ROUND TWO: FIGHT FOUR: FOOL'S ERRAND
GREAT WHITE SHITKICKER
Bastard Shark has undergone some seriously hideous upgrades since round one. For a start, we needed to put a stop to that plankton nonsense. Now his gill rakers have been replaced with a hydraulically assisted, steel-toothed pair of Megalodon jaws, painstakingly recreated by rogue palaeontologist Richard Owen and capable of biting a horse in half. To give him the incentive to do so, Bastard Shark's walnut-sized brain has been reprogrammed - by burning the words "MEAT MEAT MEAT MEAT MEAT MEAT" onto it with a soldering iron. He can no longer breathe fire, but he can bite the shit out of anything.
In addition to this, he has been crammed full of steroids and gifted with a pair of massive beefy arms (we had a giant skip full of beefy arms going to waste, so we grafted together parts of the largest ones). He stands on a pair of matching beefy legs and - because we had a dead manticore lying around and had some time to spare - we gave him a huge scorpion tail too. And a knife and fork. Great White Shitkicker is now truly a Fire and Forget weapon: he likes to stand roaring in the middle of fires, and he often forgets what day it is, or who he is. He Will Fucking Wreck Everything That He Can.
TWO DRUNK GUYS
Poor old Barrington and Stockbridge. Since their fluke victory against Edward Tigerhands, they have been huddled stoically in their cell, listening to the unearthly roars of their inevitable opponent in the dungeon next to them and drinking themselves to death. Absolutely blind, stonking, sold-to-the-chestnuts battered, they will at least face the end together. They have no upgrades, no secret weapons, and no plans. they have made no pacts with dark allies, nor have they any knowledge of their enemy's few weaknesses. They do however have a lot of whiskey - on the house, too. Only the best for these two champions. Good luck, gents.
The gates open onto the rubble-strewn arena, and our heroes find themselves in a familiar situation as the brute seeks them out...
The hulking carcharodont stalks his prey by smell as they cower behind their old favourite brick wall, while the gentlemen of the audience do their best not to gesture unfairly towards the hiding place of their own species. Plans by the survivors of the rabble to firebomb their assailant are quickly abandoned as they remember that his skin has been treated to resist the very fire he belched in the previous round. Unsure of what to do except await their doom, they simply knock back whiskey as if 'twere water, and murmur old drinking songs to themselves.
The beast catches the smell of booze on the breeze...
That motherfucker just tore up a brick wall with his hands.
It appears our fine fellows have drunk their last drop of Brute Ale. There are no weapons to bring to bear, no walls to hide behind, no mercies to seek. Say goodbye, gentlemen.
But (in classic Zoofights fashion) what's this?...
With a brutal thunderclap of rent concrete, tossing drunks and shark aside like ragdolls as it bursts through the arena wall, a new monster smashes into the field of play. From Hell. Built by the ripper in his foul nest over the last fortnight, we simply have no idea of this behemoth's destructive powers.
We can ascertain these basics:
1) It is being controlled by one of babbage's thinking engines, given some horrible spark of life.
2) Lily Limbcakes. Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit.
3) There are faces in that thing. Oh fuck, it's powered by souls.
4) Are those.... lions?
5) That knife is as big as a bus.
6) The legs of two dozen men.
7) Some kind of nightmarish blunderbluss, loaded with smashed glass, shrapnel, explosives and the wombs of whores, and powered by steam pressure.
8) Conventional coal powerplant, in case souls and whore ovaries fail to provide enough demonic energy.
EVACUATE THE FUCKING ARENA. THIS IS A GODDAMN CRISIS. WE ARE ALL FUCKED NOW, GOOD AND PROPER
THIS MOTHERFUCKER IS NOT HELPING ANYONE
Last, blurred daguerreotype obtained from stadium before evacuation...
Round two, fight four: status inconclusive. No victor announced
Ok, ladies and gents - I hope we got everyone out. For the time being, we've got the arena sealed and under control, so no need to panic. We're sending out orphans to contact the ripper, and we'll let you know if there are any developments on that front. There will be announcements on the status of the tournament in nine hours. God help us all.
ANNOUNCEMENT - END OF ROUND TWO
Ladies and gentlemen, as I'm sure you are aware, we have a crisis on our hands.
It was regrettable that we had to evacuate the arena, but I am confident that we can still resolve this tournament in sporting fashion.
Firsty, allow me to introduce your new lodgings until this regretful business is done; the decommissioned air dreadnaught Red Brute.
Bought from the Ministry of Space after the end of the cavorite wars over Constantinople, this 600 yard vessel has been refitted as a base of operations for my organisation, and should provide us with a fine base of operations within which to play out the rest of the tournament.
Equipped with surgery bays, foundries, holding cells, reinforced arenas, and a battery of staterooms for your good selves (not to mention an excellently stocked whiskey cellar), the Brute will offer all the comforts of the underground complex, with views from half a mile over the East End docks.
For now, the entire zoofights stock of molten lead has been poured from her holds into the entrances to the underground complex, leaving the ripper and his nightmare to wait things out in the dark. If they attempt escape, we have enough cannon to flatten Moscow aimed directly at the site of the complex. All surviving contestants have been relocated to our holding bays, and Mr Swearengen has set up an establishment on the foredeck for your relaxation and entertainment.
Pussy's half price for the next hour. A finger of rotgut for every man, woman and child aboard. I am currently initiating discussions with my staff to hammer out a plan for the continuation of the tournament, and will update you with developments as they occur. Father McGarry seems a reasonable sort and in exchange for his compliance under these difficult circumstances we would be honoured to offer him a penthouse suite at the very prow of the brute and all the darjeeling tea he can drink.
You will be happy to hear that messrs. Stockbridge and Barrington were transported from the arena before we sealed it off, and are currently enjoying Mr Swearengen's hospitality along with an extraordinarily inebriated shark.