Round One, Fight Six - Wolfbike Versus Slammonite

And now, as a result of an astounding seeding choice from the crowd, we're going back to our roots as a company with a five star bash-up of a brawl between two truly bottom rung scrappers. Zoofights isn't all fusion engines, psychotropic venoms and lasers, ladies and gentlemen - sometimes, it's just about animals with beefy arms. Folks, I want you to get out of your seats and go fucking crazy for:


The Czech team, hailing from 1995, were underfunded, crippled by bureaucracy, and never managed to activate their time portal. Four days before registration, they acquired a black market wolf, forty litres of vodka, and a motorcycle. A day past deadline, they handed in WolfBike - a ropey disaster comprising a grinning wolf's head, doped to the gills on morphine, and bolted onto the front of a dilapidated motorbike. In a concession to sportsmanship, we gave WolfBike that old zoofights staple, a pair of muscly arms. The stitches are a bit fresh, but they probably won't need to hold for long.

Size: You know the type, big as a motorbike, but wouldn't bust an ape in a zoofight.
Speed: Fast as a motorbike, and perhaps also a wolf.
Offense: Yup, muscly arms.
Defense: muscly arms?
Temperament: Happy to be a wolf. Ecstatic to be a motorbike. Wolfbike.

And who stands in the red corner? Zoofights, I give you:


Against all of our consultations and subsequent warnings, the Reagan administration of 1984 was adamant in its plan to literally grow a pro wrestler onto a giant, pissed-off ammonite. They got what they wanted in Slammonite, a hulking mass of pain and patriotism that will be lucky to maintain a heartbeat for the duration of the tournament. Refusing DNA retroviruses, nanotech and all but a few tissue culture techniques, the American team insisted on doing things their own way - with sutures, staples and a lot of steroids. The two worst things about Slammonite are its two staring human eyes.

Size: Like a millstone, but with muscly arms.
Speed: Yes, as much as he can get in him.
Offense: Well known for his devastating finishing move, the Cambrian Explosion.
Defense: Well, he has a shell.
Temperament: Imagine how you'd feel after being kept in a dark room without food for a week, with 1980s wrestling videos on repeat, and a man coming in to beat you with a pipe wrench every half hour. That's how slammonite feels when he's happy.

In the dim vaults below the arena, two poor fools hopped up on brandy and mob sentiment attempt to unlock wolfbike's crate, using a highly illegal skeleton key.

The sodden Mr Darcy curses and fumbles with the key in the dark, while Machiavelli lurches about in his piss-stained trousers, belching up small lumps of sick.

They have with them two fine broadswords and a sword fighting manual for wolves, with which they are convinced they can turn their new hero into a formidable champion...

But what's this? With an echoing crack, the roof splits open, spilling piercing white light onto the pitiful scene...


Those poor bastards, they didn't seriously think they weren't being filmed from all angles and broadcast to the stadium crowd? I don't think Machiavelli even knows what day it is, let alone what's going on.

Cogs and pistons grind into motion, and the ground beneath the foolhardy saboteurs shakes violently. Ladies and gentlemen,

It's Showtime

The hydraulic platform bearing wolfbike's crate shudders, and begins to telescope upwards, into the blinding floodlights and the roaring of a capacity crowd.

Machiavelli falls to his knees and barks up a gallon of quack, while Mr Darcy staggers in circles, shielding his eyes from the spotlights and waving his sword shakily.

The platform shudders to a halt, and the two fools look up white-faced at the hulking form of Slammonite. The giant stares down, perplexed, and puts a foot forward, falling into a fighting crouch.

As the fans hold their breath, the microphones on the underside of Slammonite's ring picks up the sharp tinkle of the locking pin to wolfbike's crate, as it drops to the ground...

As painfully amplified generic stadium rock pumps through the arena, the crate bursts apart in a shower of cheap Eastern European pyrotechnics, and out roars wolfbike on a plume of oily smoke.

The crowd goes absolutely berserk, cheering at the top of their lungs while Wolfbike begins tearing round the outside of the ring in a victory lap. But Slammonite is not interested in chasing this silly dog, at least while he has two such easy targets in front of him....

The steroid-crazed cephalopod shows no pity, no hesitation, and no remorse in demolishing the two interlopers, knocking them down in an instant with a brutal double clothesline.

Before Machiavelli has even staggered to his feet, Slammonite hauls the Italian political theorist up by the nape of his neck and sets him upright, before braining him soundly with a steel chair.

After catching the limp body in one gristly hand, Reagan's Benthic Bastard hoists Machiavelli up and snaps him across his knee. Blood fountains out onto Old Glory, and Slammonite turns his horrendous gaze to Darcy, who is desperately trying to crawl out of the ring...

Slammonite clambers to the top of the turnbuckle, with the Austenian Antagonist slung over his calcareous shoulder. Meanwhile Wolfbike (who is having the evening of his life), continues to bomb round the edge of the arena in a series of reckless skids, wheelies and powerslides, high-fiving motherfuckers all the way.

With a chilling, gurgly howl, Slammonite braces himself for his signature move - the Cambrian Explosion. A thousand flashbulbs light up in a frenzy as he arches his horrendous back and hurls himself backwards into the air, Darcy held under his 1000lb shell.

With an impact too sickening even to show to robots, Elizabeth Bennet's beau is bungled into a lumpy paste, and Slammonite - caked in blood and offal now - rises once again to his feet. He is shaking all over now, veins pulsing like greased snakes, and the thundering of his heart booms eerily through the underfloor pickups.

He has no more time to fuck around. An arm raises, one haggis-like finger pointing straight at wolfbike, who stops in his tracks, with a quizzical expression.

Wolfbike understands - the game is over now. It's time to stop having fun and face his destiny as a novelty, built to kill or be killed...

We warned the American surgeons, but did they fucking listen?

Betting room staff stare at their monitors with steely eyes, knowing that the movement of vast amounts of money now depends on whether slammonite can keep going for another few seconds, without experiencing full cardiac arrest.

He shakes himself and thumps his ribs, wheezing and refocussing his eyes. He's not going out to his own arteries before ripping the head off this pathetic machine.

Wolfbike zooms in low, and slammonite lunges down to grab him. A heartbeat passes...

Are you ready for a magic number?


At this point, you may want to put on a pair of sunglasses snappily


Niccollo Machiavelli - never forget.