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.
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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.