Good evening, Sports Fans, and welcome to the Zoofights VI Extravaganzorium, in the pleasant outskirts of the bronx.
On this fine evening in late spring, we're here to witness two very special - and extremely violent - messages from our sponsors for the night; the General Monsters corporation of Detroit, and the Croaka Cola company of Terminus, GA.
So take your seats, pick up some refreshments from the Hot Drugs stand, and enjoy the entertainment our beloved financial backers have put on for you.
Ladies and gentlemen, here they come - exuse me while I hide in the lead-lined hospital(ity) suite.
"monster truck" courtesy of Sea Dawg of The Scurvy Crew - check out their site for a wealth of nautical rap tunes.
Beer cans fly through the air, morons shout, and Monster Truck barrels through the very glass of the Zoofights Jumbotron to enter the arena.
While General Monsters' chimeric nightmare revs its meaty engines beyond maximum power and belches out columns of blood-laden smoke, the unflinching mascot of the Croaka Cola corporation is already high in the floodlit air and ready to dance his horrible dance.
Gunning motors compete with the howling of 10,000 fans, while the crisp roar of Croaka Cola's rockets underpin the whole scene with a sense of impending hurt.
Monster Truck screams towards a scrap iron ramp, hoping for the taste of air that will bring him close to his unthinking opponent...
Although Croaka Cola has no sense of self with which to experience emotion, his face contorts into a grimace as the viscous soft drink in his helmet is pushed backwards by acceleration.
Monster Truck too, his face already a parody of anger through the nightmare of his re-engineering into a truck, is set in a snarl as he powers towards the ramp...
Monster Truck hits the ramp at the (admittedly impressive) speed that his lumpen wheels can carry him, and takes off into the air like an obsese vulture made of bricks.
Croaka Cola, however, is completely uninterested in a mid-air collision and comes to a complete halt, setting his rockets to standby and hovering precisely beneath the trajectory of his enemy's impassioned jump.
With absolutely no expression in his eyes, he spews gouts of his delicious syrupy beverage up into the undercarriage of the medical experiment that opposes him, while it soars overhead with a distinct air of disappointment.
With its axles and what suspension it has clogged up by ultrahigh fructose corn syrup, Monster truck knows it has very little chance of a happy landing...
Even without the inection of syrup to the undercarriage, it was a foregone conclusion.
Without any kind of supsension or shock absorbers of any kind, Monster Truck ploughs into the arena sand in the hardest landing since the Lead Bombing of Phnom Penh in nineteen Eighty-Something.
Wincing in agony, Monster Truck spins its wheels in the grit in an attempt to achieve some kind of purchase, but all it wins is the opportunity to sit within perfect broadside range of a volley of hyperconcentrate acid from Croaka Cola.
Gears start to fizz, tendons begin to dissolve, and the apathetic amphibian continues to drift around in uncaring circles, spreading refreshment as it has been taught to.
With nowhere to go but round in circles in the dirt, Monster Truck has no choice but to attempt his most potentially suicidal move - a transformation.
With a sound like a ton of oysters being shut in a church door, his limbs slowly grind into position, and he slowly contorts himself into something like the shape of a tiger. All the while acid sizzles, syrup bubbles, and flesh slowly drips away from steel as the botched metamorphasis is accomplished.
Emitting a tortured howl, Monster Truck takes his horrendous second shape, and concentrates on remembering how to use his shattered limbs as the remorseless frog continues to circle and dump noxious fluids on him...
Monster Truck, equipped with a mind tragically too aware of his physical ruin, wastes no time in using his new and extremely limited limbs to tear down one of the countless advertising billboards surrounding the arena to use as a shield against the relentless torrent of acid spewing from the egoless aggressor in the sky.
Although floods of flesh-dissolving fluid have already made their way into his mangled innards, he strains with all his Detroit-engineered might to avoid further dissolution and attempts to replicate one of the life-saving maneuvres taught to him by his corporate communications team before the fight.
Twitching a certain muscle that almost certainly does not occur in the natural anatomy of a tiger, he launches his harpoon-tipped tow cable blindly into space.... and scores a direct hit on the despised toad.
The amphibian does not blink as the metal barb tears through his space suit, letting gallons of precious Croaka Cola fall in soggy arcs to the arena floor. Croak ramps up his jets to maximum power, but after so much controlled hovering, his thrust is not enough to resist the tortured winching of the ruined tiger.
Slowly but surely, the fight moves into close combat...
Croaka cola did not expect speed from his ill-constructed opponent.
Before he knows it, he is pinned down on one of the arena's many ramps, pressed down by two tons of tigerflesh.
He continues to gush out his remaining stocks of syrup and acid, astonished that GM's shoddy effort has not yet disintegrasted, but before long he finds his zozzles ruthlessly smashed aside by walls of tye rubber and melting meat.
Monster truck finally finds the moment to unleash the fury he has built through long nights in triage and longer days in the Zoofights training catacombs.
He bashes down onto the squishy lump of glass and foil with the billboard, with his agonising wheel-feet, and with the decomposing components of his own collapsing body, knowing that every second that passes is a second closer to falling apart.
Victory seems close, and there is not a moment to lose. As he feels frog bones shatter under the effort of his continual pounding, Monster truck experiences the closest thing he has ever experienced to satisfaction.
The hulking meat chassis of Monster Truck looms over Croaka Cola's harpooned body, as he beats six shades of sugary refreshment out of the frog with his tyres.
The big guy isn't doing too good though - there are nuts and bolts clattering to the floor with every swipe, and his tail just fell off after dissolving through to the bone.
His fur is burnt in patches and glued up in others, and his innards are minced as much my his own continued motion as by the corrosive acid.
All the same, Croaka Cola is still getting the beating of a lifetime. As the blood-stained rubber boulder of Monster Truck's tyrelimb cannons into his glass dome for what feels like the fifteenth time (and it actually is, because Croaka cola is amazing at counting), it cracks through, then shatters completely under further pounding.
Suddenly, the frogstronaut is bereft of his nourishing cola. The gloopy muffling of sound snaps away, and the harsh lights of the arena are no longer softened by fizzing brown veils.
He looks up blankly through the open air, and smells blood, diesel, burning hair for the first time. He sees the bulbous, corroded form of Monster Truck towering above him, forelimb raised, and it is as if time is standing still.
Floodlights gleam in reflection off Monster truck's chrome grills, and Croaka Cola remembers the stars glinting in the darkness past the moon.
Though he is not conscious, his mind recalls the silence of orbit, and the distant, cold embers of galaxies. He remembers the black edges of space where you can see everything there is to see. He saw the edge of the universe, like the hull of an infinite boat, and it made him need to kill.
Enough contemplation. Despite cracked arms and a metal pole through his back, he sudders with new energy. It is time for him to engage his thrusters.
Fuel rushes into Croaka Cola's rocket chambers, and hot gas roars out in a searing burst of heat.
Though his eyes are drying and his blood is growing more sluggish without its constant sugar enrichment, he manages to blast out from Monster Truck's grasp, engulfing the beast in flames in the process.
He screams, and clenches his mangled paws round the tow cable that connects him to his enemy. Despite the acid, the being on fire and the aftereffects of his transformation, he is not letting the frog escape without as much mauling as possible.
In a scene reminiscent of an olympic hammer thrower with a tonne of burnt meat nailed to him attempting to win gold in the murder olympics, Monster truck begins to swing Croaka Cola around on the end of the cable, leaving a comet trail of soft drink and frog blood.
The frog puts full power to his jets, hoping to achieve enough thrust to rip Monster Truck's sorrowful arms clean away from his body.
The tiger construct's acid-weathered joints are straining already under the pull of the bloodslicked tow cable, and metal is creaking as he spins round and round.
The frog goes faster, the tiger strains harder, and the crowd are transfixed by the Whooooosh, whoooossh, WHOOOSH of the frog's towcable sweeping round above them.
Something has to give....
HERE COMES.... A NEW CHALLENGER
With his croke-adapted eyes strained and unfocused in the dry, smoke-filled air, Croaka Cola doesn't even see his own billboard coming.
The last thing he sees is his own unsmiling visage, emblazoned with the phrase "Drink Croke".
If only there was any Croke left in his helmet to drink.
He slams into the board at a mind-wrecking speed, bursting with a sound like a can of cold beans being hit by a train.
Monster Truck, now a column of twisting flames and oily smoke, roars a ruined roar of triumph as the fire crews sprint to put him out.
Through a colossal upset, in the blink of an eye, and despite vast sums of money riding on the assured victory of the frog - ladies and gentlemen... MONSTERTRUCK WINS!
Croaka Cola is out of the first round in pieces, and Monster Truck goes through to round two against ridiculous odds.
*** SPECIAL ACTION REPLAY ***