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Cold Warlrus vs. Hippangopotalin with an Anger Disorder



No preamble tonight, Sports Fans. A score needs to be settled, and it's not going to wait for the camera crews to show up.

Before the crowd have even unclogged their phlegmy voiceboxes and begun to wave their cumbersome foam hands in the air, the vengeance-soaked clod of hypertrophic flesh known as Hippangopotosomething is accelerating across the arena, uttering rotten howls of dismay and guttural barks of hatred.

Soviet shell casings rattle to the floor as their explosive children burst from the snub of the Walrus' rifle, hammering across the arena floor and straight into the folds of flesh and scale that comprise their troubled opponent.

The charge builds momentum, and a ragged cheer begins to build in the stands - the cheer of men and women who remember the unsmiling panache of Sawz as he dispatched weakling World Creature Wars contenders, and who remember the unbridled ferocity of the hippos laying into their crowdmates.

Others scream for the Warlrus - for the trotskyist determination of the gun-bearer, or the leering bulk of the reaganist ringmaster. It's probably going to be about ten seconds before something horribly violent happens.


It turns out that the AK-47 is not the weapon that every single disenfranchised guerilla fighter of the 1980s thought it was. Brass slugs tear through the ungainly offal of the snaggletoothed aggressor, but the Cold Warlrus cannot slow its opponent's rush by even a moment.

The wall of snapping, saliva-sodden jaws and wheeling, gnash-edged sawhands advances and looms mere feet from the increasingly panicked pinniped. In desperation, the American head ramps up the power on its freeze ray to chilly maxium, and lets loose fully on the mountain of murder...


A horrible noise, like a centrifuge full of porcelain falling into a vat of liquid nitrogen.

Smoke belches from the motors of the Hippangolin's saw-hand, as the blade cools to an intergalactic temperature and freezes airbourne moisture into a heavy block around it. 

The motors whine, and the blade quivers desperately - a high-pitched noise swamps the arena, and the once-pangolin stares in dismay at his own arm. Then, an explosion like a six foot wine glass being fired at a battleship, and all is gore.


But a shattered forearm means little to a monster that hated its own body from the moment it was conscious. 

Quicker than either head can comprehend, the stinking, enamel-jutting jaws are clamped around the chilled dome of the American head, as if nothing had slowed the charge.

The bulkier of the sea mammal halves bellows in terror, seeing only a pink, cancerous nightmare of tusks and half-healed ulcers around it. 

The scrawnier head down the slope of its left shoulder rears in panic, and brings its gun to bear once more on the bloated skull of the attacker. Sure its bullets meant little to a moving target across the muddled distance of the arena floor, but when has a Kalashnikov rifle disappointed at close range?

Suddenly, the thought occurs to the Soviet half of the Walrus - might it not be better to let the American head take the brunt of the assault, then wipe out the horror as it feasts on his brother?

His flipper twitches, indecisive on the trigger as camaraderie fights honour within his plum-sized cortex. Indecision has scuppered him and his twin once this tournament...


The Red Walrus has deliberated too long.

Chomping down like a Bagger 288 chewing into a mountainside, the titanic teleportation accident crushes the shielded glass dome of the American head like an egg, breaking his own abcess-riddled jaws in the process.

With the dead nerves of the American side having the effect of a brick on the accelerator of Cold Warlrus' right-hand track assembly, the ungainly sea mammal lurches forward out of control, ruining Hippangopotalin's remaining shin bones and mashing his left leg into upsetting paste.

The genetic diaster yodels in horror, and looks up in disbelief as the madly revving Walrus grinds round the arena sand in a sweet donut and comes back to splatter his pelvis.

Then, with its tracks riding up on his scaly belly, the half-corpse halftrack grinds to a spleen-abrading halt, run aground in the blubber and wrecked keratin of the uncategorisable mammal.

The surviving walrus half levels his batttered weapon, ready to finish the job, when-





Hippotopangolin refuses to give a single fuck about being pinned under a giant, caterpillar-tracked beach bastard, and lashes out with his one remaining blue steel sawblade.

Walrus bits fly everywhere, and fans all over their stands drop their jaws and also, in many cases, their wallets. Looks like the Eastern side of the walrus should have fought harder to keep his brother alive. Looks like someone shouldn't have brought a Drillz poster to ringside.

Looks like Hippangopotamus :siren:WON THE MATCH!!!:siren:

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