Reanimammut v. Burgertherium

As described to our team by our great-uncle and legal guardian Hironic P LoveHide.

There is a terrible noise and worse stench in the air beneath a fierce and dark sky over the East London Olympic Memorial Celebration Crater. The sides are thick with wooden seats and first-growing greens of moss and grasses in this damp but swelling spot of new old England.

The air tastes like the ashes of Bibles and fumes of burning fat. The noise is growing, like flint being ground against steel, the stench is permanent, like the melting point of flesh before it decomposes and returns to the air.

The White Army have taken their seats at the north end of the crater. Whether alive, dead or ever-living is unclear. Despite the crawling heat, they keep their furs and stab and spit and swear at those who seek to remove them. They look like parts of a giant Arctic mammal strewn across the seats by a blasphemous hand and generate a constant, eldritch growling sound, though no man appears to move his greying lips.

To a man they sing their maddening tune to cheer their champion, Reanimammut, a mammoth brought back to life by unearthly rite. Whether Caribbean or Slavic, orthodox or evil, the venom of cruel gods or the ethanol-alcohol of Siberian potatoes, I know I fear it. 


Ahead of them slopes the prehistoric mass, slow enough to be mistaken as tentative or weary yet moving as inevitable as death.

Beyond its sunken brow sweeps its musken trunk, both features dead by the laws of our world but alive to the naked eye with a constant twitching of minuscule animals that burrow and eat and claw and defecate and recycle the mass of the mammoth’s face.

Far beyond which lopes an ancient sloth renewed by technology that defies our church's teachings, Burgertherium, sliding foot over foot down the crags of the crater, swiveling its alert eyes at those that dare look upon his brutish visage, a crime in equal measures against the law and the joy of life on this world.

Behind the indescribable pink and brown beast a trail of indescribable, clear, dark, viscous sleaze pours and seeps into the rock leading away from the Maradonalds delivery truck and concession stand at the south end of the crater.

Maradonalds CEO and President of South America (TM, Maradonalds) stands beside his stall puffing on a stogie of human bones, his dark eyes flicker in a way that I fear Latin eyes do.

By our sponsors tonight, I am obliged to inform you:

Hot Dogs (now containing 14% real dog) are only £3 each, Chicken Wings (now containing 12% real dog) are £9 / bucket. No refunds, no exchanges. Maradonalds - the flavour of dog we can all trust. 

By the furious calculations on my parchment, these two blasphemous, eldritch titans will reach each other in seven-to-eight minutes.


The grotesque array has begun and not abated despite the maddening screams of combatants and spectators alike. My soul longs to turn away but my eyes desire I watch and my contract demands I describe this indescribably, blasphemous, eldritch battery.

Burgertherium’s claws have sunk in the flank of the mammoth, grey sinew seeps from the gashes and a thousand nerve fibres, like angel’s hair, spill forth, billowing in the wind. Reanimammut rises and flinches as the tiny remainder of a nervous system in the undead meat strikes and crackles and burns and fades as the nails of the sloth catch each muscle strained like piano wire.

As drunken foreign ghastly sailors, swollen with diseases, leave a rusting ship at harbour, so do the thousands of parasites and hitchhikers scamper from within the mammoth’s shag and across the raw arms of the sloth, trembling from the sensation and rage. These microscopic criminals sup on the grease within the Argentine’s folds and work on his meat with their faces of teeth and needle.

The insects grind and writhe and burrow beneath the twitching gristle of this foul mammal, disappearing within it, one feculent speck at a time. The South American monster will not release its grip. The mammoth sways and rocks and ploughs on toward the distant-most side of this hell bowl without losing an inch of its grievous step.

Hot Dogs are now £4 at the Maradonalds concession stand, containing 9% real dog. Chicken Wings are gone.
Maradonalds - real dog in every mouthful.

Burgertherium is angered by the lack of reaction in his hideous opponent, blinded by fur and rid of near all other senses. It trudges forward, perhaps not even aware it is in a fight, perhaps succumbed to madness, perhaps marching down an endless cavern of its own mind.

The Latino colossus relieves its grip, spraying a rooster tail of pink and grey blood from the mammoth’s side with a sound like fat being forced through the keyhole of bedroom door in a cold and lonely house.

It lurches past Reanimammut and sets itself on rear paws firm as the cornerstone of the Massachusetts courthouse, supporting legs each as thick and high as an unpleasant visitor on a night when only those in league with daemons dare walk the hills.

It stands mere yards from the Russian abomination, in a stance defiant of both opponent and god, and heats up its cannons.

The Tsarist monstrosity, as tall as the sail on the deck of the ship that brought me here and as foul of odour as the thousand rats beneath that deck, merely shambles forward.

The collision is inevitable. The sickening crack and the chiding bruise are felt in the gut of every man in the stadium. My arm is too weak to write, my hands betray me, and my teeth claw at the innards of my mouth.

Blasphemy. Eldritchness. Indescribable.

Kids, do you want a puppy? Do you want the great taste of barbecue and barbiturates? Why not ask mother for a Maradonalds’ Dog In A Box tonight?
Maradonalds’ Dog In A Box, a clean food we can all enjoy.

Reanimammut has stopped for the first time tonight. His motionless betrays his true state of death and the audience shares a collective, icey gasp.

The first signs of movement are in the nostrils at the end of that thick, brown trunk, like the finger of a boneless, heathen, unspeakable god, prodding, stroking, questioning what it has found in front of it.

Then the eyes move. First the hair around them, opening like a filthy organic aperture, then the lids, gnashing at the light. The eyes themselves do not move and appear to serve little purpose, but swing about in their sockets like innocent boys of my schooldays, rocking in the bough of the headmaster’s garden.

All the while Burgertherium has not moved, stunned by the change in its foe. Its weaponry is nearly charged and the sloth goes for its guns.

Reanimammut has time to think but it doesn’t appear to. The bite it takes on the dense and wriggling bastard in front of it is whip-fast and trap-tight. It shakes its head in a frenzy, shedding cartilage and brown muscle from its shoulders. It is orgiastic at the taste upon its morbid tongue; it is raging at the tang of gristle between its shattered teeth; it is binging after millennia without food.

Burgetherium tears free with the snap of, previously useful, tendons beneath its tit. The gouging wound is swarmed with flies, eating and laying cack upon the beast’s metallic ribs.

Hot Dogs that have only been on the floor for a minute or two are now going at £7 each, mysterious hairs are £1 extra.
When you want dog, you want Maradonalds.

Reanimammut is going for it. It is whirling, crashing, slathering, shitting mad. I’ve hardly ever left my house but my friend went to the South Pole and says he saw giant blind penguin aliens. That’s the level of madness to convey, here.

Burgertherium doesn’t run. Partly, because it is a sloth. Mostly because it is a Latino brute; grizzled as the Andes, furious as a drug war, and treacherous as the Amazon.

Not only does it own a bio-diesel napalm spray, it looks handy with it, throwing a wall of fire between it and the Winter Palace abomination.

It is said that when St Petersburg fell to the strikes, Reanimammut struck and felled St Petersburg. Not this time. Like any zombie, of which there are numerous variants, equal only in eldritch visage and blasphemous existence, this one is scared of fire.

It paws and reels at the flames, all Halloween orange and chimney red, before stern, Russian will takes over. Until its stern over cooks, casting reels of its guts about its paws. Still it goes on, gaining speed. The level of engineering in monarchist Russia is not enough to hold this beast together. The wooden boards glow orange as they turn to charcoal, the metal nails that pin its spine turn red. Still it goes on. Still gaining speed.

Burgertherium doesn’t care for stoicism. It doesn’t comprehend this relentless. It doesn’t understand how a zombie can move with the alacrity of railway engine in full steam on a stormy night.

There is however, somewhere down its hideous bloodline, a helix of matador within its GM DNA and it weaves aside the charging hulk, tearing a tusk from the gallivant as it passes with a sound like the hair-waxing of a coconut.

Reanimammut, largely senseless to pain or placement is sent careening toward the cheaper section of this evening’s seating. Evacuate your chairs, plebeians!

Hot Dogs are now gone. 
Meat from people who have eaten Hot Dogs is now £2 / patty.
Maradonalds - because you're easy.

Reanimammut crashes through hoardings and spectators. People are strewn aside like playthings in the room of a repressed and tearful child. Dead, decaying, wounded, begging for slaughter, the mammoth is herded by its opponent back toward its White Army supporters.

Burgertherium swings the tusk above its greased and charred head. Snapping at Reanimammut, forcing it up the steps toward its Eurasian masters. Their laudable disregard for the proletariat will not save them, nor their disdain for organised labour. Irony, like any mistress that kicks a man in the teeth and then says ‘please’, is cruel. Were these soldiers to band together for a common good, were they to put the needs of many ahead of the gluttony and avarice and self-serving of the few, they could form a defensive line, take out the mammoth with a single musket volley and spare the despicable wretches in the audience.

But no. Firing wildly about a flight of stairs is what these violent careerists do best. Rounds rustle and fizz in all directions; across the steps, into the night sky, deliberately at people who look poor or disgruntled with working conditions. Sailors take chest wounds, dancing to death on the floor. A woman’s spectacles are cracked, whether by shell or fist, and a baby carriage bounces away past the floundering, flaming heffalump headed the other way.

Pre-order your heffalump rib sandwich today! Prices will rise! 
Dog sauce sold separately!
Maradonalds - our pork, your tongue.

Have you ever felt like you were never destined to be a winner? Have you ever felt like somebody else’s toy?

Burgertherium is alone on the arena floor. Confused, twitching, scraping at its innards. Little white dots appear like horrible confetti through its translucent skin. Maggots. A thousand of them. Bursting out of the creature, escaping its heat and chewing through its meat muscle.

Do you find things leech off you? Do you find yourself giving too much to please a crowd and never getting the glory?

The sloth is in agony, convulsing like a possessed serf at harvest festival in hell. The audience scream ‘Non!’ but we understand too well as the beast turns its heat cannons on itself in a rotten, flailing, scraping bid to stop the internal digestion.

Have you ever spent your existence in training for a fighting tournament and then dousing yourself in fire just to stop insects ripping through your own colon?

What may soothe the pain and destroy the infestation for Burgertherium is also heating that interior, inorganic skeleton, roasting its own flesh from the inside.

Have you ever lost every ZooFight you’ve taken part in?

Even Reanimammut smells something cooking and has come back to investigate, snaffling at the trail of soap-thick tallow to a screaming lump of flesh it can neither really hear nor understand.

Do you ever feel like, no matter how hard you try, what you put yourself through, you are, to the purpose of coworkers and loved ones, just an enemy combatant?

Burgertherium stops. Dead. What little central nervous system that works within it flickers out. The grease cannons click off, the chest stops pumping, the fire swallows itself on scorched skin and whispers away. The life left in it is now mere infection, dark and blasphemous and eldritch and indescribable. The wound from the mammoth’s bite is greying and contracting, puckered like a tree root.

Do you ever feel like a zombie with no purpose but rage?

The sloth rises to its feet. Not like a standing animal. Like a carcass held in a rictus of fury.

Have you ever imagined how a cow would look if it could understand what it’s job was at the abattoir? Have you ever imagined if a chicken could take vengeance for every nugget served, or a pig get even for every ham canned?

Those surviving miniature animals that so briefly flickered and played in the flesh of Burgertherium now evacuate the creature, cascading to the floor like a rain of fractured bones from the slit belly of goat. Its eyes are as red as the lipstick tested on bunnies, as red as the blood that runs from the chuck on a conveyor belt in a burger factory, as red as the boxes of fries it has watched the obese pluck through with their corpulent fingers.

And Reanimammut hates the reds.

Have you ever thought: One day, I’m going to prove them all wrong and it’s not going to matter?

This is the end of everything: Two giant animals, consumed by rage and with no appreciation for life, their own or their paying spectators’, are moving through the audience, ripping at each other in a whirlwind of hate. This is hardly fighting, this is deliberate massacre.

Oh the blasphemy! Oh the eldritch spite! The front rows are now a twitching bolognese of fingers, hats and peanut shells.

The sinful growling giants roll from the stands, just as a wave curses a life raft to the rocks, and the pair collapse to the darkened ground, Reanimammut with a splash of innards, Burgertherium with a scraping of it’s toasted side. Neither care, neither notice.

Reanimammut, hindered by the fact its legs are splintered husks, bellows and grinds toward its opponent. Burgertherium, frantic and murderous takes its chance and rips the second tusk from the steaming face of its foe, matted with blood and burping curses through its failing throat.

Do you know the only way to kill a zombie?

Burgertherium wins and takes a moment to draw heat through its lungs, wretching like an exhaust pipe, shoulders heaving to a new rhythm of madness.

It’s time to face the audience.



True Tales of Zoofights: Fast Food Reanimation

Good evening, wager-makers. Do not adjust your internet.

Something is still rumbling and uncertain in the ZooFights universe. Of worse to come than this.

So consider this for your entertainment.

An East London crater on the banks of the River Lee. The Olympic Stadium was stood here, proud and expensive. Then, across the continent, there was a realisation, an understanding, a moment of popular clarity signposted by a cracking in the sky.

It was a poor joke to hold sporting tournaments*, pageants, elections, song contests and poetry slams while people starved or rioted in the streets because of the mess our rulers had made. The Eurozone collapse became a tangible, physical occurrence that sucked these totems to the ground. All real estate worth more than a bottle of Jaegermeister and painkillers was dragged into the bowels of the Earth.

The aftermath left just lavic rock and rejoicing citizens. The grass around the spot where once was Shoreditch still burns and casts ashen embers across the crater, our arena, when the wind picks up.

Here, in this bowl where life cannot grow, two undead monsters, reborn by the gloves of the damned will show us all what a contest should be.

One smells of mustard, one smells of mustard gas. One comes with fries, one comes with freeze. One is finished with relish, one relishes the Finnish.

To one side of you a South American fast food delivery hover-truck will arrive. Please do not approach it, no matter how tempted you may be for a Banebaraburrito (TM). Please do pay attention to the livery marked “Alerto!” and “Fuego!”, they are there as a reminder that safety comes first for all those who have money in their fists to gamble with.

To the other side, the spectre of the White Army, haggard and dull-eyed shall approach. Please do not address them or offer them any succour, they have survived a harsher winter and a harder proletariat than that which we can offer. They will be dragging with them a high caravan of tarpaulin emblazoned with gold stars and eldritch runes.

Get ready to bet your life or your shoes, whichever is worth more. We give you:


A zombie mammoth risen from its icy tomb of the steppe, the pet of a crazed monk, held together by wood, nails, and the determination of the fading Russian aristocracy against all those upstarts in Pasternak's novels and their sooty, sweaty ways.

From the vats of an Argentina yet to come, at least 200 years and 400 presidents from now, a megatherium made of tech-noir engineering, trans fats and beef chuck (no more than 12.9% cow eyelids). It does not come with a free toy or a colouring-in page. Unless you consider death a play-thing and pain to be your crayons.

So, please, consider, for your entertainment, both beasts as per their original incarnations outlined in ZooFights III & IV.

Allow me to demonstrate by means of daredevil silhouette:

Pro: Will not stop, not like those wimpy humans at the palace who gave up when they died
Con: Slow enough to risk being taken over by another ice age
Pro: The stern will of a Russian soldier in a Russian winter
Con: Bits may fall off
Pro: Those tusks are harder than rock
Con: Those tusks are heavy
Pro: Technically a zombie cannot be killed by puncture wounds, organ damage or any of the lamer cast of The Walking Dead
Con: Technically a zombie is utterly Ratners as a combatant on its own unless in a Danny Boyle movie...

Pro: Will not stop, except to promote Burgertherium branded goods
Con: Being a sloth, nearly as slow as a zombie mammoth
Pro: Tastes like aged steak
Con: Smells like aged kebab
Pro: Has the stopping power and foot-pound strength of a 20ft Terminator
Con: Has the unevolved mind of a prehistoric Arnold Schwarzenegger
Pro: Potentially has all the grace and movement of Maradonna in a tango salon
Con: Potentially has all the grace and movement of Maradonna on a coke and ice cream binge


Announcement: ZooCross 3000

Dear Sports Fans,

We're going to hold a race. I don't want to say too much yet, but I've decided it would be super fun to have a running event over a couple of weeks, featuring a Wacky Races-style lineup of former zoofights competitors trying to race across the USA while trying to batter the turds out of each other. Needless to say we've already got some competitors in mind for that, but if you want to suggest any more, be my guest. Arbitrary teamups are fine, since we will be working entirely outside continuity.

ZooCross 3000 will take place soon, but not immediately - I've got a week-long business trip to a former Soviet state coming up tomorrow (true story), so anything I post will be tempered by the limitations of whatever net access I have, plus the effect of pints of cheap vodka.

Nevertheless, whether I or one of the old team posts it, I'm going to try and make sure you have another fight drawn from the pool of suggestions made at the start of the season to entertain you while I'm away.

In the meantime, I encourage you to post ideas for Shit You'd Like to See this season, since we are in anything-goes mode. Ideas I'd like to tackle soon are:

- ZooCross 3000

- Sun Cat vs Moon Cat (an adorable fight suggestion from someone's awesome kid relative)

- Something to tie in with the Olympics

- Zoofights.... in Haiku!

- Adventures of Biguana

- a secret thing

- more what I have forgotten write now

Anyway, I'm now giving ZF majordomo IronicHide and grand vizier Gravitas Shortfall the keys to this blog until I have reliable internet access again, so who knows what to expect!

Much love,





Whales versus whales: the battle

Last week, I announced a one-off match between Zoofights IV contender Tangaloa and a trio of clones of Mr Atlantic, one of the brutes from Zoofights II way back in 2006.

Below is the fight that was written and posted in real time on the ZF forums, over two hours on Wednesday night. Because it was written as a series of sixteen posts, and because I was writing off the cuff with no real planning, there are probably a lot of ellipses and repeated adjectives.

Even so, it's one of the longest fights we've had, largely because I wasn't desperately trying to draw pictures or cajole others into doing the same. In any case here's how it went down, complete with molten magma, brave Maori pit technicians and Beastie Boys tributes. Enjoy!




The battered old cargo lifter rocks and swings in the frigid Martian air as the three hulking killer whales leap from its embarkation ramp, one by one. Despite the deadening qualities of the thin atmosphere, the careful observer can make out a tinny thrashing sound pouring from the open hold - it is the sound of "Fight (for your right) to Fight", the pump-up tune that has been playing on repeat in the hold of the ship since it left Earth orbit four weeks ago.

True to form, the Brothers are pumped. The two most headstrong of the crew, named Mike Dorsal and Ad-Rorqual by the lunatic fans that have smuggled them here, race straight towards their vast opponent, troll arms pistoning and Orca grins slavering bright white through red dust. Meanwhile, to the horror of the ship's pilot, the third whale simply drops from the ramp and pivots on the ground, reaching out to grasp one of the lifter's landing legs.

The engines of the bulky ship whine, raising huge clouds of dry ferrous soil as they strain to escape the pull of its erstwhile passenger. The crew beg their charge to stop through the ship's loudspeakers, but he can't hear over the music, and simply laughs a silent laugh as he wrestles the ship sideways into the regolith.

Meanwhile, Tangaloa holds his towering war club in the air in a defiant salute, and levels his magma cannon as the brothers approach...

Wasting no time, Tangaloa lets loose a benthic war-moan that is less heard than felt through the bones of old mount Olympus, and unleashes the full fury of the magma plant on his factory-like back.

A glowing torrent of rock erupts from the cannon on the whale's hydraulic arm, roasting the dim Martian dawn with a light that has not been seen here since the dead little world had its own molten core. Dust ignites in a great raging cloud as the magma arcs back to the ground, but Mike Dorsal has already leapt clean over the stream with a flex of his great grey legs.

Jaws open, the jubilant predator sails through the air and lands with a crash against Tangaloa's shoulder, wrenching his cannon arm up and spraying a shower of rock globules into the pink sky.

Immediately the Orca is scrambling over the expanse of Tangaloa's flank, gnashing at his great bundles of cabling and pounding at weak rivets with his oak-like fists. The sperm whale retaliates with leviathanic thrashing, but his attention is split - while his brother clambers onto the larger whale's back, Ad-Rorqual is advancing into close range...

Seemingly oblivious to the rapidly developing brawl at the ancient volcano's summit, the third whale continues to torment the crippled cargo lifter, tearing off antennae with his gnarled hands and delivering ruinous body blows to its hastily welded chassis. The crew scream in their cockpit as a tail swipe bashes a crisp white spiderweb into the windscreen, and klaxons drown out the sounds of pump-up music.

Meanwhile, perched on Tangaloa's nest of dorsal exhaust funnels, Brother Mike grabs one of the Polynesian powerhouse's major hydraulic conduits and pulls with all his oceanic strength. Clicking and screeching in triumph, the orca snaps its jaws open and closed in the spray of rapidly congealing hydraulic fluid that erupts from the breach, like an ecstatic thug looking up from a bludgeoned police informant in the midst of a thunderstorm.

As the fluid gushes onto the dead Olympian dust, the mighty club sweeps that keep Ad-rorqual at bay grow weaker and weaker. They drift like punches in a dream, falling ever shorter of their target as the great whale fades like Sir Gawain at the setting of the sun. sensing this, the black-and-white pack hunter circles ruthlessly forward, licking his conical teeth at the thought of another great cetacean brought low by relentless group tactics...

But not all of Tangaloa is powered by hydraulics. With a surge of black-muscle myoglobin godstrength, the great tail that powered the beast's body into the depths of the Pacific in a former life surges forth in concert with a full body twist, battering Mike Dorsal thirty metres into the freezing sky.

The killer whale's troll arms flail and wheel as it turns end over end, before the seven tonne animal arcs down to land flat-out on a vast red boulder. Even in the weak Martian gravity the landing is bad, and the sharp crack of shattering bone echoes across the desolate volcanic summit.

But during the distraction of the strike, whale number three has managed to yank a viciously heavy looking engine block from the bashed-up transport, and pitches it savagely at the sperm whale. Troll limbs retain a memory of how to chuck boulders, and the spinning delivers a blow to Tangaloa's hill-like brow that leaves a foot-deep gash along its flank. Already weakened by the attack on his hydraulics, the great whale reels back and lets a great cry of despair escape his jaws in a gout of steam.

The hydraulic pipes thrashing in his peripheral vision remind his mammal core of the cephalopod horrors that lurk in the crushing depths beyond the reach of light, but his shark cortex simply roars for blood, for more fighting. His knees refuse to buckle, and the Whale stands firm.

But the Brothers Atlantic have not bothered waiting to see what their enemy would do.

Already, the vicious third whale has taken advantage of the moment of weakness to dive in to close range with a might belly flop across forty metres of terrain. You can almost see the word SEAWORLD fly out of the point of impact, as tonnes of white-coloured belly smack straight into Tangaloa's exposed underside.

The impact knocks the staggering titan entirely off his iron feet, and a plume of dust shoots up to obscure the battlefield. Now free of the threat of the stone club, Ad-Rorqual dives in alongside his brother and tears a huge jawful of flesh from Tangaloa's tail. Jaws snap and fists fly in the roiling red chaos, and a great tattooed tail thrashes down again and again.

The sperm whale's jaw cracks a troll arm at the elbow, while a leathery grey heel smashes sideways in a roundhouse kick that shears one of the larger brute's hip servos from its mounting. Huge damage is being done by both sides, but Tangaloa is becoming visibly more sluggish as his hydraulic fluids continue to drain...

Then a small, defiant warcry sounds.

Unable to watch the suffering of his big bro any longer, one of the maori techpriests heading up Tangaloa's pit crew dives through the forcefield keeping atmosphere inside the battle site's observation bunker, and sprints towards the stricken giant.

Usually we would shoot any human interference on sight, but this is different. The fight's not technically a legal one in the first place, and for god's sake this guy is not even wearing a spacesuit.

His inked, bare torso already beginning to frost up, the warrior-technician takes a giant Martian leap into the fray, and sets to work with a wrench on the whale's back. As his eyes freeze cloudy and his lungs collapse, the hardened techie dodges killer whale fists and jams Tangaloa's main hydraulic conduit back in place. With his last ounce of strength, he tightens a fist-sized bolt, and raises his wrench in triumph...

...only to be snatched into the air by a pair of black and white jaws. The long rows of teeth scissor together once, twice, and the technician is just a bloodied pair of discarded legs. Ad-Rorqual narrows his glassy black eyes as the blood sublmes off his chin. Mmmm... just like fresh seal...

Rule 1 of Zoofights: don't ever stop to gloat.

With a fresh surge of hydraulic power, Tangaloa's vast club-weilding arm sweeps from the dust like stone lightning, striking Ad-Rorqual straight in his smug face.

The Orca's head bursts like a rubber melon full of jam, and it collapses to the ground in a quivering heap. As fluid judders into the compression cylinders in Tangaloa's mighty legs, he rises on one knee and swipes the Third Killer aside with the backhand of his killing blow.


The third whale lands on his back in a puff of dessicated earth, sliding to a halt beside the recovering Mike Dorsal. Both nursing bruises and fractures, the killers back off and regroup around the wreckage of their landing craft. Communicating through terse clicks and squeals as the dawn wind picks up, they tear hull plating and jagged metal spars from the carcass of the ship.

Back to back and armed with makeshift shields and spears, the two brothers gape jaws in defiance and turn to face their quarry. But their opponent is bringing the fight to them.

The slope of the old mountain quakes under the impact of car-sized metal boots, and a deep wrathful keening eclipses the howl of the wind. Forty tonnes of South Pacific vengeance tower against the first rays of the rising sun, and the great club is raised. God-fearing men everywhere pray they will never be charged by a bull Sperm whale with the mind of a hammerhead shark. But it is happening, and it is happening to the Brothers.

As Tangaloa strides forward under ever-increasing steam, smoke surges from the stacks built along his spine and the nozzle of his magma cannon glows brighter than the sun.

Raising his war-club's stony visage spacewards, he lets rip with the full force of the geological inferno bolted to his abdomen. With his injured spine, Mike dorsal cannot dodge the vulcan blast, and instead raises his shield to take the brunt of the magma.

Built to withstand atmospheric re-entry, the lump of hull plating holds fast against the torrent, but in the freezing temperatures of Mars it soon accumulates a great crust of cooling black rock. After a few moments of this even the legendary strength of a troll cannot keep the shield aloft, and it sinks slowly to the ground.

The last thing Mike Dorsal sees is the silhouette of Tangaloa against the dawn, before a new sun blazes and the magma cannon unleashes a new blast of liquid fire.


Knowing he will soon face the gnashing horror of Ned Killy, Tangaloa lowers his cannon to conserve the last of his ammunition. Red droplets swirling with a fine sheen of black slag drip to the desert floor, and the great whale stands in front of his final assailant.

The third orca thrashes his tail in challenge, and bangs the butt of his wicked polearm against the regolith. He lowers his shield, and begins circling the giant predator before him.

The club sweeps out but the killer hops to the side, ducking under the hard rock haymaker and slashing some smaller hydraulic pipes for good measure. A feint with the spear causes Tangaloa to lunge with his tail, but all the huge flukes hit is air. Another slash at the Polynesian's cabling, and the third killer whale backs off to a safe range.

Or so he thinks.

With a heave like a weightlifter throwing a menhir through the window of a pet shop, Tangaloa straight up chucks his club at his enemy. The blow doesn't connect with full force, but wrecks the hybrid's shield arm from the shoulder down. The sperm whale steps in for the kill...

...and the Third Whale, named MC Ahab by his sponsors, steps right in and jams his harpoon deep into Tangaloa's neck.

Blood fountains and hisses from the terrible wound, and the battered killer whale throws his full weight behind the thrust. From hell's heart he stabs at the giant construct, and for a moment all is still.

Sperm whales have a huge amount of blood, however, and Tangaloa did not come to zoofights with the intention of bleeding to death.

Letting his full mass press down on the harpoon, he slides down until MC Ahab has nothing left to grip onto, and wraps his vast metal arms around the smaller odontocetid.

His sheer size and strength now uncontestable, Tangaloa turns the whale upside down like a ragdoll and raises him high in the air.

Singing a subsonic hymn to the oceanic spirits commemorated in his Moko tattoos, the giant contender drops to one knee and executes his most exalted move, the Tiki Tombstone Piledriver.

The final Brother's spine is ruined in an instant, but the light has not left his eyes. Not dying now is his greatest mistake. Driven by an unimaginable rage, Tangaloa backhands the Orca's body onto its belly, and places his enormous iron foot on the back of its neck.

Screaming in triumph as he crushes the beast's upper body, he reaches down and tears off its head in a flourish of shark instinct, before letting off a vertical jet of magma fumes to salute the spirit of his adversary. It is done.


As the Martian sun climbs into the sky, it illuminates a champion who will be forgotten by time.

Bleeding, leeking hydraulic fluid, wheezing from smoke-tattered lungs, Tangaloa looks up from the pasted remains of his foe and considers the horizon.

High up where the pink dawn bleeds into the cold blackness of space, a single point of light is twinkling.

Is it that time already?

The wounded titan picks up his Moai club and flexes his joints. It is all he can do to stay on his feet, but he will not show weakness. Whatever comes now, he will face with courage.

There is no time to prepare. As a faint, faint roaring filters down through the whispy heavens of the red planet, Tangaloa braces himself and prepares for what he know will be his last battle.

<commentary ends>

This fight dedicated to Adam 'MCA' Yauch. Couldn't think of a better tribute than to name a badass killer whale after you, dude.


It's a bash, it's a smash, it's the Fight of the flipping Century

So while I was ruminating on catfish, Gravitas Shortfall lets me know there's a fight going on.


Apparently, some tough young turk by the name of BikeBike is going up against reigning Hardcore Champion a Cat With One Leg. No time to vote, I'm afraid - this is going down as we speak, in some kind of super underground hush-hush BMX arena.


To fill you in if you don't know these guys, BikeBike is the front half of a bike sewn onto a bike, while a Cat With One Leg is a cat with three legs binned. No more time to explain this is happening:


Woah, that catte has some moves, check out the air he got there! But wait, what's that twitching in BikeBike's chassis? No way, I can't believe it, that is Sick, blood

Yeah, that's right. EVERYBODY WINS. Welcome to zoofights, now Booze Up and Riot.