EVERYONE PUNCH THE NEAREST FUCKING CLOCK, BECAUSE FIGHTING TIME IS HERE. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THANKYOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE - THE SEMI FINALS ARE HERE TO SET FIRE TO YOUR CARPET AND SHOUT DOWN YOUR NECK
And it's a shouty night here indeed, Sports Fans. Here in the personal Biffatorium of the Major himself, deep under the smashed surface of the Zoofights pyramid, the row is deafening.
The only thing louder than the diesel-powered tubas and piccolos wielded by the American support band is the din of shattered glass and cursing coming from the massed supporters of the Bat.
Vast sums of salvage takings have been bet on this fight by the various scrap bosses and gypsy kings of the airways, and they are not keen on the display of Americana currently being blasted at them.
For in the centre of the Biffatorium, surrounded by storms of confetti and giant banners of his own face, The Seventh Seal is proclaiming himself the Beachlord of the animal kingdom...
But bats were definitely not on the list of marvels conjured up by the American team for their champion's intro show.
Affronted and deeply perplexed by the winged mammals, the President of the United States barks indignantly and flails his huge flippers with barn-door accuracy.
Although he rages at the interruption, his attempts to fend off the chiropterans is as effective as those of a man trying to swat flies in motion with two sacks of tripe.
Bat's entertainment, Prez!
But the outraged capering of the commander in chief only serves to present his relatively vulnerable flipper hydraulics to all and sundry...
A sharp crack mutes the crowd for a heartbeat, and then fury breaks out - THE PRESIDENT HAS BEEN SHOT.
Sneering with a facefull of hooch-stinking fangs, Fists O'Batahan squeezes the trigger of his eponymous rifle once more and puts a lead slug through the bearded behemoth's spinal manifold.
From his perch atop a windowledge in the old meat repository, he is merciless in his long-distance persecution of the chief executive.
Shot after shot busts through the strength-augmenting tangle of pistons woven into Prez's bones, and the ring becomes sodden with hydraulic fluid...
Hold on folks, we've got a signal coming in from the fuel marshes - it seems something's kicking off down there.
The fight between Croctopus and Brutish Petroleum isn't due to kick off for another 2 hours, and last we heard, there was still contender augmentation work going on out on the rig platform.
You'd better hope the team sponsored by the cartels has gotten their contestant ready early, because it looks like things are about to get ugly, early.
Hold on, visuals coming in...
(We've also included this vision of the scene, which should be more palatable to the beemen, Vin Diesel, and others among you with different spectral requirements)
Ok, we're going to have to hold back telemetry from the Seal fight for the time being - something big is coming right out of the estuary mist, and straight at the rig. Finish your goddamn competitor for once, Oil Team - don't you remember what nearly happened last round?
Hi everyone I've come back to do a sea mission I hear there's also a bug. It is under a mat over there. Also I have a boat.
MEANWHILE IN THE ARENA - FURTHER ANTI-AMERICAN OUTRAGES ARE AFOOT
Screeching mockingly, Fists O'Batahan whips out a lighter and casually torches a banner bearing the visage of the Prez.
Flames lick up the billowing expanse of cheap textile, and the boos and cheers of support from the crowds below gradually give way to screams of panic as chunks of semi-molten, blazing flag begin to rain down.
But burning plastic is the last thing the crowd should be-
Lunging forward with the terrifying suddenness of a freight train bursting out of a favourite armchair, the Seal launches himself into the crowd and nearly snaps up O'Batahan in one bite.
But his turbo-lummoxing leaves his depleted hydraulics struggling to maintain pressure, and he is soon left gasping after toppling a speaker stack and taking a bullet from a cursed revolver (the curse is the bullets are shaped like elbows).
The bat dodges and weaves, but the seal just watches on warily and gathers his unearhtly strength again.
As his fans take to their feet and start throwing rocks in frustration at his inaction, the bat-boxer takes the initiative.
Swooping down with lightning speed, he delivers a cracking blow to the seal's jaw that shatters bone even under car-tyre rolls of blubber.
Nevertheless, the humiliation is enough to bring Prez back to his senses. Hydraulics or no hydraulics, he has had enough of this insect...
Speaking of insects...
As Croctopus ramps up the throttle on his ridiculously heavy new boat, he peers enthusiastically down his shiny brass telescope at the possible shipbuilding components to be found at the rig ahead.
His toothy maw twists into a rictus of excitement as the approaching platform drops into focus - the silly people around their bug are running away, and something is moving under the coverings! Something exciting! Something boat! BOAT!
But as the tarpaulin falls away and a spindly figure rises from the deck of the rig into the gathering night mists, Croctopus' eager expression falls blank.
That's not the real bug! Where's the real bug, croctopus?
SWAMPCAM EIGHT REPORTING SUDDEN MOVEMENT FROM THE WATER SURFACE - HEADS UP CHIEF THERES LOADS OF GUNS SWITCHING ON...
swampcam doesn't want to die
Gunfire ignites the silence and darkness of the swamp, as the makeshift battleship of the Suchian Shipwright goes toe to toe with the lethal technology of the oil magnates.
As boilerplate explodes into black shrapnel and lead chews furrows into steel, the air becomes too full of death for flesh to risk.
Leaping through the heavy metal devastation of the broadside, croctopus plunges towards the pitch-dark murk below with a head full of wonderful plans.
He is content to leave his old toy behind on the surface, because there are exciting new things to do.
But as the groaning hulk above begins to collapse under the onslaught of the superiorly armoured insectoid, he fails to notice a cloud of slender shapes creeping after him in the mire...
But first, THIS IS HAPPENING
Although O'Batahan has been firing his cursed revolvers non-stop and dodging the seal's lunges with razor-sharp reaction times, he is beginning to get worn down.
The blubbery bastard is relentless in the wake of being punched in the face, and hammers his clifflike neck forward again and again with no heed to his punctured hydraulic systems.
He is running on nothing but muscle now, amplified by an ineffable will to crush, pound and gore anything that fails to respect his ultimate sovereignty.
Bullets slap into his undulating gut, but to no avail. He is a Tsunami of Tallow, and the bat is in his way...
At last, the King of the Beach strikes, finally taking first blood against his wily foe.
With a bellow of ecstatic dominance, he hurls himself into the air and slams the bat into the ring, ruining more ribs than the South African rugby team at a meat festival.
O'Batahan hollers in rage and flails with his fissile fists, but to no avail - the seal weighs as much as a van full of steak, and will not budge.
Consciousness begins to fade...
Meanwhile, Croctopus has gotten himself caught in a bit of a pickle. While his boat crumbles into blazing chunks behind him, the flamelit water boils with horrendous worms - the petrochemical-engorged larvae of Brutish Petroleum.
He hacks at them with the Sturgeon's old cavalry sabre, but more ascend from the oily depths by the minute to gnaw on his tail and flanks.
Hissing and snapping, he makes for the pillars of the rig with broad sweeps of his tail, fighting off the horrid grubs all the way...
Gotta climb the mast to put up the new sail or I won't be a very good captain now will I. Ok got my bote nails and my drill but this BUG keeps TRYING TO GET ME. Gotta just get to the crows nest and I can sort everything out, gotta make everything SHIPSHAPE! Aye aye captain croctopus that's the spirit climb the rigging FIRE THE SAW climb the rigging ARG MY SWORD
Reaching the rickety peak of the old rig's burnoff spire, Croctopus throws wide his bullet-pocked arms and gives a hissing, rumbling roar of challenge to his hovering adversary.
Blood streams from his flanks and at least three arms terminate in ragged stumps, but there is still a commendable zeal for shipbuilding in his eyes, as well as a fleeting glimpse of something wilier.
The long climb up the rig has exhausted much of BP's ammunition and flame fuel, leaving its lead hoppers empty - the insect is forced to attack with its harpoons.
But although the vicious barbs give the arthropod a fighting chance of draining the croctopod dry in short order, they put it in the last place in the world it wants to be - in direct physical contact with Commodore Croctopus...
Meanwhile, at ringside, a ratcheting CLICK followed by the plinking of a steel pin hitting the floor causes utter panic - O'Batahan has gotten hold of one of his grenades, and it looks like he's mental enough to have set it off!
The Prez leaps in panic as the winded bat rolls upward, brandishing the compact explosive in his meaty fist...
But what's this! It is nothing but a cheap child's plastic grenade - an ingenious gypsy trick that has now cost the President of the States his unbreakable submission hold over the battling bat! Looks like the guy with the wings is back in the game!
The seal vomits his trademark stream of gull-headed rats, while O'Batahan grins widely and begins to supercharge his knuckledusters.
The noise of the crowd is gone for a moment as the eyes of the semi-finalists meet, in preparation for a final collision that will send one of them into a no-holds-barred battle for the trophy.
The gypsy bat's fingers begin to sizzle as the dusters store a small town's worth of energy, and the seal's eyes narrow.
The bat may be quick, and the bat may be ruthless, thinks the seal, but what he lacks is GUH-
Fists O'Batahan Wins Semi-Final One! Stay tuned for imminent news from the marsh!!!
Hello! You're going to be a sail! You've got all kinds of great lung tissue that will catch the wind like the a great boat sail BOATS! but I can't get at it while you're all trying to slash and murder me THATS NOT VERY NAUTICAL IS IT??? so I gotta use the bote drill to stop your brain a bit but not entirrely because YOU NEED TO KNOW WHAT A GREAT SAIL YOU BE I DONT WANT YOU TO MISS OUT ON THIS OK???
20 minutes later...
Commodore Croctopus Wins Semi final Two!
But before we officially announce the finalists in this tournament, something appears to be going on back in the Biffatorium...
Looks like you've got your drinking contest, Sports Fans. And there's a Gorillion Dollar wager on the line, courtesy of the late, ill-fated Accordion Dude.
The result of this contest will come when the tournament resumes play at the end of the month, but will not and cannot result in the Snapture returning to the tournament, as a deus ex machina or otherwise. He is here to settle one last score, plain and simple, and he has left a mighty big hole in the bar.
If only Gezora was around to get angry
Ah well, Sports Fans - there are bigger things to worry about. Such as the impending final!
In this thrilling duel, our two surviving contenders for the cup, chosen this very night, will face up agains the champion of the Loser's League, Gamma Constrictor, to decide once and for all who will be king of....
Well, sports fans, that's about all from Snakefights tonight - those two loser's league matches were highly exciting!
Now it just remains to see if the inferior contenders are strong enough to fight to the death and leave a victor with enough strength to provide good sport to our reigning tournament champion, Gamma Constrictor!
I hope no-one's shedding their skin, because there's all sorts of deals for the sociable serpent at our house bar and grill, the King of Snakes, tonight.
Speaking of which, the proprietor wanted a word with you all for some reason - I have no idea why, it's not like he doesn't see you all in the bar every morning in any case! Anyway, he seemed terribly excitable.
Gezora has a splitting headache. Gezora hates travelling through time and space. Gezora really needs a drink and something warm-blooded to take the edge off. Gezora is wondering where all of it's regulars are, and why the bar is filled with snakes.
Gezora thinks this is just perfect. Gezora was really hoping for something endothermic.
Gezora might as well make the most of it. Gezora has an establishment to run after all. Gezora wonders who wants tequila sidewinders and cobrapolitans?
SNAKEFIGHTS WILL CONCLUDE IN A MONTH! BE THERE OR BE SOMETHING THAT ISN'T A SNAKE, THE BEST OF ALL CREATURES.