Ė̽ͬeͮ̊T̆̑ͣͭ̽ ̷̎̈́̐̍̓̍̒ẙͦ̇ͨ̂̅͆͘Ȏ̃̔uͤͦ̅ͪ̿Ř̌͊̈́ͥ
̾̏ͦ̀̍d̐͊́̆E̊a͂͂T͡hͭ̎̉͂͘.̢ͨ.ͩ̇͑̒ͩ̂́.̈́̎͒̓̚̚"
And with that, the eyes melt away...
-------
The lake was undisturbed until a pair of the pack came along.
They may be made from the same DNA that Perez was, but these previous iterations of the Chupacabra are nowhere near as refined. They lack the same heightened senses as their leader, and don't have the same dogged hunting instinct or smarts, despite being almost equally as vicious. So it wasn't long before these two brothers not only lost the foul, choking scent of their target and became distracted by the smell of fresh water and blood that pointed to a nearby lake, reminding them of their gnawing hunger and thirst. So as animals will, they made a beeline for it, pushing their way through the foliage until they came across the sprawling lake, where a number of nocturnal animals had gathered for a drink and to socialize.
The result is a domino effect of chaos. The jaguar that had been stalking a tapir a few minutes prior is startled out of her wits as the two repulsive reptiles launch themselves from the bushes. The noble stag, watching his herd at the water's edge, had no idea of his impending doom until the sharp fangs had already punctured his neck. After that, the other animals had no desire to stick around - in a thunder of hooves and paws, the lakeside emptied itself faster than Usain Bolt's best sprints, leaving only the unfortunate deer to his demise at the hands of his unnatural killers.
Almost immediately after this, the largest of them growls threateningly to his sibling, claiming the carcass for himself as a lion muscles in on the kill of his pride. Much snarling and rattling of spines ensues, but the younger brother is not willing to argue with something that could snap his neck just as easily as they dispatched the stag, and thus he back off, subdued. As the older creature begins to rip flesh from bone, wolfing down every mouthful without even chewing, his sibling hops down to the lakeside for a drink
The lake is one of many that dot this park, fuelled by the streams that trickle down from the mountains far away. The Chupacabra shows no caution whatsoever as he bends over for a draught - either he does not know about the crocodiles that inhabit this lake, or he doesn't care at all. The water is crystal clear and fresh, and relatively undisturbed as the beast laps up his fill, grunting in satisfaction as his burning thirst is quenched. Come his turn at the carcass, both of them will be at full strength to pursue the enemy their pack leader has directed them to. This will be a good hunt.
A sudden splash startles the beast from his drinking - he leaps onto his feet, snarling at the intrusion. But his sharp eyes, piercing through the dark, make out the shape of four large crocodiles hauling themselves from the shore, almost immediately breaking into a run the moment they hit shore and loping across the sand into the bushes. While this should reassure the Chupacabra that there is nothing in the water to cause him harm now, it in fact does the complete opposite. What could possibly be down that that would bring fear to something that has no natural enemies?
Warier now, the hybrid horror bends down for another draught.
And sees the red eyes glaring up at him from the water surface.
"D̴̨̻͚̻̝̣̗̬͚̭̱̟͉͓̞̼̻͔̏ͦ͋ͤ̂͒ͥ͂̅ͨͦ͘i̢̼̰̻̣̗̙̱̻͎͔̠͖̱̤͙̞͔͐̓̆̉ͧ̉͒͛̓̈́͒̈̚͡Ě̴̷̳̱̹̮̣͙͍̳͉͙̙͉͙̄ͭͩ̂̔̽̈̋ͭ̀ͣ̽̀̊̓͢͡.ͥ͊̂̈͗̍̂ͥ̑̐͆̾̏͗͏̷͕̙̱̦͉͈̺͉͚̗͇̹̙̺̫̫̟͓͢ͅ"
The next thing the older Chupacabra knows, his brother is sprawling onto the sand, blood gushing from a stump where the neck should be. As the eldest snaps to attention, Coșmar the Mothman rises from the water, clutching the severed head of their comrade in one hand and spreading his tattered black wings about him, blotting out the moonlight with their width. Eyes like car reflectors shine down on the elder reptile, and the unholy thing's jaw distends down to his chest as a soul-curdling shriek echoes from his mouth. No wonder the crocodiles fled the lake.
Most normal animals would have fled in terror at this scene, and many humans have indeed soiled themselves at this sight. But the eldest brother has been overtaken by his predator instincts, and his blood-red eyes see nothing more than a rival intending to steal his kill. As the Mothman steps from the water, tossing his victim's head to the floor as, the enraged chimera hunkers possessively over the stag's half-eaten carcass, issuing a hiss of warning to the challenger. Blood-stained teeth are bared, spines clatter and eyes narrow in defiance as the dark shadow approaches, the Chupacabra refusing to back down and surrender his meal.
Coșmar does not respond to the threat. Instead, he merely stops a few feet from the blood-crazed beast, nowhere near a safe distance from any sudden attack. His glowing eyes stares down at his foe, regarding it's antics with an almost clinical coldness, as if it were something happening far away that doesn't even concern him in the slightest. The moonlight seems to shrink away from him, as if terrified of his merely being there, filling the space left behind with more darkness. For a moment, save the enraged calls of the Chupacabra, nothing happens.
Then the Mothman moves.
The wail of pain fills the air.
It is several hours before the animals slowly tiptoe back to the watering hole. The only evidence of the terrible event is a half-eaten stag, decorated with unidentifiable organs from another creature.
-------
A little while later, and it seems that a trio of the pack hasn't been having much luck either.
The scent they are supposed to follow is not only foul and acrid, but it is weird. As in, really weird. Sometimes they can catch faint hints of a trail that lead somewhere, but after only a few yards it ends abruptly, with no indication as to where the prey has got to. Then a few minutes of sniffing around leads to the discovery of another trail, which peters off into nothingness again - a cycle of annoyance and frustration that is severely wearing down on the pair's patience. It's already gotten to the point where they've begun to snap and growl at each other at intervals, as if blaming each other for their current predicament.
They eventually do find something, however.
As the three Chupacabras emerge from the foliage, they discover a blocky hump of iron, jutting out of the ground like a silver blotch in the green grass. The trio cannot know it, but they've stumbled upon one of the many security bunkers that dot the perimeter of Costa Rica - a home for the park rangers and a deterrent for unscrupulous poachers. The rangers wisely cleared out of the park long before the battle was scheduled, to avoid the disaster that was the Malibu Incident, so the bunker is not only deserted, it is locked. But the scent maze has led the trio here, and seems to continue right up to the door of the hulking construct. And nothing can keep a determined Chupacabra out, if it so desires.
The trio leave the confines of the undergrowth and stalk towards the bunker, low to the ground and cautious - in this exposed area, they are vulnerable to the possibility of a sudden surprise attack. But no such thing happens, and they soon reach the door of the building without ny incidents. A cursory examination reveals the scent of rust and decay - the rangers have been negligent in their upkeep of the park defences as of late - and a swift double-kick smashes the elderly lock and flings the door wide open with a bang. Quickly, two of the hybrid horrors dart inside the building, following their noses, whilst the third remains outside, taking up a sentry position.
This third one is rather scrawny - perhaps a result of vitamin deficiencies in his growth vat - and doesn't seem at all suited to the pack life. In fact, as he sits in the darkness, crouched low to avoid casting a shadow in the moonlight, he looks small and nervous, almost immature. The night-time forest, once filled with the cries of wild animals and the buzz of insects, is now eerily quiet. Except for the rustling of leaves as the wind blows through them, there is almost nothing else to be heard. The little lizard scans the foliage with his piercing red eyes again and again, but finds nothing.
It's too quiet...
-------
Meanwhile, inside the bunker, the two other Chupacabras are getting frustrated again. The smell ends right inside the observation room, linked to one of the many networks of security cameras that keep en eye on the park in case of illegal break-ins. And that's all they've got - the room is small, so there's barely any places to hide, and yet there is no sign of their intended victim anywhere within the building. The enraged hybrids have even gone so far as to turn over and smash apart every table and chair in the place, but nothing except dust mites have scurried from the woodwork.
Now, the two stand in the room, snarling and confused. The scent has led them to another dead end, with no sign of the creature they are meant to destroy, and the beasts are trying to work out what they should do next. Should they leave and seek out Perez, the pack leader, to inform him of what they've found and to get new orders? Or do they continue searching the area, following a scent that's still fresh? Indecision grips the creatures as they pace around the room, growling.
Suddenly, they realize that the lights are flickering.
As one, they turn around.
The room is full of monitors. No surprise there - this is the room where the rangers keep tabs on the park perimeter. But they should be turned off for the night, especially seeing as nobody is there to turn them on again, and nobody would be daft enough to try and break into the park at night anyway. But every single one of them is on, illuminating the room with their glow and casting long shadows on the walls behind the two Chupacabras.
And every one of them is showing the same glowing pair of eyes.
-------
The thick walls of the bunker pretty much deadens any sound from within, so the scrawny Chupacabra hasn't heard the demise of its friends. It's still waiting outside, looking about it's into the forest in case anything shows up, and the vigil is already beginning to tell on him. The red eyes are drooping shut, and the reptilian body is slumped against the wall of the building in an attempt to keep upright. The vile vampire isn't even alert, merely looking back and forth from bush to bush in a mechanical routine rather than an actual attempt to keep watch. The moment this is all over, perhaps a good lonk drink is in order-
Suddenly, a noise - a cracking twig, just in the distance. The transgenic terror freezes, now wide awake, staring in the direction the noise came from, expecting a predator of some sort to emerge from the bushes. The seconds tick by, and yet nothing happens - no signs of life or the sounds of footsteps to confirm the Chupacabra's suspicions. The scaled beast whimpers in nervous fear, backing away from the undergrowth and pressing itself against the cold metal in order to make itself a little less obvious.
Big mistake.
Behind the frightened reptile, red eyes flash within the reflective metal of the bunker. Then a shape forms, and before the scrawny saurian realizes it, a clawed hand has latched around its throat...
-------
Elsewhere, the trees rustle as another Chupacabra bounds from trunk to trunk, red eyes searching the ground and canopy for its foe. With every leap, the skin between it's limbs billows out like a parachute, catching the air and helping the revolting reptile drift through the forest air like some horrific flying squirrel. Its claws make horrific gouges in the bark of the trees he uses as it's platforms, gouges that will take many years to heal properly, and what animals of the night have remained outside turn tail the moment it's shadow passes over them, fleeing into the relative safety of the undergrowth.
Of course, the beast doesn't pay attention to them. The foul stench of its enemy is ascending to the highest point of the forest, and that is exactly where it is headed, climbing higher and higher up the trees in its bloodthirsty quest to find and destroy the hated monster. Its nostrils are already filled with the imaginary scent of blood, and strings of drool hang from its fangs as it slavers its way across the forest, hopping from branch to branch in maniacal fashion. Its mind is totally focused on the hunt - nothing else registers in its senses except for the kill to come.
So it doesn't see the black shape swooping towards it until it's too late.
Down below, a wildcat yowls and bolts as it's pelted with a red rain of shredded intestines.
-------
Somwhere else in the park, two more of the beasts howl in pain as they are thrown with incredible strength against the park's electric fence. 100'000 volts courses through their systems like streams of concentrated pain, their muscles spasming in reflex as internal organs are fried and skin chars black from the voltage. And through the haze of pain, a looming black figure observes their pain, red eyes boring into the brains and finding what they discover wanting in every aspect.
"P̀a̷Th̸Et̨I͠c,̕" growls Coșmar as the blackened corpses slump to the floor...
-------
In short, it's not so much a fight as it is a massacre. As vicious as the Chupacabras are, and as good as their pack tactics are, this nightarish beast they are hunting is proving itself to be an opponent they simply cannot compete against, and one by one the vampiric vermin are picked off like ducks at a carnival. One Chupacabra is too late to stop itself being garrotted with barbed wire, another runs afoul of the park's automated turrets, a third squeals with despair as a foot pushes its head under bubbling quicksand... Whatever the scenario, the reptiles simply stand no chance.
In the end, there is only one left. Only one of the original twelve remains to stand up against the Mothman. And he has no idea that he's all alone...
-------
Wind rushes past the scaled face and bat ears of Perez, the prime Chupacabra, as he stands tall and proud on a raised hillock, overlooking the deep forests of the park. The smells of wood, nightflowers and the blood of small creatures fill his nostrils, and his eyes scan the treeline with a flickering intensity. A claw flexes, throttling thin air.
“̀ThEy̶ ͡A͞rE ͡a̶L̨l̛ ̨D͢eAd.́”҉
If Perez is aware of the presence behind him, he does not show it. Nostrils flare with the stink of the enemy.
“͝Y̷o̢U͡r̀ ̵Re̷SiSt͞A̵n̨Ce ̵W͜a͡S̵ p͝AtH́eTi҉C. ̀s͢Tu͞P͡iD̴
aNi͘Ma̷L͟.”̀
The Chupacabra’s eyes narrow. Somewhere within the primitive brain, there is a spark of pride. He is pack leader. He is a killer, the final authority. And whilst he understands only a few commands and no English, he is vaguely aware that he is being insulted.
He kneels down.
“Yo̵U͡ aR̨ę ̴G͘oInG҉ ̷t͝O̴ ͜dI͏e͝,̶ St̴U̷pI͟d ͘A͝n͏ImA͟l. ͝Yo̡U̴ ̨wIl̵L
d̴I͡e̡ S̷cAŕȨd͠ ͝A̛n̷D͞ a̴Ļo̵Ne ͝Li͞Ķe ͠EvEr̶Yo̧N̸e ͠El͏Se̷.”̸
There is a scratching sound. Perez’s back is firmly to the Mothman.
“̨̨L҉҉O̴̵O͜K̛҉ ̶̷A̴̸̶͢T̶̷́͜ ͟͠M̛͘͝͝E͏͠!̵̡͟͢”̴̀
A rush of air.
Perez turns and lashes out, his speed making him almost invisible. In his hand is his secret weapon. He has knapped it in secret, dim understanding and power flickering to life in his brain with every stolen stone from the Glorious Princess’ Rockery, every strike and every spark. It is why he is (was?) the pack leader. His symbol of authority. Anthropologists would compare it to an Acheulean tool, used by primitive man in its savannah hunts.
A hand axe.
Coșmar the Mothman howls as, for reasons beyond human comprehension, a line of red scorches itself across its abdomen. The black stitches of the monster’s body snap and fray in the unholy heat. Perez snarls, pushes both clawed hands into the wound –
“̧́͢͞͞Ń̶́͞Ǫ̶N̶O̷̷̶̶͢N̛͟͝Ò̸̶͞Ǹ͡Ò̵̸”҉͢
And with an industrial force, levers Mothman’s torso away from his pelvis and legs. Coșmar screams an apocalypse, his top half pin-wheeling down the hill and trailing evil ash, his legs stumbling and unravelling and burning to nothing. Howling in triumph, Perez stands tall and primal, fangs bared, and tosses the hand axe aside. The Chupacarba bounds down the hill, catching up with the bundle of wing and limbs easily. He pounces.
Red eyes flash up, and hands like vices grip the reptile’s face.
“̕GǫT͝ ͜y͝O̷u͏.”́
-------
Shit, where’d they go? Try camera 6, it’s the closest, we’ll see if –
Oh.
Oh no.
WINNER: MOTHMAN!
-------
So, uh…
Anyone gonna go get him outta there? Because I sure as shit ain’t.
This is Connor Hardy, and...
....watch your backs.
(Well, that maye have been the biggest Monster Mash fight I've ever written! I'd like to give a big shoutout to The Deleter for drawing the K.O. art and for helping me with tough writing spots. But I'd also like to extend a big thank you for all the support you;ve given me. Writing this son of a bitch was tough, and I'm glad I had you guys behind me cheering me on, otherwise this thing would never have gotten finished!
Stay tuned for more...)
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