Monster Mash: Round 1 Fight 6 Votes

We're back, sports fans! And this time we don't need to be shoving product placement everywhere - all that debt is paid off! WHOO!

So since we're in such a good mood, let's talk hybrids! And I don't mean stuff like Mega Python or Mansquito were - horrid piles of DNA soup mixed together and injected into an unwilling test subject. We mean Chimeric Hybrids, the sort of thing that have the head of a rooster, the tail of a cow, the legs of a lion and stuff like that. For the longest time, the dream of creating such wonderful mix-and-match abominations was beyond the reach of even our brightest minds at GaiaCorp - merging the DNA of different species without outright mixing the strands seemed virtually impossible. Mother Nature was pulling down her trousers and mooning us from afar. But then our sister corporation Greentech made a massive breakthrough with Project Clearwater, quite literally inventing a brand new type of MicroStrand protein glue, and now we're churning out cockatrices and mermaids by the dozen! Take that, Mother Nature, and while you're at it bend over so we can spank you, you little-

...ahem. Anyway, our latest fight is not just the final fight of Round 1 before we move on to Round 2 and the Loser's League. It's also a showcase of how far GaiaCorp has come since our humble beginnings of raising demons from hell way back in WWI. Tonight's competitors are born from the fruits of hard graft, years of research and occasionally swiping ideas from our friends in the name of keeping our reputation as lazy bastards. And it's happening right on our doorstep, as we here are happy to act as neutral ground for massive political squabbles! Brace yourselves, loyal customers, because it's time for us to put on THE HYBRID HOEDOWN IN HAWAII!

IN THE BLUE CORNER...

The Great Greco-Roman Alliance expands day by day. It's relentless war machine marches ever eastwards, taking down such territories as northern Africa, the once independent parts of former Communist Spain and the territories of Albania and their relatives. As titanic mega-subs rise from the sea to bombard the shorelines with volleys of artillery, hordes of amphibious mutants slither onto the sand to devour and crush the enemies of their glorious emperor. And among their ranks, with more medals to his name than we care to count, is the beast we call Clades the SHARKTOPUS!

That name just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? Say it with us - Sharktopus. We're really quite proud of this one - the blueprint for Clades once belonged to the obscure Blue Water Company, a biotech firm working in the public safety zones for the Empire of America. The idea was to create a remote-controlled creature that could respond to electric signals and be used to deter sharks and warships from the holiday resorts that dot the sides of their proud nation. Wherupon we slapped their CEO in the face, told him not to be such a pussy and then bought the plans off of him. The basic combination of shark and octopus genes was bolstered by the same lungfish DNA we used on Tiburon the Mega Shark previously, and the results were then sold off to Grecaly, or whatever the kids call it nowadays.

Sharktopus is a bit smaller than his cousin Tiburon, at around 13 meters (43 feet) due to his lack of a tail, but his tentacles make up most of that length, so he can't really complain. His 30cm (12 inch) teeth serve as his primary weapon, slicing through flesh and bone alike, but his tentacles also serve to constrict, bludgeon and stab foes around at close range. They also serve as his legs, allowing him to get around quite quickly on both water and land, and an octopus's brain grants him problem-solving skills and some quick on-the-fly thinking ability as well. His only weaknesses are lack of protective scales or armour and a tendency to dry out in hot weather, but as long as he stays near water that shouldn't really be a problem.

 IN THE RED CORNER...

Determined to avoid the economic slump their northern cousins were experiencing, Brazil and many other of the South American states banded together to form the Amazon Territories. Guided by their mutual need to rake in the big bucks, they began to monopolize their exports - bananas, coffee, sugar and so on - to ludicrous levels, to the point where they now have a massive stranglehold on the world's supplies. This, naturally, bred pirates looking for an easy profit, and thus Brazil sought to protect their livelihood with a violent, iron fist. And thus was born a beast of terrifying proportions - Carrasco the PIRANHACONDA!

Just like Russia before them, the Amazon Territories wanted something that would inspire fear in those who would dare plunder their precious harvest. So we put our thinking helmets on - what are people cruising up the Amazon river scared of the most? Piranhas and anacondas, of course... Bing! Terrible creature + terrible creature = horrifying demon from the recesses of mankind's nightmares! A month or so of stirring culture vats, applying protein glue and incubating eggs in our swampy biome later, and Carrasco and his brood were soon ready to swim through the murky waters, devouring light-fingers looters from their boats.

Piranhaconda is just shy of 16 metres (53 feet), and has a least 60 razor-sharp teeth in his mouth, designed to slice chunks of meat off prey. His massive serpentine body allows him to constrict foes in a crushing grip, as well as slide effortlessly along most terrain. He is also a powerful swimmer, just at home underwater as he is on land, and can transition from land to water with little trouble. However, he has two majorly crippling deficiencies that dull his killing edge somewhat - horrendous eyesight that forces him to rely on his much more powerful sense of smell and an aversion to cold temperatures. But even with those in mind, you have to admit this freaky fish is not just going to lie down and let you pour vinegar on it.

THE ARENA
Hawaii. It's where everyone goes to catch a sun-filled break way from all the civil war and political unrest. It's where grass-skirted nymphs rub coconut oil into your back as you catch some rays. And it's also where we are! Yes, folks, in celebration of GaiaCorp's 80th Anniversary and also to keep Brazil and Rome from kicking each other's teeth out, we're hosting this fight on our very own turf, just as we hosted the epic first ever live Monster Mash way back in 191X! We'd say we're selling tickets to this one-of-a kind event, but really there's no need - these beasts might just flatten your porch in the middle of the fight! Consider it a gift from us to you!

So, sports fans, who is destined to make it to Round 2? The tentacled terror from a militaristic union of ancient beliefs? Or the pirate-devouring predator riding on the capitalistic dreams of money-hungry Brazilians? Make haste to your local voting booths now, ladies and gentlemen, because this is the kind of event that won't repeat itself in a hurry! And don't forget to stock up on limited edition plushies and t-shirts to support your favourite competitor whilst your at it!

VOTE NOW!

Monster Mash: Round 1 Fight 5 - Dinocroc vs. Mansquito

...Um, so with that out of the way, back to the show!

Tonight on The Monster Mash 199X, we've got the ultimate tussle of transgenic terrors lined up for you, taking place in the war-ravaged savannahs of once-proud Africa! Not only do our competitors have to worry about defeating each other in this battle of beasts, they'll have to keep an eye out for rowdy wildlife and the soaring temperatures that could bake a potato in the foil! The stakes are high in this one, as victory means advancing to Round 2 of the Monster Mash, whilst defeat means a sorry demotion to the Loser's League for a slim chance at the title! Will the United States of Africa triumph with Jeuri, the law-enforcing Dinocroc, or will Communist Spain take the win with Zancudo, the hideous hybrid Mansquito? Set up your tents, take our your binoculars and get ready to hide from marauding sabre-tooth-lions, because tonight's the night for...

Connor Hardy here, going live to the Serengeti Plains...

-------

The harsh, overgrown scrubland of the war-torn Serengeti is awoken from it's drowsy afternoon siesta by a cacophony of furious bellowing.

Jeuri had arrived to the intended battlefield first, accompanied by a convoy of military soldiers, and was let loose from his private truck to wreak the vengeance of the African People's Congress upon the invaders. The instant he was released into the fenced off area of the former national park, the prehistoric monstrosity stormed straight for the deepest parts of the untamed wilderness, seeking his prey like a bloodhound on the prowl. However, it's not the insectoid challenger that the resurrected reptile has stumbled upon here, but one of the locals - an adult bull Supergator, 40 feet long and in no mood to share his patch with an intruder of any size or age. The two beasts circle each other in the dusty clearing, hissing and snapping, unwilling to give any ground.

Then the Supergator makes a costly error. Pushing himself up onto his back legs, he tries to rise up and bite at Dinocroc's throat, which is higher off the ground than he could reach otherwise. The supersized saurian's patience pays off as his enemy's underbelly is exposed, and the bigger animal ducks underneath the snapping jaws and delivers a savage bite to the soft skin, ripping horrific gouges and spilling blood onto the dust and grass below. With a howl of pain the gigantic gator yanks away, skin tearing in the process, and drops back to his feet before turning and bolting for the nearby river. He knows this is one fight he's not going to win, not when his opponent is capable of exploiting weaknesses like that.

The cruel crocodilian roars in triumph, pursuing his fleeing adversary across the plain until he sees him dive into the waters in a flurry of spray. At the bank of the river, he pauses, snarling threateningly but making no move to pursue - he has other prey to worry about, and there's no point in wasting energy on chasing a beaten enemy when his masters have given him more important orders. Still, Jeuri is nothing if not prone to gloating about his victories, and he continues to growl and stomp in the muddy bank until the cowed Supergator has hauled himself out on the opposite side and vanished into the trees. Only then does he allow himself to calm down, breathing heavily through his nostrils and blinking his yellow eyes.

Then he picks it up again - the scent of his enemy.

Those who thinks insects have no smell haven't tried being a crocodile yet. Those things can smell blood from hundreds of kilometres away, on land as well as underwater, and their senses are keen enough for them to distinguish between wildebeest, zebras and all the hundreds of other creatures that cling to life in the savannah. So it's not too surprising that Dinocroc manages to catch a tang of that familiar odour his masters had ordered him to track - a mixture of stale blood and flesh, punctuated with the same horrid chemical smell that the Triassic terror has grown up with in the walls of his pen. It's a fair distance away from the river, so the enemy is nowhere close to his location, and that means Jeuri is going to have to hunt his target down before flushing it out from wherever it's hiding.

Fortunately, Dinocroc was born to hunt.

A low rumble in it's throat, the massive saurian turns and stalks away from the river, following his nose.

-------


He could barely remember how he got here.

His mind was a whirring chaos of disjointed pictures and fragmented sensations. One moment he was strapped in some kind of chair with a metal thing hooked to his head, the next he was tied down with straps while white-coated shades put something into him that burned horribly, and then after that he was shut up in something cramped and cold and the world was shaking like there was an earthquake...

And now he was here. Hiding in a scratchy tree that did nothing to shade him from the scorching sun up above.

He twitched his wings and shifted slightly, trying to think. He knew that he had been placed here by something else - he had no recollection of coming to such an unpleasant place under his own power - but he couldn’t think of who would want to do that, or why. He knew there were probably reasons, but he simply couldn't figure out what those reasons were - there was just so many bit and pieces of memories and voices rattling around in his head that he couldn't pin any one of them down and get a solid idea forming. Too much had happened since... since... actually, scratch that, he couldn't remember what that was, either.

And, on top of that, there's something else. Something out of place, something-

Zancudo is startled out of his contemplative state by the crashing of wood, and only his own superhuman reflexes save him from an early chomping.  The teeth of Dinocroc close on nothing more than the flimsy acacia branches that his prey was on a second ago, and the mutant menace buzzes high into the air as he watches his tree hideout collapse under the transgenic tyrant's bulk with a noise like thunder. Mansquito has literally no idea what his oppressor is or how it managed to find him up in the tree, but he knows at once that it's spoiling for a fight - no peaceful creature would attempt an ambush from behind like that.

Well, if it's a fight it wants...

With a snarl of frustration, Jeuri staggers back to his feet, spitting acacia needles. His nose had indeed told it where the prey was going to be hiding - not even the musky stench of dead wood could mask such a foul odor - but it didn't give the cruel crocodilian any forewarning of inexplicable reflexes and speed. He had come so close to capturing his intended prey, and now he had completely botched it in a manner that would have put America's Funniest Home Videos look like a drama series by comparison. As the Dinocroc shakes himself down, his keen ears kick up the angry buzzing of his insectoid enemy, and mad yellow eyes swivel around to focus on the shape hovering just above his head.

Jeuri opens his cavernous mouth and bellows his challenge.

Zancudo brandishes his sabre claws and chitters a response.

The battle is on.

Immediately the murderous mosquito dives down towards his reptilian aggressor, moving with a speed Usain Bolt would sell his own body to buy from our top scientists. Snarling, the transgenic tyrant moves to intercept, massive jaws swinging like a pair of toothy rakes towards the incoming bug-thing with every intention of divesting him of his limbs. But the teeth clamp shut on nothing once again - Mansquito rolls out of the way just in time, and as he does so he flicks out one of his wicked forearm talons and slashes at the reptile's side, ripping the flesh open as it passes by. Africa's Enforcer roars in anger as a line of red is scoured from the shoulder all the way down to the hip, and responds by twisting on the spot, tail whistling through the air.

Again the hybrid horror's evasive reflexes kick in, and changing direction in a manner that would snap the bones of any normal human he evades the tail swipe before it even hits. This time looping over Dinocroc's back, Zancudo pirouettes underneath his enemy's belly and lashes out again, carving another deep gouge that immediately starts to seep red, followed by a swipe at the shins that rips skin away and sends blood flying. Another bellow of pain comes from the bewildered reptile as he tries to figure out what's going on, and now satisfied that his opponent is already confused and bewildered by his seemingly random attack patterns, the hybrid horror buzzes out from underneath the thrashing theropod and darts towards the fleshy neck, his sharpened proboscis extending in anticipation of the feast to come.

SLAM

Once again, Zancudo has underestimated his adversaries' keen senses - the savage saurian's hearing has clued him in to where the belligerent bug is coming from, and he has swung his massive head like a hammer in response. With a sick thud that announces the possibility of a crumpled exoskeleton, ruptured organs or both, the top of Jeuri's skull impacts with the mutant menace head on, throwing the startled bug through the air and into the side of another acacia tree in an explosion of bark. Dazed and winded, Mansquito slumps to the dusty ground at the foot of the tree, and through blurry eyes he makes out the dusty brownish-green shape of his foe as it turns to confront him. Now fully aware of where is prey is, and now with a clear shot at it, the cruel crocodilian lunges forward once more, jaws agape.

And once again he barrels face-first into the tree.

The acacia, long since dead and unable to support the ants it relied on in life, topples like a high-class courtesan fainting at some particularly strong language, hitting the ground in a burst of dry branches and spines. Confused and angry beyond belief, Dinocroc hauls himself onto his feet, dust and shards of bark pouring from his hide, and looks around for his target - who has once again escaped his jaws. This entire hunt is going from bad to worse for him - he's used to fighting big lumbering creatures prone to exposing weak spots in their hubris, not small buzzy things that don't stay still long enough to make tasty snacks. Frustration is beginning to seep into the Triassic terror's normally razor-sharp mind, and he bellows and stomps the ground as he scans the area for his foe.

Then he hears the buzzing, and looks up again.

Zancudo is now just above his head, glaring down with his compound eyes. The hybrid horror has finally cottoned on to the fact that he's facing something big and touch, not something he can simply pin down and drain of fluids like all of his previous victims. That last blow cracked something important - the pain is still shooting through him even as we speak - and he knows that another attack like that is going to put him down for good if he allows it. He's going to need to be more clever for this one, and this open area isn't going to give him the advantage he needs to do that.

A flash of green catches the malignant mosquito's mind...

And off he buzzes, just in time to avoid another snap from the enraged Dinocroc. With lightning speed, he darts towards the patch of green, which quickly blooms into the sole natural jungle that exists in this hellhole, and vanishes into the bushes. With a bellow, Jeuri gives chase, crashing through the branches and undergrowth in pursuit, not willing to give up his prey so easily.

-------

The birds and beasts of the jungle, chattering away to each other in the treetops, have some unexpected company.

Moving quickly, Zancudo flies through the trees like a purple missile, expertly ducking and dodging his way through the trees, branches and vines that bar his path like the bars of a prison. He is all too aware of the horrible snarling and crashing behind him, announcing Jeuri's presence as the resurrected reptile smashes through the branches with absolutely no grace whatsoever. The leaves of the canopy form a thick shade from the sweltering heat of the sun, granting the mutant menace a respite in that regard, but now the humidity is leaving him feeling sticky instead, slowing him somewhat. But, as they say, he's had to pick the lesser of two evils, and being damp is preferable to being scratchy.

The mosquito's plan is simple. The plains were too wide open for the sort of ambush tactics he wanted to pull off - no matter where he went, the enemy would always be able to see him, and there was literally nowhere to set an ambush. By taking the fight into the jungle, the hybrid horror could turn the tables to his advantage - with plenty of foliage to hide behind and block the reptile's vision, it would be the perfect place to perform the guerrilla warfare it needed to use in order to win. A combination of lighting fast attacks and crippling strikes from cover would weaken and frustrate the Dinocroc over time, eventually bringing it to the point where the killing blow could be achieved. No sense in a straight-up fight against a bigger opponent, right?

Mansquito quickly looks back to check if the seething saurian is behind him.

And blunders into a whole mass of long, green things.

At first, he's inclined to think it's just some vines hanging from the canopy. But no sooner has he gotten himself mixed up with them then they move with horrific speed, speed almost matching his own. Their triangular tips, coated with thousands of tiny hooks, latch onto his limbs like the tentacles of an angry octopus, and the cords themselves tighten as they attempt to pull him up into the air and out of the clearing. The bug's chitters in a panic as he writhes in midair, struggling to free himself from the binding tendrils as several more begin to latch onto him, and his flailing claws strike the purple blossoms that grow intermittently from the length of each one, sending a rain of petals to the forest floor.

Zancudo cannot know it, but he is caught in the clutches of the Purple Terror, a vicious and bloodthirsty plant first described by Fred M. White in the Strand Magazine. Little did anyone realize that the vampiric vine was, in fact, a horrendous reality, and as the Unification War tore the Serengeti apart like so much wrapping paper, the tree-bound parasites have had time to gorge themselves on those unfortunate animals that have blundered into this section of the jungle. The abundance of food has allowed the orchid to spread from tree to tree in search of more food, until now they dominate at least half of the jungle in a purple mass, devouring all who come near. And Mansquito has blundered right into them.

But the hybrid horror's problems aren't over yet.

Because even as he struggles to free himself, the bushes part and a panting, sweat-soaked Jeuri enters the clearing. He doesn't seem as healthy as he did starting out - not only is he puffed out from pursuing the irritating insect and reeling from heat exhaustion, but his limbs are shaking a little as they keep his body upright, and his yellow eyes are clouded over. In fact, he's starting to show symptoms of infection from the Gilligan virus, most likely as a side-effect of being scratched by Mansquito's claws, and lack of resistance from his prehistoric immune system means the disease has taken hold quite quickly.

 But he's still aware enough to see his enemy in front of him, and also to know he's trapped.

Mansquito's eyes widen as he sees the dreaded dinosaur approach, and increases his desperate struggles to try and free himself from the vines. He makes some headway in this - the cords seem to be thinking that this though, wriggly thing isn't worth the bother - and manages to free one arm and a leg from the trap as rhe vines slink away into the shadows of the canopy. But it's too little too late - with a roar, Dinocroc lunges forward and finally grasps his opponent's free leg in his jaws before wrenching his head sideways. There is a noise like someone ripping a packet of crisps open, and the leg is pulled away from the rest of Zancudo, black ichor spilling onto the jungle undergrowth.

White-hot pain flares through the monstrous mosquito's mind as he is divested of his limb.

And with that pain comes a memory...

-------

"Pass the salt would you, hijo?"

"Yes, papá!"

"Aw, isn't this grand, Damien? Our son is growing up with such good manners!"

"Yes, Conchita, and soon he shall inherit the family business! And I know he'll make a good job of it, won't you, Simon?"

"I shall try my best, papá!"

"Heh heh heh! That's my boy!"

-------

"No, please! My family-!"

"GET THE FUCK ON THE FLOOR, YOU DOUBLE-CROSSING CRIMINAL SCUM!"

"No... no, please!"

"Run, Conchita! I'll hold them of for as-"

BANG

"FATHER!"

-------

"Project Gilligan, Sample 1. Time of test, 5:00pm. Begin injection... now."

"AAAAAAAAAA-"

-------

"Where we taking this thing?"

"Eh, some piece of shit wasteland in the middle of the Serengeti. He's schedule for a fight with that giant lizard Africa's got."

"Dinocroc? Heh, poor bastard's got no chance!"

"You think? Killed at least five of my personnel before we could tie him down. I think he's got a decent chance!"

"Still, you gotta admit he's not exactly there in the head. That's not gonna be of much help."

"Dead parents don't translate into battle skills, Dick. Unless your Batman."

"...so are you saying-?"

"No."

-------

"Samuel, my son...

I believe in you, Samuel...

Good luck..."

-------

The shriek that comes from Zancudo silences the forest and shakes the branches overhead. As if startled by the sudden noise, the coils of the Purple Terror release the mutant menace and retract some distance up into the canopy, and only the madly-buzzing wings keep the  injured creature aloft. Jeuri jumps back several feet, dropping the leg from his mouth in shock, and stares as the hybrid horror lifts himself into the air, compound eyes blazing with a fury far greater than even a thousand burning suns could achieve. Ichor drips from the wound, but the bug pays no heed to his own injury, so great is his own anger and bitterness towards those who have created him and what they have taken from him.

He is Mansquito no longer.

He is Samuel Escardo once again.

And he is pissed.

Everything seems to happen in slow-motion. Realizing the opportunity to win is being taken away from him, Dinocroc lunges forward, looking to rip off the other leg. But his teeth barely get anywhere before a sudden pain in his neck brings him to a screeching halt - the rapier-like proboscis is buried deep in his jugular vein, and the belligerent bug is not just drinking, he's gulping down the blood that poors from the insicion. Roaring with the searing agony, the chimeric carnivore staggers mid-charge, trying to get his opponent off of him and crunch him between his jaws for good - this fight needs to end right now, before the insect can get another foothold.

But then the first vines start to clutch at him.

The Purple Terror has sensed better feeding opportunities, and reacted accordingly, clutching at Jeuri's hide in an attempt to lever him into the air. The dreaded dinosaur resists, roaring and yanking and biting at the tendrils that come down like ravenous snakes to grab him, snapping many in two and gnawing others into complete uselessness. But this is not a struggle he can sustain - panic, heatstroke and sickness are beginning to addle his once-brilliant, patient mind, and more and more tendrils keep coming from the canopy above. If Dinocroc wants even the slightest chance of success, he needs to get out of the clearing, hopefully smashing Mansquito into a tree on the way.

It's a chance he never gets.

With speed bolstered by blind anger over what he has lost and can never have again, the mosquito-man monster darts behind the surprised saurian and drives his needle proboscis deep into the reptilian brain.

Almost immediately, the yellow eyes dim as the jaws flop open in a comical mockery of surprise, as shock and exhaustion finally take it's toll on the transgenic tyrant. Paralyzed from nose to tail by the enraged stabbing, Dinocroc falls limp to the ground as more and more tendrils from the Purple Terror clutch and engulf him, lifting him into the air like some macabre marionette cobbled together for a Punch and Judy show at the last minute. A single rattling gurgle is all that comes from the lizard's throat, a trickle of blood leaking from between the knife-like teeth as he is slowly drained of every drop of his precious fluids, second by agonizing second

Breathless but alive, still wrestling with the guilt and rage inside him, Samuel Escardo yanks his mouthparts free of the saurian's skull, lifts into the air and slowly buzzes away from the scene.

MANSQUITO WINS!

And there you have it, sports fans! The conclusion to one of the greatest fights in the Monster Mash so far! Well, we say "one of" because nothing can top Swamp Devil's impressive victory in the great finale of The Monster Mash 198X  Seriously, you should have been there, it was awesome and a little bit scary.

But next time, we promise we shall try and top that. Without giving too much away, let's just say that it's a showdown that we, as morally-questionable scientists with an extremely loose understanding of how playing God with genetic material works, are looking forward to. In fact, you might say we're quite proud of the last two entrants to this competition, as they represent not only the brightest and best talent we've got here at GaiaCorp, but also represent mankind collectively sticking his middle finger up at natural selection. So brace yourselves, monster maniacs, because the final battle in Round 1 of The Monster Mash 199X  is heading your way, and it's gonna be bigger, badder and radder than you think!

An Open Letter to Mission 3 in Injustice's S.T.A.R Labs

Fuck you.

Just fuck you and everything you stand for.

You clearly don't belong in this game. Everything else about it is brilliant - the visuals are slick and gritty, the gameplay is solid and extremely different from Mortal Kombat and the Story Mode is engaging and challenging without being bullshit hard. When Bane kicks the Joker into an elevator, then runs inside to smash his head against the walls hard enough to leave dents, I pump my fist into the air with joy. The game as a whole could have been a beautiful rose in the colourful flowerbed of video games, but it isn't. And that's because you exist on it as a hideous, parasitic fungus eating away at it's insides and ruining everything that's good about it with your rank stench of dog turd.

Allow me to elaborate. I had cleared the Story Mode and earned a load of Armoury Keys to unlock alternate costumes for the characters. However, the Keys are only awarded with every alternate level you reach, so I wasn't able to unlock all of them. It was then that all my common sense leapt out of my brain and scurried away, leaving to me to make a really stupid decision. "Okay," I say to myself, "perhaps I'll try the S.T.A.R Labs missions. Mortal Kombat's missions were cool and I beat loads of those, so maybe this'll be a ticket to free XP and Armoury Keys." Little did I know of the bullshit that was lurking over the hill, waiting for the chance to pounce and sink his filth-encrusted fangs into my patience.

So I start up the missions, and all goes well. Lex Luthor has kidnapped Louis Lane, as he is wont to do, and Superman has to save her, as he is also wont to do. Mission 1 has me beating up The Flash for some off reason - all I do is follow the on-screen prompts and I complete it, earning three big silver stars. "Huh," I say to myself. "This isn't so hard. I was expecting a bit more, but okay." Mission 2 is more fun - Superman is low on health and has to stay in these patches of sunlight to recover it whilst fighting Bane. It's tense and frantic, and I complete it with little fuss. I earn only two stars this time, but then I try again and it turns out I had to punt Bane through a building as well, which is fair enough.

But then you come along, Mission 3, and put a fucking brick wall between me and progress.

Lex is mind-controlling Batman and has given him a supply of Kryptonite-laced Batarangs (no they don't specify how, put your hand down). And it's not like the challenge is difficult in concept - beat Batman, use a stage prop, don't get hit by the killer green projectiles. No problem, one might say. And indeed, for the first few minutes, it seems pretty simple. Batman barely puts up a fight as I wail on him with Superman's arsenal of kickass moves, punching him through a glass cabinet and throwing a plane on his head. I've whittled him down to half health and so far, things are fine.

And then I get hit with a Batarang.

I ignore this and complete the mission. But because I was hit, I'm deducted a star. And the only way to get all three stars is never to get hit. So I try again. And again, and again, and again, and gradually the veil of normalcy is torn away to reveal the hideous beast underneath, the sight of which makes me swear in disgust and throw my controller down so hard it bounces off the floor, hits the TV and knocks my copy of Metal Gear Rising off my shelf. Because the tongue-slapping otherkin dickheads behind the creation of this mission have rigged it to the point where earning that precious third star is fucking impossible.

See, there is literally no way to predict when Batman is going to throw a Batarang, because the A.I. doesn't have the same patterns one would find in a Capcom game. And it seems Lex's mind-control device also made Bruce Wayne fucking precognitive as well, because everything I do can somehow be perfectly countered with a telepathically-thrown Batarang from the fucking future. Heat Vision blasts are interrupted without a fuss, attempts to dive in are blocked and any attempts at actual combos or closing the distance are met with a giant Batarang-shaped middle finger. And even when I'm close up to him he will find some way to throw one in my face, because Ryu is apparently a pussy for not throwing projectile attacks at a such a close range as to render them pointless over regular punches or kicks.

My problems with this are twofold. Firstly, one shouldn't set such a fucking narrow goal in the first place. Not everyone is going to be capable of dodging a Batarang every time, so there's no reason to penalize us for not being picture perfect. Three will do at the most, because even then the Kryptonite Batarangs (note how fucking dumb that sounds, by the way) don't even do that much damage. Secondly, even if you are going to set such a goal, you have to make sure the enemy A.I. for that mission isn't an input-reading arsehole that delights in ruining people's dreams. Because Heaven forbid that the players actually succeed in completing the shitty challenges we personally designed to have a fucking reward at the end for completing! Only pansy casuals design their games to let their players have any chance of winning at all! No, kicking the player's arse for having the gall to try and do anything besides take it like a bitch is where it's at, because Dark Souls did it so we might as well too! Haw haw haw, tongue-slap tongue-slap!

In the end, I gave up. I turned off the Xbox and played some Mario Tennis instead. There came a point where I asked myself "Why am I even bothering to press any buttons?" because clearly I wasn't meant to succeed, so what was the point? I refuse to put up with bullshit A.I., idiotic goals designed by Hitler and fucking capital punishment for the slightest of errors, because challenge is one thing, but setting up a concrete wall and expecting us to bash it down with naught but a toffee hammer is an exercise in frustration and anger. I'm not proud of my lack of patience when it comes to these things, but from now on I'm only playing games that at least give me a chance to actually fucking complete them. And if that makes me some kind of casual scrub, then call me Scrub McNewbpants, but better to reign in Casual-Land than continuously have my face shoved into dog shit and broken glass in New Hardcoria.

In short, fuck you, Mission 3. I hope Killer Croc rips you open and eats your insides. I'll just grind Story Mode from now on if I want my XP.

A Start

Ever since the incident on Lapulas, not to mention Pit and Raw coming back from their Japan holiday, things had been rather quiet around the Angelos household as of late. Lacking a steady stream of demons, aliens, dark lords and parallel dimensions to combat on a regular basis, the trio sort of fell into a sort of routine - Pit would do millionaire things, Dirk would write scraps of book ideas and occasionally get high, Raw would try and pull a prank, and every now and again someone walked away in the shape of a granny-knot because they though insulting either one of the mismatched couple was a good idea. Even watching the goblin shark swim upside-down in his usual dopey fashion was proving a bit boring, and the angels soon began to realize that they were craving some new form of excitement.

It was around the time Dirk was reaching this realization, in the middle of brushing his teeth, that his mobile went off. At this point, thanks to the general weirdness of the King of Beasts, the dark angel was prepared for anything whenever this happened. Usually it was his publisher, Count Longardeaux, ready to rant at him in his unidentifiable European accent for another travesty of the English language, or one of the guys from the Gravitias Grand Theatre asking him if he could give Marcus his medical marijuana back. Pretty much anything on that general spectrum.

So imagine his surprise when he loaded up the text and saw this:

"Ey yo Los Ángeles what is uppp haha its Chilly-D. Got hgha 'n the big DR and bought tickets to some space cruise, even though I gots me one a them thar CTAs and in effect have just wasted thousands of dollars. No refunds so Chet clocked me in the face and told me to give them to charity. "What the bloody hell's a kid with no arms gonna do on a cruise" I says, so Happy Birthmas bitches you're going on a cruiseeeee but in space haha see ya there XOXO - Hugs and Kisses, David A. Wulf"

Dirk stared.

Then he turned and bolted towards the living room as fast as he could go. As far as he was concerned, this wasn't just a massive coincidence - this was a gift from the deities of whatever bullshit religion it was angels practiced nowadays, and a welcome break from the monotony of being stuck on Earth. Flashes of glittering hallways, steam-cooked lobsters and massive swimming pools darted through his imagination as he thundered down the stairs, taking them three at a time in his excitement in his single-minded mission to inform his brother of this. He had to know, this was too good an opportunity to miss out on.

He reached the hallway in five seconds flat, flung the door open as he barged in and stopped just short of colliding with Pit, who had just run in from the opposite side of the room. The two skidded to a halt on the carpet in front of each other, bearing identical mad grins that would have raised eyebrows and questions about their sanity from any passers-by.

"BRO," shrieked Pit at the top his lungs, "DID YOU GET-"

"FUCK YES," howled Dirk, "AND HE TYPED LIKE HE WAS-"

"AND IT'S GONNA BE IN SPACE AND GO TO THIS PLANET AND-"

"FUCKING CRUISE SHIP IN SPACE, WHY DIDN'T WE THINK OF-"

They stopped, panting heavily, overcome with childish excitement. Even with their minds clouded with crazed hype, they knew they were both thinking the same thing at this very moment.

"Grab the suitcases," ordered Pit, taking charge in his usual heroic fashion. "Load them up with enough clothes for a few months or so, pack all the toiletries and amusements we'll need and get the all in the freaking car."

"What about Raw?" asked Dirk.

"I'll deal with her, trust me. Just get the bags already, because cruise time is happening."

"Fucking ace."

And with that, the brothers ran off in different directions - one to start packing and the other to tell his girlfriend the news.

-------

"Look, Clint, we're only dealing with a Yian Kut-Ku, not a bloody Rathalos. That sword is just overkill, mate."

"Hannah, when you're going to hunt a dragon, the first thing you think should be 'power'. And that's what the Type 41 Wyvernator has got! It's big, it's intimidating-"

"It'll be next Monday by the time you swing that thing, you pillock! We're trying to kill the thing, not lull it to sleep!"

There they were, seated round a table at the café, almost invisible in the crowded lanes and courtyards of Port Tanzia. But one glace alone told even a casual observer all they needed to know: they were Monster Hunters. And on top of that, they were professionals - veterans of the wilderness who had come face-to-claw with scaled behemoths many times their size and come away victorious. It was in the way they held themselves high in their seats, the steady yet firm grip of gloved hands on mugs of coffee, in the glint and rattle and wear of their armour and weapons, forged from the same creatures they confronted as part of their duty and livelihood.

But not, sadly, in the way they spoke to each other. Which sounded more like a bunch of teenagers arguing about the colour of their roommate's wallpaper.

"And what, Matthew," chipped in the one called Clint as he shifted in his seat, his grey-blue armour clinking with the motion, "are you trying to accomplish with that? That's not a weapon, that's a portable Mardi Gras parade!" He, he indicated the contraption sitting by his comrade's side, it's intimidating design sadly marred by it's bright yellow hue and puffy midsection.

Matthew glared at him from under the brim of his helmet. "The Royal Torrent," he retorted hotly, "is about accuracy and efficiency - something you yobbos don't understand. It's lightweight, it's easy to carry-"

"You have to carry all that ammo around with you," cut in a woman in pale armour as she leant forward. "You'll get your face chewed off whilst reloading, the kickback will shatter your arm bones... Face it, guys," she finished in a sort of cheerily smug tone, "I'm the only one here who brought the right weapon for this job."

"What, these things?" Clint reached across the table in disdain, clutching the twin swords on Hannah's back and rattling them as though trying to dislodge some hidden secret or fortune cookie paper from within them. The woman's outraged expression, comparable to one who has been called a particularly rude name, was enough to send Matthew into a fit of amused chuckling

"Stop it!" Blushing furiously, Hannah batted her fellow warrior's hand away from her. "At least they're more practical than your bloody great Wyvernator, which you'll put your back out trying to carry!"

At this remark, Clint's face lit up as though he'd just learned the secret of perpetual motion. "Matthew," he chirped as he turned in his seat with a rattling creak, "remind me what the greatest feature of the Plesioth Cutlasses was!"

The yellow-garbed hunter looked up from his coffee, a grin spreading across his face. "Which one? Their short reach, or their tendency to break easily?"

Whatever scathing remark Hannah would have made at that point is lost to the ages, as a splintering crash from a short distance away drowned out any further conversation and set people jumping back with cries of alarm. Turning to the source of the disturbance, the trio found that not only was the wall of the shipping and receiving building sporting a new "massive hole" look, but a large pile of packages, bottles and boxes had suddenly appeared in the middle of the street, a metre or so short of their table.

As they watched, bewildered and annoyed, a young man at least half their age emerged from the pile, rubbing his head and smiling sheepishly at them.

"So, guys," he tried. "Did you order the pizza with or without the whetstones?"

Clint slowly lets his face drop into his hands. "Bloody hell, Stan..."

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