Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, Fans and Haters, THE MONSTER MASH 199X IS BACK!
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-
WARNING: The following is completely not canon at all, and is also very silly indeed. If you don't care for that sort of thing, skip this post and read some Monster Mash instead. If you do, go right ahead!
Also, this is a parody of a song owned by Disney, and is in no way an attempt to infringe copyright or make money off their hard work. However, I have no problem directing you to where you can listen to the song, if you wanna sing along to this. :P
SONG: It's Gonna Be Great
Winnie the Pooh (2011)
Written by Robert Lopez
Sung by Jim Cummings and Bud Luckey
CHARACTERS: Stanley Rockwell and the Society.
MADDIE: Gonna fix you up - by the time we're through,
You'll be a part of the Society too!
It's gonna be great, it's gonna be great, it's gonna be great!
Gonna work with us, digging up the woods,
And we'll show those Kobbers we got the goods!
It's gonna be great, it's gonna be great, it's gonna be great!
STAN: Well, I don't know...
MADDIE: Oh, stop that gloomy rumination!
All you need is a little bit of modification!
STAN: Wait!
MADDIE: Why wait?!
Don't you see, it's gonna be great!
It's gonna be great, it's gonna be great, it's gonna be great!
BARROS: (Spoken) Well, everything checks out, Stan. But now you have to learn to work with us.
SOCIETY MEMBER: When you learn to fly, you should take it slow,
So I want you to keep your swooping low!
It's gonna be great, it's gonna be great, it's gonna be great!
STAN: (Spoken) Heeeeeelp!
SOCIETY MEMBER: If you're running fast, hit and tree and you'll fall, (STAN: Ooof!)
So you gotta duck and dodge them all! (STAN: Ouch!)
It's gonna be great, it's gonna be great, it's gonna be great! (STAN: Aaaaargh!)
ABRASION: A perfect punch will make you feel alive!
Just go from a crouch into a lunging dive!
STAN: Ow! Ow! Ow!
ABRASION: You're getting it now!
It's gonna be great, it's gonna be great, it's gonna be great!
CRYSTAL: Oh, isn't this better for your health,
Two of us working together?
I used to work all by myself,
But two is so much better!
(Spoken) Are you ready?
STAN: (Spoken) For what?
CRYSTAL: I'll! Be! The! Kobber, you'll be the soldier!
Gonna see which one is bolder!
It's gonna be great, it's gonna be great, it's gonna be great! (STAN: Woah!)
You're gonna give me your best attack,
But don't you think that I won't fight back!
It's gonna be great, it's gonna be great, it's gonna be great! (STAN: Aaaah!)
Strike me down! Gimme all you got! (STAN: Ow.)
Bash me! Mash me! Trash me! Smash me!
Do it! Do it! Do it!
It's gonna be great, it's gonna be great, it's gonna be- WAAAAGH!
STAN: (Spoken) Oh my gosh, Miss Haywood! I'm so sorry, that was really-
Welcome, Sports Fans, to the final battle in The Monster Mash 199X's Round 1!
And what a slobberknocker this fight is going to be, folks! To celebrate 50 years of GaiaCorp bringing questionable science to the globe, we're staging the battle of the ages on our home turf of sand, sea and sun - an ironic framing device for the carnage and political raspberry-blowing about to take place! Tell us, dear fans - did you ever lie in bed at night, wondering who would win in a battle between a shark with octopus tentacles and a piranha with a snake's body? If not, then please turn off the T.V. and thing very long and hard about what you've been doing with your life, you sad sap. To everyone else, you're more than welcome to witness the tussle between Clades of the Greco-Roman Alliance and Carrasco of the Amazonian Territories!
Come one, come all, because our Marketing divison has proudly dubbed this 50th Anniversary event...
We now go live to Hawaii, where the final battle of Round 1 is about to take place...
-------
Carl Fischer, CEO of toy and game manufacturer MagicHat Inc., was
not in a good mood.
He was the sort of spoilt, bratty person who liked to get his own way, and
right now things were not going his own way at all. First of all, his car had
been clamped - he was late for work and brushing toast crumbs from his lapels,
how was he supposed to know he was on a double yellow? Then a lawsuit had
come in from their main rival Cliffside Ltd. over apparent copyright
infringement on their children's card game, Battle Beasts, which is exactly the
sort of thing the company needed on the brink of releasing their
children's dice game, Dungeon Dice. Then upon returning home, a message on his
voicemail revealed his wife Deborah had found his private stash of money and
was using it to run away with that greasy-haired, jobless biker from down
the road. And finally, his steak had been served cold.
So no, he reflected as he did his best to finish his meal and ignore the
obnoxious steel drum band in the centre of the restaurant. He was not in a good
mood at all. There were loads of people in this straw-roofed, sun-kissed
beachside diner that were in far better moods than he was right now, and why
shouldn't they be? After all, they were either happy holidaymakers making a
pit-stop on their way to the next big attraction, couples looking for a
romantic dinner or bored surf jocks seeking a quick snack before they hit the
waves once more. They didn't have to put up with lawsuits or unfaithful wives,
and thus were on sugar highs compared to Carl’s current simmering rage and
depression.
In fact, the businessman was so busy reflecting on what a bad mood
he was in, he failed to notice something that was very soon about to put him in
an even worse mood. Which is a shame, because it would have also probably been
the most interesting thing he'd seen all day, if also the last thing he'd ever
see.
Carrasco has arrived to the battlefield a little early, deployed
surreptitiously in the jungles by his corporate masters, and is naturally
starving. So the first thing he does upon finding the restaurant is throw
himself at it like a starving badger lunging for a nest of baby rabbits,
smashing through the flimsy wood before any of the clientele can shriek for
help. His coils overturn furniture in an avalanche of tables and half-eaten
food, and with every clack of his massive mouth his razor teeth cut through yet
another helpless bystander, sending showers of blood and intestines everywhere.
Eyes rolling in his head, his nose full of the stench of food, the
Brazillian barbarian goes a little bit mental with glee, and for a few
glorious minutes his world is full of tasty snacks and screaming.
Sadly, this pleasant little reverie is short-lived.
No more than a few metres away, on the now deserted beaches, an iron-gray
bulk rises from the foaming breakers, accompanied by a swirling mass of orangey
cables as Clades hauls himself ashore. Rome's greatest war hero emits a gurgling
breath as he slops up the sand, the sun hot on his back and the ivory sand
soothing his war-weary tentacles as they drag their owner forwards. Piggy black
eyes lock onto the faraway scene of destruction, nostrils dilate to suck in the
scent of broken wood, blood and swamp water, and neurones fire up inside the
ancient brain in preparation for battle. With some effort, the chimeric carcharodon
begins to move at a faster pace, dripping water as he lugs his considerable
weight towards the panicked restaurant.
Unaware of the arrival of his foe, Piranhaconda has managed to corner a
scrawny teen with a dumb backwards cap who had been giving him the slip quite a
bit. The human had done his best to outwit the persistent predator, ducking and
diving away from every lunge Brazil's monstrous security guard has made, but in
his panic he has allowed the beast to lure him against a wooden partition where
he can't dodge either left or right and to jump would mean broken legs. With a
terrified scream, the teenager presses himself against the fence as Carrasco
rears up to striking height, ropes of saliva and blood dribbling from his mouth
in anticipation of his next snack.
And is punched in the jaw by a battering ram of pure muscle.
As the reptile goes twisting and crashing into the splintery wreckage of
tables and chairs, Clades pulls himself over the balcony and into the
restaurant, snarling throatily at his foe. The Greco-Roman gladiator's nose is overwhelmed with the stink of his enemy, of unfamiliar waters and death, and his teeth snap at the air in an attempt to intimidate his monstrous rival. Never before has he encountered an opponent like this, in all his long years of fighting for his country, but he's not prepared to let down his guard like some rookie just because he's fighting an unfamiliar enemy. He ignores the tiny human fainting dead away in the corner, and instead concentrates on anchoring himself to whatever supports he can find, tentacles winding around beams and railings as the enraged Piranhaconda shakes off the debris with a maniacal hissing.
The two beasts face off.
Art by The Deleter
And it's, unsurprisingly, the Brazillian beast that attacks first, dashing forward with mouth agape. Sharktopus is quicker on the draw, however, and swings his massive form aside so that the razor teeth clack down upon nothing before darting forward with a bite of his own. But then the wicked head of the Piranhaconda twists round in the return-stroke that has caught so many unaware pirates by surprise, and the startled shark is forced to leap over his enemy's sinuous body as the teeth miss his shoulder by a fraction. His coils grating on the wooden planking, Carrasco keeps pace with his enemy, roaring as he twists back into the striking position to face his foe before striking out again, this time aiming for the pointed nose out of sheer spite.
A second blow to his face, however, is enough to dissuade him - the cunning Clades has lashed out with a splintered plank from the remains of the furniture, smashing it over the piscene head and sending him sliding back, jaws agape in threat. But mere act of flinching has shown vulnerablility to the chimeric carcharodon, and with a gutteral bellow Sharktopus drops his impromptu bludgeon and whips two free tentacles out towards his enemy, coiling one of them around Piranhaconda's throat whilst the other drives it's spiked point into his side. The piscene predator screeches as his blood is spilled, his garling breaths cut off by the crushing vice around his windpipe, and Clades growls as he drags his foe closer, sensing victory is already at hand.
CHOMP
Sometimes, being horrendously short-sighted isn't the handicap you think it is. Through the blurry haze of his vision, Carrasco was able to make out what the horrid cold blobs were, and with a sharp twist was able to get his jaws fastened around the fleshy cable around his neck. Sharktopus bellows with pain and surprise as his tentacle is severed, inky blood pouring as he pulls away from his opponent and scrambles backwards over the rubble, trying to put some distance from his opponent. Sensing the window of advantage fading quickly, Piranhaconda darts forward with speed born of bloodlust and anger, and before the Greco-Roman gladiator can collect his wits his sinuos foe has thrown two loops of his scaled body around his midsection, out of reach of the grasping limbs.
The cruel chimera gasps in surprise as the coils tighten, crushing his skeleton and restricting the air flow to his primitive lung. But then, something odd happens - the Brazillian entrant suddenly emits an ear-piercing shriek and lets go, sliding away from his once-vulnerable opponent. As the dazed Sharktopus rights himself, the spines jutting awkwardly from his gill slits are glistening with fresh blood - what the bio-engineers considered an impediment to the beast's breathing now reveals itself to be a viable defensive tactic after all, preventing their owner from being crushed to death.
Thank you, Italy.
Thitaly.
Bleeding from the multiple perforations in his flesh, Piranhaconda tries to collect his wits, now unsure exactly of how to approach a foe that has eluded the constriction that claimed the lives of so many river pirates on the Amazon. But he isn't given the chance - another tentacle winds itself about the piscene head, and before he knows it Clades has slammed his face once, twice, three times into the bar counter, sending splinters of wood into the air and in his skin. Shrieking and spitting blood from his nostrils, the fish-headed freak rears back, and Sharktopus presses his advantage, ripping out one of the overhead neon signs from the roof and cracking it right across his jaw, sending Carrasco flying against the wall with a bang and an explosion of shrapnel.
Clades isn't finished yet, however. Roaring with bloodlust and triumph, the tentacled terror turns away from his stricken foe and reaches out towards the shattered remains of the bartop. Grasping it as hard as he can, suckers fastening onto the wooden surface like industrial strength glue, the war hero heaves sideways with every bit of muscle he has to bear, tentacles taut with exertion. With a noise akin to someone's best pair of trousers ripping asunder, the entire counter is uprooted from the rest of the floor, and with a second bellow the savage shark twists on the spot, ready to slam it's whole mass into the dazed Piranhaconda and put him out of the building for good.
A Piranhaconda who was already gone the moment he turned away.
It's Sharktopus' turn to go flying as he is struck in the midsection by several tonnes of muscle, the countertop flying from his tentacles as he sails backwards and smashes through the balcony railings. Only by a miracle does he act quick enough - the tentacles grab onto support pillars and fasten themselves to the floor of the balcony, stopping him from going completely over the side. Muscle strain with the effort of keeping his bulk in the air, the grey body precariously hanging above the ocean waters like a pendulumn in a grandfather clock. Wood creaks ominously in the stifling air.
Rolling his mad black eyes up, Clades spots the narrow head of Carrasco appearing over the side of the balcony, scales sliding on the floor as he looms over the stricken shark. Saliva drips copiously from the wide jaws, splattering onto the wood, and the heavy, growling breath of the beast echoes in the ruins of the restaurant like someone revving a chainsaw in a warehouse. Piggy eyes glare down at their vulnerable target, and Sharktopus knows that there's no way he can defend himself here. Not only does the Brazillain behemoth have a height advantage, but his copius length means reaching down to finish the job won't be a problem. A single razor bite to the jugular will be all it takes.
Sharktopus shuts his eyes and waits.
And waits.
And waits.
...and opens his eyes again, confused.
Piranhaconda is still there. Still breathing, still looming. He hasn't attacked, hasn't made any move to descend downwards and kill the conflict-weary carcharodon. Yet he's stilll there, looking down in his direction, panting and drooling everywhere as the stench of blood and meat drives his hunger. Clades, needless to say, is somewhat unnerved by this, and wonders what on earth the capitalist creation is up to. Is he gloating, in some perverse manner, before he finishes off the fight? Or does he simply intend to wait for him to dry out or drop, making his job easier? Skin beginning to crisp in the hot sun, the Grecian general flips through his mental book of war tactics to try and figure out the strategy being employed here.
Then he notices the way Carrasco's head shifts left and right, and the way the eyes dart back and forth.
He can't see him.
The Amazonian abomination's poor eyesight has him confused - he knows he saw the other monster go over the balcony, but can't see any trace of him, despite being able to smell him. It's a glaringly-wide opportunity, and Clades takes it - with a roar, he hauls himself upward like a fat kid on a rope swing and sinks his teeth into the back of Piranhaconda's neck before the serpent can react. An ear-splitting scream cuts the air as the bewildered snake-fish writes in his grasp, and the Conquerer of the Swiss Coast bites again, slicing a chunk of flesh from his opponent and gulping it down in one motion. Another bite like that, and he'll snap the thing's spine in two.
But now he can smell his attacker, Carrasco is quick to respond. Sharktopus has made a grievous injury indeed, but he's bitten too far down the neck, and this gives the pugnacious piscene the room he needs to lash out with the return-stroke, biting above his aggressor's right fin and tearing it almost completely off. Clades' eyes widen in shock and pain, not anticipating a counterattack of any kind, and in his surprise he lets go of his hold on the balcony, dragging the spitting serpent with him as he falls. The two hit the ocean with an almighty splash and a plume of foam, vanishing from sight underneath the waves snd leaving only the ruined restaurant in their wake.
But the battle is far from over - the field has merely changed.
-------
The peace of the coral reef is disturbed by the sounds of battle.
Piranhaconda has proven himself a fast learner, if nothing else. Having wound his coils lower down, where the quills can't hurt him, the Brazillian behemoth has set about crushing the life out of his opponent, confident of suffocating his foe while the tentacles can't reach him. However, the bite to the back of his neck is leaking blood into the water something fierce, his muscles cramping with the pain, and already Sharktopus is digging his teeth into his side, causing even more pain to the protector of the plantations. On top of that, his gills aren;t designed for the sea - the salt water is making them burn something fierce.
This is going to be a battle of attrition - if either competitor wants to win this, they'll have to endure the torment being inflicted on them for as long as they can. But one of the monsters has other ideas.
Clades may be in white-hot agony from the crushing force on his ribs and the lack of breath, but he's not about to give up easily. As the amphibious abominations twist and tumble through the water, he espies the bright, gaudy colours of the coral reef from the corner of his eye, and the jagged formations give him an idea of how to escape his predicament. Releasing his grip on the serpent's side, the Maurader of the Mediterranian lives up to his reputation for on-the-fly cunning as he lurches sideways towards the shore, slamming bodily into the corals. Pieces of polyps fly in all directions, clouding the monsters in an explosion of underwater dust.
Carrasco shrieks in pain as the sharp corals puncture his scales, but in his panic he merely tightens his hold, refusing to let go. Again and again, his nemesis drives into the reef, sending up clouds of debris and scattering fish and crabs everywhere, and each time the polyps slice the persitant predator's skin in different places. Piranhaconda clings bravely on, enduring the pain of this battering, but when a particularly sharp coral bites into the flesh beneath his eye it becomes too much for him to bear, and to the immense relief of Clades he relinquishes his hold and speeds to the surface, desperate for air and relief.
His monstrous head breaks the surface, and his jaws gape open as he gulps in vital oxygen to relieve the burning in both his snake lungs and fish gills. The sun beating down upon his face helsp to relieve the panic of his battering against the coral, but it also impedes his already-poor vision, and he doesn't notice Sharktopus crusing slowly into position underneath him. Now free from the constricting coils, the cruel chimera can breathe freely and think clearly about his strategy, and he can see that once again his opponent has rashly left himself exposed to an attack he'll never see coming.
Ancient instincts kick in as Clades the Sharktopus surges up from the deep.
The water explodes again as the shark launches from the water, carrying the squiriming, shrieking Piranhaconda in his jaws. As he reaches the peak of his jump, the Italian war hero shales his head from side to side, teeth cutting out another chunk of flesh from his opponent, before both animals crash down into the ocean. The water turns pink with blood, and admist the spray Clades rips away, trailing crimson clouds as he bolts down his mouthful of meat, leaving Carraco writhing in the water. He turns, but does not attack again - he's employing the classic hit-and-run tactics of his ancestors, waiting to see how badly his attack has crippled his foe.
As it turns out, pretty badly. Piranhaconda is not only bleeding out, bitten through almost to the spinal cord, but terrified and exhausted beyond all measure. This foreign waters stings in his wounds, he can't see his enemy no matter where he twists and turns and his nose is so full of blood he can't pinpoint the foe via smell either. His strength is leaving him rapidly, his pained writhings to stay afloat becoming weaker and weaker by the second, and already smaller sharks are gathering to see what's going on. The bane of the banana pirates is wishing madly for his shoal to be around, or for a nice raw cow to munch on instead of all this pain, but he's on his own and dinner isn't being served in a harness lowered into the water. He's out of his element and scared to death.
Out of the corner of his eye, through the mist, he sees a shadow, moving about close to the sea floor in a vague, meandering pattern. He can't tell if it's Sharktopus through all the blood and churning water, but at this point he's desperate to take any opportunity to fnish this fight quickly, and a horrid determination siezes the monstrous mash-up's mind to go all-out against his opponent. Not even roaring this time, Carrasco dives down towards the misty shape, snapping his jaws furiously in one last attempt ot uphold the honour of his masters and the glory of the Amazon Territories. It's a long-shot, betting entirely on sheer luck that he does any damage whatsoever to an enemy that might not even there.
And it misses.
Having taken the window of opportunity to scanvenge on the sea floor, Sharktopus puts the unfortunate creature out of his misery by braining him with an iron pipe. The crack of breaking bone echoes around the sea floor, and blood and brain matter billow into the water as the battered Brazillian crashes into a heap on the sea floor, dead. The yellow eyes roll in their sockets, staring up at the sun filtering down through the water, but seeing nothing. A thousand dollars of genetic splicing, selective breeding and careful training, gone to waste.
Clades growls with satisfaction, dropping the pipe to the floor. Then, noticing the approach of smaller sharks drawn by the scent of blood, he grabs his fallen foe in his tentacles and drags the corpse upwards towards the shore. He intends to feast well tonight, in honour of yet another victory for the Allied Military Forces.
SHARKTOPUS WINS!
Wow! What a fight that was, huh? Only fitting for the conclusion of Round 1! Don;t forget to collect your bets and Greco-Roman War Bonds - even the smallest dollar counts towards the war effort!
Oh, but don't go away just yet! The Monster Mash 199X is far from over - we still have Round 2 coming up in a month or so! Also, your favourite freak may have lost horribly, but he may still have a chance to crawl back from the brink! Our sister company, Greentech, is hosting the Monster Mash's very own Loser's League on Channel G, giving you the chance to help a loser become a winner! Just like in the regular fights, all you have to do is head for your nearest voting booth and place your bets, and hopefully buy our overpriced merchandise as well! And if you ever miss out on our live broadcast, you can catch up by going to our website and checking out the Loser's League Fite Blog!(WARNING: Must be 18 or over to view the website.)
(So yeah, taking a bit of a break from writing Monster Mash. Also, Gooper Blooper has very kindly offered to host the Loser's League fights on his blog, which will help take the workload off. Thanks, man :3)
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!
...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!
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.
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..."
