Grandma's Cottage, the locals called it. It's proper name was The Down, because it sat on the edge of the woods and overlooked the chalk downlands before it. But the locals knew than when a kindly old woman moved into any old house to live on her own, you called it Grandma's Cottage. It was just what tradition demanded. Tradition also usually demanded that you were suspicious of any old woman who lived in a remote cottage by herself, but since Grandma was too old to do most things herself, there was little to be suspicious of. Her strawberry jam was quite excellent, and her chickens always laid healthy eggs, but then you could say that of anybody's jam or eggs and nobody would bat an eyelid.
What was suspicious was the fact that, despite the cottage being fairly isolated, it was never disturbed. It seemed like such an obvious target - a defenseless old woman on her own, with it's back to the dark woods... But no burglar dared set foot near the place, and the majority of the beasts and birds of the wild seemed to keep a wide birth from it. It wasn't anything wrong with the place itself, people agreed from a safe distance and with a cup of tea to keep their minds off it. No, it felt more like there was something lurking about the place, something ominous that watched and judged those who came and went. And it seemed to get worse during the winter months, tho nobody knew why.
The wolf who pushed his way into the cottage was new to the area, and either didn't know about the local whispers or didn't care.
It should be explained that the animals of the district were a lot smarter than most, and aside from being able to speak in rare cases, were more given to careful planning and thought. It had been three days since this particular wolf had last eaten, and in most circumstances he would have eaten the old woman up there and then without much thought. But he'd heard other rumours - about the granddaughter who came up from the village through the woods to deliver groceries, and tender young meat sounded much more appetizing. And he thought he knew a trick or two that would enable him to get close enough.
There were a lot of difficulties that came from having paws and no opposable thumb. Tying the old woman up was a bit of a struggle, since he wasn't very good with knots, but it was made easier by the fact that, for whatever reason, she didn't struggle much. Locking the broom cupboard was a little better, since he could just twist his jaws to turn the key, but keeping the old door shut with one paw proved an irritating business. And then, after fighting for at least ten minutes to get the nightgown and shawl on, he still wasn't sure if he had it right. Oh, well. Can't win them all.
He'd just crept into bed when he heard the knock at the door.
Showing posts with label Horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Horror. Show all posts
Tuesday, 19 September 2017
Tuesday, 14 February 2017
Short Horror: Just Add Water (NSFW)
WARNING:
The following post contains horror themes and material that certain
readers may find upsetting. Reader discretion is advised.
I was seven when Sea Dragons first became a "thing".
It was Christmas, and I'd done the usual seven-year-old thing of running downstairs too early in anticipation of what was under the tree. My parents, of course, made me sit down and eat breakfast first - thankfully, it was early enough that the single piece of toast wouldn't ruin the massive dinner they always had planned. But the wait was like torture to my young mind, the orange juice and peanut butter a physical barrier between me and the brightly-coloured gifts. And once I'd eaten, I dived upon them like a peregrine falcon swooping on an unsuspecting pigeon.
The Sea Dragons were the first thing I opened. My fitness fanatic Aunt had discovered them whilst browsing the internet for healthier alternatives to soya milk, stumbling upon the website of their owner, the Ursa Foundation, by accident. The logo of a bear's roaring head was prominent in the corner of the packaging, but I was more fascinated by the pictures of strange, arrow-headed creatures on the steel-grey box. For someone who had always wanted a pet, but knew the family could never own something like a dog, this was the best present ever.
As hackeneyed as the phrase is, if I knew anything that I did now, I would have thrown the things away as soon as possible.
Setting up the little, plastic egg-shaped tank was more complicated than it sould have been. The type of water didn't really matter, but first one had to break these little tablets called "purification pellets" into the water, to create the right conditions. After twenty-four hours, the eggs were added to the water, where they were supposed to hatch an hour or so after touching the watter - mine took a little longer, about two hours. Then the creatures that hatched had to be first fed with a powdery substance twice a week, five days after hatching, followed by strange pink pellets after the first five weeks...
What I'm saying is that it was a lot to throw at a small boy of seven. But it was worth it - with the tank in my window so that the Dragons could get enough sunlight, I soon had a small horde of strange animals swimming about in the egg. They weren't like anything I'd ever seen before, almost like tadpoles crossed with lizards, and it was fascinating to just watch the things swim around in the tank, chasing each other and doing loop-the-loops. It was almost surreal, like staring into an alien world.
According to the instructions, one sent off for more food and other items by signing the enclosed order form, stamping the logo of the Ursa Corporation onto the letter to ensure it reached the right place. On top of this, there were three major rules that simply had to be followed. These were spelled out in block capitals in the back of the booklet, giving something of a sense of desperate urgency.
I would later learn just how bad it was.
I was seven when Sea Dragons first became a "thing".
It was Christmas, and I'd done the usual seven-year-old thing of running downstairs too early in anticipation of what was under the tree. My parents, of course, made me sit down and eat breakfast first - thankfully, it was early enough that the single piece of toast wouldn't ruin the massive dinner they always had planned. But the wait was like torture to my young mind, the orange juice and peanut butter a physical barrier between me and the brightly-coloured gifts. And once I'd eaten, I dived upon them like a peregrine falcon swooping on an unsuspecting pigeon.
The Sea Dragons were the first thing I opened. My fitness fanatic Aunt had discovered them whilst browsing the internet for healthier alternatives to soya milk, stumbling upon the website of their owner, the Ursa Foundation, by accident. The logo of a bear's roaring head was prominent in the corner of the packaging, but I was more fascinated by the pictures of strange, arrow-headed creatures on the steel-grey box. For someone who had always wanted a pet, but knew the family could never own something like a dog, this was the best present ever.
As hackeneyed as the phrase is, if I knew anything that I did now, I would have thrown the things away as soon as possible.
Setting up the little, plastic egg-shaped tank was more complicated than it sould have been. The type of water didn't really matter, but first one had to break these little tablets called "purification pellets" into the water, to create the right conditions. After twenty-four hours, the eggs were added to the water, where they were supposed to hatch an hour or so after touching the watter - mine took a little longer, about two hours. Then the creatures that hatched had to be first fed with a powdery substance twice a week, five days after hatching, followed by strange pink pellets after the first five weeks...
What I'm saying is that it was a lot to throw at a small boy of seven. But it was worth it - with the tank in my window so that the Dragons could get enough sunlight, I soon had a small horde of strange animals swimming about in the egg. They weren't like anything I'd ever seen before, almost like tadpoles crossed with lizards, and it was fascinating to just watch the things swim around in the tank, chasing each other and doing loop-the-loops. It was almost surreal, like staring into an alien world.
According to the instructions, one sent off for more food and other items by signing the enclosed order form, stamping the logo of the Ursa Corporation onto the letter to ensure it reached the right place. On top of this, there were three major rules that simply had to be followed. These were spelled out in block capitals in the back of the booklet, giving something of a sense of desperate urgency.
- NEVER CHANGE THE WATER IN THE TANK.
- NEVER FEED THE DRAGONS ANY OTHER FOOD.
- NEVER TOUCH THE DRAGONS WITH YOUR BARE HANDS.
I would later learn just how bad it was.
Wednesday, 26 October 2016
Predator (NSFW)
WARNING: The following post contains horror themes and material that certain readers may find upsetting. Reader discretion is advised.
"Daddy...?"
"Daddy...?"
The man stared from within the doorway of the freezer room, eyes wide with fear, rifle clutched in trembling hands.
"What the hell have you done...?" he gasped.
Saturday, 24 September 2016
Stand By Me
WARNING: The following post contains material that certain readers may find upsetting. Reader discretion is advised.
~AUSTRALIA, EARTH ZF-02~
~AUSTRALIA, EARTH ZF-02~
Approx. Twenty Years in the Future...
"Yeah, Vee?"
The fire crackled, a badly-applied splat of scarlet and orange against the inky black canvas of the desert sand. The sky above was not quite dark, the last flickers of an evening sun daubing the edge of the horizon in duck-egg blue that faded to navy. Stars dotted the plane like the painter of this ongoing metaphor has lost all patience and was now just randomly flicking his brush at his own easel in frustration with the world in general. And, at the very edge of the splat, sat two figures - one blond, the other brunet, lazily draped within the back seat of a mud-splattered car of unidentifiable make.
The brunet, Vee, had turned open, honest green eyes towards his companion, Bee, as he spoke. His voice was the voice of the quiet, gentle European boy down the road who helped with the shopping, and should not have come from what looked like a wind-battered drifter, sand and grit stuck in his spiky brown hair. He looked too young - both did, somewhere in the awkward transition between teens and adulthood. And yet their dishevelled appearance granted them the look of people who had been dealt a bum hand in the great poker game of life, and had no choice but to keep plowing through the dirt to carry on.
"You ever wonder how long we've been doing this?" Vee continued.
Friday, 12 September 2014
Monster Mash: Round 2 Fight 3 - Mansquito vs. Mothman
Boys, girls and those of indeterminate gender, welcome back to The Monster Mash 199X!
And... let's be honest, we're not looking forward to this one. We're getting reports of a lot of wanton destruction going on in downtown Beijing, and everyone at GaiaCorp is praying to gods we don't believe in that it's just another Muto, and not what we think it is. But considering our luck, it's more than likely Mothman, and it's also more than likely that our other contender is going to find him and a battle is going to start. And since that's what you guys want, we're obliged to broadcast it live anyway, regardless of the immense loss of life on the horizon.
Ugh, alright. Here it is.
Connor Hardy here, trying not to shit myself as we go live to the action...
And... let's be honest, we're not looking forward to this one. We're getting reports of a lot of wanton destruction going on in downtown Beijing, and everyone at GaiaCorp is praying to gods we don't believe in that it's just another Muto, and not what we think it is. But considering our luck, it's more than likely Mothman, and it's also more than likely that our other contender is going to find him and a battle is going to start. And since that's what you guys want, we're obliged to broadcast it live anyway, regardless of the immense loss of life on the horizon.
Ugh, alright. Here it is.
Connor Hardy here, trying not to shit myself as we go live to the action...
Monday, 12 August 2013
Monster Mash Round 2: Votes
And this time, we've got something special planned for you all! Instead of waiting for every blood-soaked brawl to come to it's conclusion before setting up the next round of votes, our crack-team of market researches has suggested a SEMI-FINAL SPECIAL to get the crowds hyped! For a limited time only, viewers can now vote on all three of these epic fights coming to your screens very soon, decreasing the downtime between setting up battles! And if you vote right now, you'll get a discount on all GaiaCorp brand products and services, wherever online or at our lisenced merchandising booths! So what are you waiting for - grab your voting slips, size up our surviving competitors and give us your money!
Fight 1: Giant Octopus vs. Mega Python - The Tussle in the Tethys
Daidako hasn't been seen on duty since his battle with Centurion several months ago. His place in the fishing fleets appears to have been taken by a horde of smaller octopi - cheaper to produce but nowhere near the skill level shown by Sakana Co.'s finest creation. Then a business trip revealed something quite nasty; not satisfied with the our original blueprint, the Japanese government went ahead and performed their own gene-splicing, adding DNA samples from what they believe is a frozen sample of the legendary Kraken into the already-confused chemical soup of their mascot's genetics. They've promised the resulting combination, given time to grow and mature, will bring greater brainpower and tactical genius into the field. We merely retreated to our bunkers with bottles of water and baked beans.
Raja's been living even more like a king since his victory over Tiburon in his debut battle. Actually, he's been elveated to the title of God-Emperor ever since the previous one passed away of a sudden and completely coincidental heart attack, we swear. And while one would think a giant snake would not make a very good political figure, Mega Python has been astounding us with his sudden powers of psychic insight and skills at debating. He's already tackled issues on healthcare, crime and homelessness with startling finess, and political enemies are a non-issue - someone has to be sacrificed whenever he cuts a ribbon, after all. The holy order that tends to his every whims claims he has absolutely no worries about the upcoming competition, but considering we haven't actually seen him training, we're taking that with some salt.
Fight 3: Sharktopus vs. Gatoroid - The Encounter in the Everglades
Since his victory in Malibu, Clades has been promoted to the rank of Praefectus Castrorum, which basically translates to "cushy barracks and fancy food". As a precaution against the ever-increasing strength of enemy military forces and as a means to get an edge over the conbatants, the Greco-Roman Senate has ordered that Sharktopus be equipped and trained in the latest military weaponry. The orders to prepare for Round 2 came at a crucial stage in the training, and it's feared their champion may not have come to grips with his weaponry in time - all he's carrying right now is the standard infantry weaponry of a laser sabre, an explosive javellin, a dagger and a shield with a concealed machine gun. But there's a whole country's worth of swamp diamonds on the line, so of course they're staying in the competition despite the risks.
Gatoroid, meanwhile, has been undergoing a strict exercise regime on orders from the higher-ups at Mann Co. Every morning he gets up to have a wrestle with his owner Saxton Hale, adding yet another bruise or scar to his proud collection of wounds. Every afternoon is spent undergoing a tough regimen of push-ups, track running and pulling loaded freight barges with naught but his front teeth. And every night, he is treated to an entire warehouse's worth of raw, bloody meat mixed with performance-enhancing drugs and mild hallucinogens to increase his agression. Mr. Hale himself has made the bet that if his pet loses the semi-finals he will give everyone who voted for the shark a free hat. And we love free hats, right?
Fight 4: Mothman vs. Mansquito - The Brawl in Beijing
Samuel Escardo, formerly known as Mansquito, has been sighted in various territories since his destruction of Dinocroc. While reports are sketchy at best, it would seem that he has been heading in an easterly direction over the course of several months, heading towards the Communist China territories via wing, foot and train. Trajectory calculations made by our geographists and communications officers made a wild stab at his intended destination - the mountain ranges of Tibet, now host only to the various religious orders that have fled to escape persecution from the cruel hand of the new dictator to step into the throne. Someone suggested perhaps he's looking for enlightenment to his purpose by paying a vist to the monks and spending some time meditating, and then we punched him in the throat for being a twat. But we can't help but wonder...
Mothman? Don't fucking ask us. The less we see of that thing, the better. We've been getting scattered reports of it turning up at various conflicts - the War of Independance in Vietnam, the Red Sqaure Riots in Russia after the victory of Private Spinneret, the Boston Birthday Bash... but fuck that. It's all rumours and speculation and internet conspiracy theorists whining about aliens and shit. As far as we care, it's gone, vanished, crawled back into the slimy pit that was it's-
KeEp T͡hO͏s̷E ̡eY͜e̢S̨ o͜P͡e͟N̕.͏ I͏ ҉w͝I̸l̛L bE ͢i҉N ̧y̕Ou͝R̢ d͠R͡e̷A͞mS͘ tOn̢I͠gH͡t̢...͟
-which is how I almost died the fifteenth time!
VOTE NOW!
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
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..."
--------
hellothere
canyouseemeicanseeyou
shallweplayagame?
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..."
--------
hellothere
shallweplayagame?
Saturday, 12 January 2013
Monster Mash - Round 1 Fight 3: Gatoroid vs. Ice Spiders
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...
--------
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.
I̻͈̙͕̘͡ ̻̖̝c̬̭̮̩̲̥ͅA͈̼̠n̵̯̱ ̭̠̯̫͡S̛̙̜̱̣̤͕e̙̞̙̯̝͇͇E̜͓ͅ
͉̤̬͙͔ỳ̫̙̙̯O̖͉̫̳̘̲̳u̱̣.҉͍̙͈̮.̰͔̩̗̠̩͜.̬̘͖̞̱̻
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...
--------
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-
What the fuck was that sou-
OH GOD IT'S COMING OUT OF THE-
TO BE CONTINUED...
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
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