Yo Sports Fans, Fight Five's here and it wants a word with you.
This week, the jungle hits the streets in a bout that rings of classic zoofights carnage - 8 brutes, one ring, and no mercy. Check it out:
FIGHT FIVE: FUN BY THE TON
Coming up from the underground,
They're mean, they're keen, and they've seen it all before. If they had vocal chords, they would probably wisecrack. Folks, they are the inimitable MANGOLIN' PANGOLINS!
Dragged from the jungle at birth, these four Malayan roustabouts have been subjected to a diet of liquidised steak and growth hormones, tooled up with wrecking tools instead of hands, and inducted into a life of ritualised combat.
But that's ancient history, man.
These bad dudes are most well known for going missing from a surgeoneering compound three years ago, while being prepared for round two of the Toronto Winter Zoofights. They've been on the run in the sewers of North America ever since, battling rival gangs, solving extremely simple mysteries, and eatin' burgers in the name of brotherhood.
Now they've been recaptured, and offered a deal - win this tournament, and win freedom to return to the jungle (concrete or otherwise).
While they're larger than your average pangolin, they admittedly aren't much smarter - but what they lack in intelligence they make up for in street smarts, perfect knowledge of each others' fighting styles, and the ability to wreck shit with their oversized metal hands.
Mangolin' Pangolins - Surgeoneer’s notes:
(While the surgeoneers who orginally assembled the Pangolins are now mostly dead or insane, their notes remain, and the ZFVI team have been checking them out against the recently recovered Pangolins to see how they have held up over the years in the underground).
From the fever dreams of "narwhal skwad", our most loathed surgeoneering team:
Look in the eyes of a hippo. See its hunger and its hate, its incomprehension and its indignation. Feel its need to smash, trample, chomp and bellow.
Now imagine going inside every cell in that hippo's body and cranking the volume up to eleven. Then imagine four of them.
That's all you need to know to understand HIPPOS WITH AN EATING DISORDER
The idea was beautiful in its simplicity. Hippos with vastly accelerated metabolisms, sped up to avoid the lumbering boredom usually associated with hippo-based zoofights. No more plodding around farting, they said.
We never should have signed the release forms.
What we have on our hands now, after months of failed experiments, containment failures, exterminations, feeding team deaths, squandered budgets and cannibalistic horror shows, is this.
Four raging hippos that live constantly on the brink of starvation, desperately shovelling whatever they can find into their teeming internal bio-reactors in order to gather enough sustenance to keep on eating. The more they eat, the bigger, the angrier and the stronger they become.
They are relentless, remorseless, and incapable of hesitation. They eat, they eat, and they trample things flat to make them easier to swallow. Sure, they may start off a bout looking gaunt and feeble, but God help the opponent who lets them eat uninterrupted.
Hippos With an Eating Disorder - Surgeoneer’s notes:
Go for it, noble stadiumgoers - get yourselves stuck into a good argument, and let's see who leaves this bloodbath on their feet.
Will it be the pluck, spirit and skill of the pangolins, or a hurricane force of science gone rong in the shape of the hippos? You hold the answer in your soft grey brains, my friends.
Yo Sports Fans, Fight Five's here and it wants a word with you.
Welcome brutality enthusiasts to tonight's dose of extreme fauna-on-fauna violence! This match bought to you by Croak! Croak! Taste the chemicals!
As the match begins, the Manglin' Pangolins stand in a totally rad tableaux, idly beatboxing, lockin and poppin while they wait for their opponents.
And they don't have long to wait, as a sound like a landslide in a trash heap grows louder, culminating in three extremely 'ungry ungulates bursting from the entrance ramp.
Wait, only three? Oh hell. It's an 8 minute trip from the pens to the arena... either one died on route from emaciation, or they've already turned to canabalism. Either way, we're already down a hippo.
The teenage trenggilings strike bodacious poses, fearsome weapon arms at the ready (and rad-y) They know that THIS mystery can only be solved through VIOLENCE. Beady eyes watch the rampaging hippopotami as they...
..completely ignore the pangolins and make straight for the crowd. The sweet, juicy, delicious crowd. Like a fat man in a pit of caramelised bacon, the hippos fall upon the crowd, swawllowing children and unlucky midgets whole, tearing off limbs, and generally being impolite, each bite firing their overcharged metabolisms, lumbering bodies kicking into overdrive as they feast. If they're not stopped soon, the glut of food could well make them invincible.
The Manglin' Pangolins go into a huddle, sweet kicks squeaking on the arena floor as they jam about how to solve the mystery of the Holy Fuck What Do We Do About Those Hippos. Luckily, Saws has an idea. Time for the ol' PANGOLIN PUNT
Hammers and Drills pick up their brother with the Power Of Teamwork, and with a mighty heave of their enhanced muscles, fling him towards the rampaging hippos. Impossibly sharp blades scream through the air as Saws curls himself into a deadly Manis Missle, aimed directly at a hippopotamus's tiny brain.
One of rare Pangolin flesh.
In a surge of supercharged flesh, the Hippos turn and throw themselves down the bleachers at their foes, stomping unfortunate spectators into fine paste underfoot in a tide of pure hunger. Chitters of fear erupt from the Pangolins, but Drills (he's the leader!) holds them firm with one wave of his weapons.. just as the head hippo throws itself from the arena wall in its haste to devour the armored anteaters, a zepplin of enraged flesh blotting out the spotlights as it falls towards them.
..and dives past the hippo, slamming his drill out as he does so. In a precision strike, the Pangolin Commander drives his whirling weapon through layers of solid fat and stabs the hippo directly in the heart, killing it instantly.
As the steaming carcass of the hippo struck down by Drills skids to a halt in the blood-gummed sand, the Pangolins order themselves for the combat of their scaly, battle-filled lives.
They know they are severely outmassed, but also that their steady diet of liquid burgers and nutritious Malayan jackfruit will give them a crucial stamina advantage over their bloated adversaries. This is not a fight to kill; it is a fight to survive - if they can only hold off the wall of raging blubber for a few minutes, they will be left only with the task of splitting open the ribcages of two gaunt, wheezing starvation victims.
The hippos lunge, snort and stamp, but the Pangolins evade each time - teeth may click against the edge of a keratin-played tail, but no chomping is achieved, and they grow ever hungrier.
Drills and hammers work together to batter the skull of one opponent, while their unsmiling companion dodges again and again out of range of the other. Glucose evaporates like dew at dawn in the raging cellular furnaces of the hippopotamoids, and the figh continues...
The Pangolins fight hard, but all the teamwork in the world won't buy you immunity from the bite of a raging semi-aquatic juggernaut: Hammerz takes a pair of 500 pound jaws to the arm, and loses one half of his armoury to the maw of a hippo.
His comrades do not take to this kindly - Hammerz has been their comic relief in many a pitched battle in the snowy wastes of Canada, and his soundless wisecracks were the only thing keeping them going when they were cornered by Octopus Crime in the World Creature Wars series of 198X.
His scaly comrades curl their tails and emit a barely perceptible squeak of rage - it's time to stop screwing around and end a Hippo's life.
And so they do.
Flipped into the air by his Mace-handed buddy, Drillz lands on a Hippo's head and jams his eponymous appendage right into the beast's eyesocket - with a whirr of Humerus-mounted servos, he makes paste of the creature's optic nerves, and ruins its frontal lobes. 2 KILLS 4 DRILLZ.
Almost simultaneously, Ballz slams a leaden globe into the remaining ungulate's knee, rendering its patella into paste and sinking it to its knees. Throbbing with memories of the jungle home they enjoyed in their infancy, the pangolin brethren advance to make a Massaman Morsel of the Metabolic Menace...
The Pangolins draw closer to the wounded behemoth, even as its cells sizzle through the last drops of ATP available to them. With increasingly weak swipes of its once-mighty head, it attempts to fend them off.
Ballz makes testy swipes with his globular appendages, Drills darts close in preparation for a savage lunge to the skull, even one-armed Hammerz dances around with his big gold clock, getting the crowd hyped for his team's triumph.
But then, there is a rumbling. The inevitable rumbling, that says something is amiss. The rumbling of something vast and meaty, bare metres away from the floor of the arena...
Yeah, you know what happens now.
With a sound like a thousand bears shouting through a wind tunnel played in reverse through a shattered osmium tuba, the Fouth Hippo smashes through the concrete, steel and sand of the arena siding.
Having lost its way to the arena en route from the holding cells, it has spent far too long in the Z Network Meat Locker and World War One armaments museum (why oh why did we ever decide to combine both attractions into one facility? Ah, the benefits of hindsight...), and has feasted to its artherosclerosis-clogged heart's content.
Now, grown vast beyond imagining and strengthened in its bones by tons of vintage steel, it bursts through the floor and howls a mighty howl, guzzling down the Pangolin leader almost as an afterthought.
Ballz and Hammerz dive in terror from the eruption, but with no plan of resistance - a god of Hunger is upon them, and bereft of their commander they can do nothing but flee.
For poor, bewildered Hammerz time seems to slow down - in a sweep of its mighty jaws, the behemoth snatches up the body of its wounded broodmate and crunches loudly, drinking down gallons of nourishing gore.
Bringing forward its vast hoof like a falling sequoia it smashes Ballz into paste, all the while turning a swollen globelike eye on the last remaining Pangolin. Stomach juices rumble and masonry settles, and all the one-armed Pangolin can do is look up into the godlike visage of a Hippo gone beyond the reach of nature.
Dust clouds billow, and what is left of the crowd falls silent.
Back at Z Network HQ, everyone is Fucking Worried.
In the Shadow of the Colossus, Hammerz hangs his head. Teeth glisten and eyes gleam in the stadium twilight, and the pendulous weight of the Hyperpottamus hangs like a 32-ton sword of Damocles in the gathering dusk.
Blood from the Pangolin's ruined limb drips and soaks into the arena sand - his vision begins to turn grey, and he can barely lift the hammer that once brought joy to crowds across the continent.
As a titanic hoof pounds into the stadium detritus ahead of him he thinks of saws, stoic but dependable. He thinks of Ballz, with his backwards cap and his fondness for Pizza in the sewers. He thinks of Drillz, ever ready with a mullet and an inspiting, wordless speech when times went bad.
Without them, he is nothing. Just a Hype Man with nothing to hype, a jester with no King. It is time to die. The hippo rumbles like distant thunder, a laugh like weather.
There's no rule in zoofights that says there can only be one ominous rumbling per battle.
Here comes another one, and this time it comes from deep in the belly of the Fourth Hippo.
Shouldn't have eaten a master of improvisation right after you ate a museum full of World War One armaments, should you buddy?
Deep in the hyperaccelerated guts of the giant, work is afoot. Even in darkness and soaked in corrosive juices, the drills of a veteran pick the locks of an ancient fighting vehicle, and a small mammal begins to make thing happen.
A scaly body climbs inside the hatch of an old trench-busting war machine, and a diesel engine grumbles into life.
Smoke billows into the interior of a churchlike abdomen, and rusty tracks grind into action.
Outside, behind wraparound shades, an exhuasted Pangolin dares to hope.
Well guess what, pal - he who dares wins.
In a shower of intestines, Drillz bursts from the gut of the Hippo-turned-God, and the crowd go literally and figuratively insane.
The giant beast sinks to its knees with a final swampy gurgle, and the jury-rigged tank touches ground. From the corroded hatch, an acid-ruined drill waves, and clangs against a hammer in a High-Five to define an era.
Waves of blood gush across dirty sand from the belly of the beast, but two brothers are reunited. The fight is over, and one half of the MANGOLIN' PANGOLINS have won.
Sleep safe, surviving stadiumgoers - nothing's going to eat you for now!
Gather round, Sports Fans, for I wish to tell you a terrible tale.
It is the story of a fight; a fight that will pit the sugary madness of our nation's restless youth against dark secrets that man was never meant to know.
FIGHT SIX: TAKE THE CHALLENGE
First up, from a world of steel cages, sharpened fangs and grasping, leathery hands:
While the Croaka Cola Corporation has captivated hearts, minds and pituitary glands worldwide with its unique and chilling taste, it was not the only beverage empire to be calved from the assets of the Stockbridge and Barrington soft drinks fortune.
Tonight, the PEP cola company wishes to present its own challenger to the taste buds of the world - and it is not something you would want to meet without a cube of foot-thick toughened glass to hide behind.
He's vicious, he's fast, and he has a drink he'd like you to try TODAY. He's the PEP-Simian!
We should all be afraid of chimps. But you should be especially wary of this one.
The Zoofights Foundation took him in when he was but a chimplet, held in a stainless steel boxcar and scheduled to be destroyed after being ejected from the most violent zoo in America for murdering all the elephants.
While he would bare his teeth and screech at even the hint of human contact, we knew he was not stupid - he wanted to live, and he was willing to cut a deal to do so.
Using pictograms, meaty bribes and liberal use of a cattle prod, we negotiated a deal - he would only maim one of his trainers a month, and would win the right to compete for glory and further maiming opportunities in the Z Network Arena.
As soon as we presented his mauling prowess to the world, a sponsor came forward - the PEP Cola company. Under the watchful eye of our Surgineers, he went under the knife to be fitted with a whole new vascular system - one that would flood his arteries with glorious, fizzing PEP and charge every wiry muscle in his five foot frame with sugary rage.
With his newfound ability to metabolise carbon dioxide, all he needed was a skateboard and a satchel full of glass bottles to become the most accomplished stabber we have ever produced. PEP-Simian, we are proud of you. You get out there and do what you do best.
PEP-Simian - Surgeoneer’s notes:
From the dark and twisted woodlands of Old England...
In the 1980s
Dozens of years before the dawn of music that made sense
Lived a strange race of people... the Record Company Executives
No one knows who they were or what they were doing
But their legacy remains
Hewn into the living steel... of HARE METAL
Brought into being by mystical men with grubby beards and pschedelic-scarfing record company execs at the heart of Stonehenge, Hare Metal is an eldritch blend of British steel and forbidden rural energies that, frankly, we do not understand.
Standing as tall as a horrible horse, this awful frankensteined mess of skeletal remains and motorcycle parts understands only demonic malice and power chords. It lopes along on twisted limbs, sustained by the eerie glow of the rotting organs that throb inside it, and always searching for more prey to gnaw between its armoured teeth or kick into oblivion with its ratcheting legs.
More baleful yet than the inferno of spectral flames that surrounds its skull, is the enchanted cast iron guitar to which its soul may or may not be bonded. Through energies that we have tried and failed to replicate, it can use its very mind to hurl this cursed instrument around like some kind of demon boomerang. It's horrible.
Hare Metal - Druid’s notes:
So, dear Sports Fans - what will it be? Will you vote for the long-eared demon of the ancient stones, or the pumped-as-fuck chimp with a satchel full of stabbing?
ARE YOU READY
A huge crowd has gathered in the Chunderbowl Arena for what promises to be the most entertaining spectacle yet! Gates opened at 8, but it's gone 11:30 now and there's been no sign of Hare Metal. PEP Simian has kept the crowd entertained with KICKIN RAD skateboard tricks, and with free cans of PEP hurled at dangerous velocity and savage aim into the crowd. But gnarly kickflips and cola-related skull fractures can only keep the masses entertained for so long... could this be a no-show for the sinister lapine?
The minutes drag on, the crowd growing more and more restless. Empty PEP cans are hurled back at the bodacious chimp. A couple of roadies are thrown onto stage to be mauled, but it does nothing to placate the baying masses. PEP Simian looks ready to hurl himself into the audience and tear off their faces by means of apology, when, at exactly two minutes to midnight...
One by one, by the star-dogged moon, too quick for groan or sigh, with a heavy thump, a lifeless lump, the lights cut one by one. A power chord rings out in the darkness like satan's own doorbell. The smoke machines hiss into life...
Before PEP Simian can wonder who hit the lights, another power chord rings out, this time accompanied by a burst of fire and the sound of tortured, screaming metal. For the first time, fear bubbles to the surface of the chimp's carbonated brain. He turns from his perch at the edge of the stage...
..to stare into the flame-wreathed skull of HARE METAL, who looks like he's about to set the world afire.
Or at the very least, one chimp-shaped section of it.
The crowd roars at the power and the glory on display tonight. An eerie green aura envelops the onstage instruments as an unseen band kicks into high gear, the stage lit only by the mane of flames billowing around Hare Metal's face. PEP Simian is a small figure silouetted against the inferno, standing motionless as his foe raises his guitar with the power of pure metal.
Killer of elephants. Mauler of roadies. Performer of sweet 720 twists. Mascot to a cola company that uses orphan's tears as an ingredient. Is he going to just sit there and let some bugs-bunny wannabe with a flaming mullet take him down without a fight?
Aspartame powered reflexes kick into high gear, the chimp kicking off on his Hateboard, his screams of defiance mixed with the sound of spinning ball bearings. Broken bottle in one hand, he drops into a halfpipe, slams down the incline and shoots straight off the other end, hurling himself at Hare Metal like a furry bullet of caffinated anger, fearing no eldrich power, savage flames, or British steel.
Time seems to slow, saliva falling from the murderous chimp's maw as he sails into the lungs of hell. Hare Metal can't hope match his opponent's cola powered speed, instead using eerie instrument as a power metal power missile. The Flying V is flung on a desperate intercept course.
PEP Simian's hyperactive brain spots the guitar coming, the chimp grabbing the nose of his Hateboard and spinning out of the projectile's projected trajectory.
Unfortunately, this is no mindless missile, it's directly under the control of the satanic rabbit who compells it to seek and destroy.
Ribs shatter under the impact, slamming the chimp out of midair and knocking him to the ground with a skull-rattling thud, a spray of blood coughed from his open mouth. On his perch at the back of the stage, Hare Metal's eyes narrow, his claws tensing.
Delicious, refreshing chimp blood gathers in hissing, carbonated pools on the stage. The agonised ape tries to fight his concussion and cracked ribs, barely able to wrench the cast iron guitar off his injured body as Hare Metal leaps like an angel of death, flame trailing in his wake like a comet as he pounces for the kill.
With the sound of a tank crashing into a truck full of steak knives, Hare Metal hits the stage, the roar of the crowd almost simultaneous with the impact. But there's no spray of soda and chimp hair to mark his landing, as PEP Siman rolls at the last minute, the shock of his broken ribs filling his mind with a red haze.
Baring his fangs, he screams his defiance and leaps at his foe before Hare Metal can regain his balance. It's clear the chimp is metal thrashing mad, a fact that's made perfectly clear as he grabs the metal grating of the rabbit's ribcage and wrenches it open, grinning as he exposes the glowing organs within.
PEP Simian's limbs are a blur, a broken bottle suddenly appearing in his leathery grip, the ape now armed and dangerous. EXTREMELY dangerous. Fire glints on the cracked edge as he raises it high, pauses for a moment...
...and rams it into Hare Metal's exposed organs. Whether by luck or by design, the sharpened metal plunges into the rabbit's sinister, glowing green heart in an explosion of green flame and the wailing of dammned souls.
BUT WHAT USE IS A HEART
COMPARED TO THE POWER
Maybe the hare has a backup heart. Maybe it really is powered by druidic sprits. Whatever the case, impaling its heart with shards of broken glass seems to just have pissed it off. And worse than that. The unearthly green flame pouring from its wound has caught on PEP Simian's fur, crawling over his hands like a creeping death. Boiling blood caramelises under blackened skin, the ape staring in horror as his fingers are engulfed, too shocked to notice the looming metal form behind him.
Despite his horrible injuries and burning hands, the carbonated cola mascot senses danger and whirls to face his metal-driven foe...
NOT THAT IT HELPS.
Hare Metal has decided to fight fire with fire. Eldrich energies escaping from the broken seal on its flank, it knows it must strike before it is too weak to continue. Metal paws dig deep scratches into the stage as it springs forward, bearing the screaming ape to the stage under its firey bulk, metal teeth tearing and gouging at PEP Simian's chest.
Blackened roar, massive roar fills the crumbling sky. Shattered goal, fills his soul with a ruthless cry...
FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
IT TOLLS FOR CHIMP
The fearsome metal hare tears PEP Simian's artificially sweetened heart from his chest and swallows it, sticky brown blood spraying out in a sizzling arc, hissing as it hits the chimp, now fully consumed by flames both eldrich and mundane. Roadies run off to douse what's left of PEP Simian in fire retardant foam, but it's anyone's guess if there'll be anything left for the loser's league. Hare Metal's floating guitar lets out a riff of pure triumph as he exits stage left. NO ENCORES, NO MERCY.
HARE METAL WINS
A full playlist for this fight can be found here.
Well, Sports Fans, you know what they say - sometimes life just gives you lemons. And poor old PEP Simian only knew how to make cola. We're sorry to say he's not doing great - currently in a medically induced cola and hooked up to a dozen soda stream machines.
But then, that's the way of things. Sometimes a fight comes up that leaves one or another competitor hopelessly outmatched.
And then, sometimes you get fights like this. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you an even-handed, sportsmanlike shitkicking like no other; a titanic tussle inside the squared circle that will leave you howling for more. Sports Fans, come down and get your votes in for:
FIGHT SEVEN: I'M GANA PATI YOU INTO YOUR GRAVE
From the Prime Foundry of Patel Heavy Industries
He is the product of the Eastern world's most formidable surgineering expertise, a power house of calculated force and spine-shattering strength. He has four arms, three weapons, and feet like steam hammers. He is also an absolute bastard.
He is GADADHARA.
Scorched and weathered from a life in the forges of India's largest steelmaker, Gadadhara is a paragon of efficiency and economy in the world of industrially-modified megafauna.
Here to showcase the economic clout of Patel Heavy Industries in America, he is as proud as he is strong - and foul tempered to boot. While he was designed for lifting girders and shifting fallen masonry, he has developed a taste for brawling in the steam-shrouded drinking holes of his home.
Though he is arrogant and bulky, he is not cocky - whether steelworking or skullsplitting, he approaches his work with the contemptuous professionalism that only an elephant that is about to wreck your shit can muster.
Gadadhara - Surgeoneer’s notes:
Straight from the streets of Tijuana
Built from an armadillo saturated with supercomputer-sequenced Glyptodon DNA, this next competitor was always destined for the arena. But when he was broken out of his San Diego development pen as a pup and smuggled over the border to Mexico, we thought we'd lost him. Nevertheless, LUCHADILLO has come back to us in the end.
After years of backstreet Ox-boxing and flying off the top ropes in the dusty streets of the Barrio, this termite-guzzling titan is at his physical prime.
He has made fortunes for his sponsors in black market prizefights against ever-larger gangs of wrestlers, and has moved up through the ranks of the amateur zoological pugilism circuit to a point where the only next step is to take his fists to the world stage.
Now, fighting at a major weight disadvantage but noted for his breathtaking footwork and acrobatics, he is up for the fight of his life.
Although he is a clean fighter and a highly technical practicioner of the battering arts, his backers are shady and we are pretty sure that any prize money he takes home will go straight to fuel the American Drug epidemic. In any case, we are never ones to judge.
Luchadillo - Surgeoneer’s notes:
There you go - a hell of a punch up is in store. Rudos or Tecnicos, Sports Fans? - the choice is yours. When your seeding choices generated this match, we were stumped to predict the outcome, and we're experts.