Round one, fight four: Et Tu, Brute?
From Hell and The Marshes of Far North Queensland...THHHHHEEEEEEEE C-C-C-C-CRRRRRROOOOOCCCCOOODEVVVILLLL
Just over ten years ago operatives of ours surveying the mountains of Eastern Europe came across a very interesting thing indeed: the still twitching corpse of a genuine demon. Luckily, monks and a big saw were on hand, so we sent the soul of the thing back to where it belonged and cut its wings off while they were still fresh. Over the years we tried attaching these wings to various animals, but they had a tendency to rip themselves off and fly away to bother vicars. This seven metre male Saltwater Crocodile had a tough enough back and seems to have accepted the foreign tissue better than most, but the wings still have a mind of their own - and he hates them. He is terrified and disgusted by the wings on his back, and they know it. Regardless of this, he is still a giant crocodile with all the advantages that such a role engenders on God's green earth.
Top Trumps Scores:
Size: 22 feet long, with a 30 foot wingspan. Two tons.
Attack: 7/10 – The wings can slash and the crocodile can bite like a beartrap, but can they work together?
Defence: 6/10 – Both crocodile and demon parts are caked in thick leathery scales.
Speed: 8/10 - float like a nazgul, sting like a FUCKING CROCODILE
Resilience: 3/10 – The leaky scar tissue around the graft is vulnerable to attack, whilst the crocodile's morale is low enough to trigger emotional meltdown given horrifying enough circumstances. Well, either that or something much more sinister...
Evil: 10/10 – The crocodile could be a tiny smiling nun and it would still get an evil score of ten, because IT HAS DEMON BITS ON IT.
Rage: 3/10 – Hard to know how the wings feel, but the crocodile is not keen on the status quo and is anything but stoked about things.
Likes: Tasty fish, the screams of the damned, unanimous decisions
Dislikes: catholics, handbags
(BASTARD SHARK PORTRAIT)
From the grey depths of the irish sea, weighing in at a gargantuan eight tons and 25 feet in length, B-B-B-BAAASSSSSTAARRRDD SSSSSSHAAAAAAAARKKKK!
The second largest fish in the sea, possessed of a leathery skin and a relentless fiending for plankton, was perfect for weaponisation. Early attempts to retrofit a whale shark with carriage wheels and a turret aboard our research dreadnought in Micronesia were tragic and forgettable, but we seem to have gotten this one right. Bastard shark is supported by blade-tipped mechanical legs, and belches a searing column of oily flames whenever it gets angry, which is all the time, because sometimes instead of feeding it plankton we just beat it with hammers and call it a shithead.
Top Trumps Scores:
Size: 25 feet long, 33 if stretched. eight tons heavy.
Attack: 6/10 – A gout of boiling flame, plus the mass of an eight ton shark flailing with razor sharp limbs.
Defence: 4/10 – Tough shark skin, but relatively ill defended.
Resilience: 8/10 – it's big, and it's got a lot of flesh to absorb damage.
Speed: 8/10 - Nimble as a robotic spider.
Evil: 4/10 – He's a BASTARD
Rage: 6/10 – He wants that plankton so fucking bad right now.
Groucho died. The men in the white coats couldn't save him because they were too busy dealing with all of the people who are getting dizzy and vomiting whenever they go near that door with the big 12 on it. I'm really sad. I think it's my fault, because I have typhoid (I spelled it right this time) and malaria and when I tried to hug him after that fight I fell in one of the huge gaping wounds on his body and that might have given him my diseases and so he was unable to fight off death because he was so weak and sick. So I probably killed my only friend.
I might have murdered everyone else in the group too, because I was spending so much time with Groucho when he was still alive and I might have made him sick then instead of after the Rhino thing disemboweled him and so he could have been too weak to protect everyone in that last fight because of me. It probably would have been better for everyone if I'd died in that fire with my parents. At least those two men who threw that flaming bottle are still alive. No thanks to me.
The men in the white coats told me that they were going to give Groucho a proper funeral service and that makes me happy. I don't know why they were taking money from Chinese people in funny outfits and pouring salt and pepper onto his body as they were dragging him away, but I'm sure it has something to do with his honorable Christian burial.
I'm sorry for killing you Groucho. I'm sorry for killing everybody I know, too, even though they threw bottles and rocks at me and burned down my house.
I wish I didn't kill everything I touch.
As the portcullis raises, the crocodevil's demonic wings lift it off the ground without prior consultation with their host and take it right to the vaulted ceiling of the arena. As the bastard shark stares up with steely ocean-dead eyes and belches conflagration in a wasteful upward firestorm, the wings level out at the apex of their climb and fold in for a brutal divebomb. The crocodile muses on the unfairness of the situation, while the shark continues to think furiously about the plankton he cannot have and yet so dearly craves, and roasts the path of the incoming threat.
Blackened and blistered by flame, screaming reluctance yet with no ability to back out of the plan or cajole the wings out of it, the crocodile steels itself for collision and opens jaws wide. As the shark sears extra hard, the reptile swoops in and crashes mouth first into the hot end of the shark. Gill flaps are rent with the impact, and the shark's sandpaper skin plays merry hell with the crocodile's mouth. The beasts struggle and roll with chrome talons, blackened claws and the sort of fury that can only be found in a fight between a cyborg shark and a demonic crocodile.
Bleeding massively from tear wounds and weak from wrestling outside the cushioning embrace of water, bastard shark summons his final reserves of energy and rears up on his hind legs to stab the shit out of his opponent's soft underbelly. Impaled and thrashing, the crocodile is finally cooked to death like a kebab under a fresh onslaught of napalm breath, and collapses into a pile of so many charred handbags.
The crocodile is motionless but for a twitching wing and a rising cloud of smoke, but so is the bastard shark! Gushing blood, innards and dreams of plankton onto the arena sand he sinks to his robotic spider knees with a mechanical whine and a heart-rending oceanic sob, and the miserable light in his eyes winks out. Even though the croc is ashes and charcoal, this battle can't be counted as a win unless the champ is standing to accept his ovation. Luckily, our maintenance staff know just the way to motivate the grim fish back to his feet...
I'M A SHARK!
I'M A SHARK!
SUCK MY DICK
I'M A SHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARK!
Victory for BASTARD SHARK!!!!!!!!!!!
As the crowd cheer and hurl offal as confetti to their broken king, a crusty rattling sound stirs from the charnel pile of the crocodile's fresh grave. With a stretching of burnt tendons and a crumbling of bone, the wings heave from the charred pile and flap off in a billow of flame, still carrying the immolated upper skeleton of their hapless passenger. Brain and soul are gone but form lingers on in a horrible parody of life which - although pretty fucking necro - is not eligible for a tournament win. The black devil ascends and flutters away into the depths of the arena complex (where will they gooooo.... ), and the shark is wheeled onto a gurney for emergency repairs. Now we drink hard, and pat each other on the back. In an hour it will be the lord's day and I will be working hard to sort out an even more brutal pack of lies for the next four fights...
Sorry Gents, but #10 and #12 are still out of action. Old Jack's had a nice sunday spent in quiet contemplation ha ha.. but now it's back to business.