Losers' League, Fight Two

While Neuromantis feasts on the IT infrastructure of the decade's most advanced computing facilities, the disorder on Long Island continues. Most scores have been settled and almost all of the good shops have been looted at least twice, but still people throw bottles at each other in the streets because it's a great laugh.

The price of muscly arms has reached an all new high, and working men and women can barely afford the Osmium they need to feed their families, but in the Zoofights Arena the fighting continues.

Next up, a brawl that will explore the depths of self-loathing and internal conflict in the animal kingdom. It will also explore freeze rays, circular saws, and what happens when your knee is a human face.

Sports Fans, come and have a seat for: 

:siren: Losers' League Fight Two :siren:

First, a brute with a hat bill as hefty as its psychiatrist's fees and a pair of tank tracks to match. Odder than the oddest of odd couples, it's:

The Cold Warlrus


On the surface, this was a textbook surgineering challenge: preserve the decapitated head of a bifurcated walrus, keep it on ice, and bolt it back on in a bulletproof vessel filled with cryogenic fluid. Soup up the internal dialysis machines,whack on some caterpillar treads to give much better speed and maneuvrability, and job's a good'un.

Sadly, while we at zoofights have always had a keen mind for stitching beasts together and giving them the means to kill, we are lacking when it comes to the affairs of the heart.

The competitor formerly known as the berlin Walrus has still not resolved the ideological conflicts that caused its downfall in Round One. Even since dying and being sewn back on, the American head still gets more fish at mealtimes, and snores every goddamn night. What's more, it got a better hat budget.

Still, like it or not, the Russian half of the beast knows it cannot live without its massive twin, and has channeled its political and personal objections into a healthy spirit of rivalry. While the steel-flippered giant zaps enemies with its energy-sucking freeze ray (powerful enough to chill six bottles of vodka to -5 degrees centigrade in the time it takes to throw them at its face), its gaunt brother makes do with a good, old-fashioned kalashnikov. If they resolve their differences long enough to combine fire, they have astonishing stopping power. 

And work together they will, for the only thing they want less than the irritation of being sewn together is the shame of disgracing their superpower sponsors.

Just don't expect them to remember each others' birthdays or share bags of crisps.


What do you get when you cross a Hippo, a Pangolin, and several half-digested Sports Fans? Ruined dreams for the rest of your fucking life.

Hippangopotalin with an Anger Disorder


Why, why, why did nobody stop to think before hauling the corpse of the most intact Hippo left after Round One into the quantum resurrection chamber and hitting the On Switch?

The damnable machine fulfilled its purpose of disassembling the hippo at an atomic level and rebuilding it in a living state in the next room - but it also worked its grisly magic on the brute's entire stomach content.

Tragically, this meant that the hippo, when reborn, was fused with the remains of eight crowd members and Sawz, the hapless pangolin who was devoured by it at the very start of their duel.

The hulking abomination that we have ended up with has not only the ruinous metabolism and senseless hunger of the hippo we meant to resurrect, but also Sawz' no-bullshit attitude and whirling metal blades.

Not to mention his burning desire for revenge. 

With his last memory being the happy-go-lucky expressions on the snouts of his "teammates" as they hurled him into the champing maws of the Hippos, he will not rest until he has trampled every one of them flat. After years of evading mercenaries and solving burger-related mysteries, how could they abandon him to this life of agony, confusion and hunger?

No matter how much his jaws ache, his scales fall off in bloody clumps and his human parasites grope mindlessly at his face, he is going to let those goddamn pangolins know what it means to leave a brother behind - and he'll eat the shit out of anything that gets in his way.


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:


Losers' League, Fight Three

A somber funereal march brought the pulped body of Achilles' Eel into the surgineering bays, broken and alone. Smoke signals from suit jackets beat against burning piles of stock certificates communicated the plummeting share price of Victory Shoes and sponsorship vanished like just another few puffs of smoke, enough to spell out "F U." To make things worse, as soon as our chief surgineer saw the bifurcated lower jaw of the emmense tubular beast, something in his (stretch) lizard brain began screaming and wouldn't stop until he revved up a chainsaw and split Achilles straight down the middle.

Things were not looking good for everybody's favorite anguilliforme, but we think you'll like what we're bringing to the table. Ladies and gentlemen, please feast your eyes on

Double Eelix


We cobbled together a 30-foot-long robotic eel, split that in half and grafted each onto one of the organic halves. Each cyborg eel has enough mystical mojo left to fly through air as if it were the briny deep, but the massive jolt of equine electricity knocked out their lightning-breathing powers. Each eel's artificial half-brain is quantum-entangled with the other, allowing them to act as a perfectly coordinated whole. When it's working. Which it does. Sometimes. The two have a tendency to coil around each other, seeking, we suspect, the unity they once shared. Many an unfortunate intern has been crushed between their writhing bulks.

So, to sum up: two giant, cyborg, flying moray eels. In a old boot and stiletto we had lying around in our "huge wardrobe" department.

:siren: VERSUS :siren:

What time is it when you're presented with a mangled, blind elephant? Time to get a new watch! Ha Ha Ha. But seriously, it's time to force open all his chakras and jam a literal third eye into his skull.

Kali Babar


We thought opening up the pachyderm punisher's mind to the ebb and flow of etheric energy that suffuses and connects all of creation would make him a better citizen of the world, but it turns out it just made him better at killing things. Which is really for the best, given that he is entered in a blood tournament. Seeing various tawdry and tangled energies of Ravi Patel has earned him a position on the board of Patel Heavy Industries, where he has helped crush the competition (sometimes literally) without mercy. Death, destruction, annihilation and headless savannah wildlife lie in Kali Babar's wake. He is armed with the traditional weapons of his namesake, but don't expect any religious sentiment.

Kali Babar is a right bastard.

Voting will proceed until Saturday night!


Double Eelix vs. Kali Babar


Another fight night falls upon Manhattan, and the arena lights slam on like the brakes of a lead motorbike trying to avoid crashing into an orphanage. 

Kali Babar has a colossal headache. Having awoken from a dreamlike trance state in which he argued steel prices with Parvati and Shiva, he is not pleased to see the double dragon that spirals out to greet him from the darkness of the arena gates.

Clearing his trunk with a noise like distant thunder, he rises to his full height, and narrows his single, blazing eye at the encroaching eel.

Double Eelix is not intimidated - with the kind of hunger you can only feel if you have to share every meal with two halves of a robot, he slithers forward through the air and rears back almost imperceptibly to strike...

Kali Babar knows instinctively when the attack will come.

The boardroom behemoth has learnt, in PHI investor's meetings and in the brute pits of Calcutta, to anticipate the slightest threat from an enemy. Be it a subtle critique of sales tactics from an gaggle of upstart board members, or the approach of four hyaenas with jackhammers for heads, he knows how to spot trouble - and deal with it. 


Kali Babar hurls his trident neatly and passionlessly through the brainpan of one half of Eelix as it widens its mouth to lunge. His face does not move as he watches the eel gush blood and oil across a kaleidoscope of dimensions. 

It thrashes wildly and makes noises like a theremin being operated by a man with bundles of coathangers for arms, but stays shakily aloft as its intact half struggles to maintain control...

A jolt of understanding leaps between the severed halves of the eel's mind, and half of him peels away from its twin to plummet to the arena floor below. It lands, with an outburst of screaming, in the front row of bleachers - an area of the stadium reserved for orphans and the brave. Luckily, the brave people save most of the orphans.

Nevertheless, the half that remains (the half with the lady shoe, for those of you keeping track at home), is invigorated by the sudden release from co-ordinating the movement of its mangled half, and quite literally goes mental on Kali Babar.


Jaws gnash, coils thrash, but not a scratch lands on the elephants hide. He is moving as if in a pleasant but lethal dance, stepping lightly over the raging loops of fish and weaving under bites as if ducking under foliage.

Then his blades come into play, and he is carving the eel's fleshy parts in three places at one. His eye aglow with a sight beyond sight, he carries on his unearthly jig of butchery as the eel screams like a hundred modems on fire.

But just as the eel knows little of the world its tormentor is seeing into, so does the superheavy steel magnate have no idea of the torments of being a single mind divided by science.

With a lashing of its doc-marten clad tail, the stricken half of the Eelix smashes aside a row of chairs and climbs into the air with a triumphant snapping of jaws.

F"eel"ing the agony of its biological half, the machine components of the doppelfisch have taken up the slack left by the sudden intrusion of a trident into one cortex, and shunted the damaged appendage back into the fray.


Utterly unaware of the machine-guided missile as it powers towards him, Kali Babar can do little but trumpet in horror as one of his lower arms is ripped free of his suit in a fountain of gore. 

Suddenly yanked from his mystical killing tance, his brawler's instinct takes over - in a moment his remaining arms have grappled the rushing body of the eel, and he is being carried skyward on an unbelievable surge of power.


Kali Babar's colossal battle ham of a fist slams repeatedly into the head of his adversary, which in turn twists and undulates wildly to throw him off.

The two lurch insanely round the arena, while the heavily bleeding stiletto'd half of the eel struggles to catch up.

It is a battle between unearthly tenacity and machine-aided dexterity, between the battered offspring of science and the weird child of hinduism and 1980s business mentality. Needless to say, it soon goes completely bonkers, and all the colours start going decidely odd. People in the audience begin to throw up rainbows, and the smell of incense fill the air.

It sounds like this, or possibly this. (Mashups as ever, courtesy of ironichide!)

As the Stilletto 'Eel glides back into the fray, jaws snapping at the air, Kali Babar understands.

All the Eel ever wanted was to be together - one whole again, to end the maddening fractal isolation of being connected by weird quantum party tricks.

Despite struggling to push ahead in a relentless and savage tournament, its real longing is to overcome the gulf between itselves, and be as one. 

Its greatest obstacle is separation.

And if there's one thing Kali Babar knows all about, it's removing obstacles. 

He drops from the eel and hangs from its ragged jaw with one vast hand.

Swinging like some implausible cyclopean ape, the Hindu Hulk grabs the jaw of the second eel before it can snap downward at him.

With an eel in either hand, Kali Babar flexes like a man preparing to smash together two windsocks full of rubble, and CLAPS.


He stares out into the eyes of everyone in attendance, in demands silently that they clap back.



Losers' League, Fight Four; ROCK 'N ROLLA COLA WARS

It's all come down to this. Cow, walrus and eel have been obliterated, their worthless corpses fed into the grinders to nourish future prospects. Only two first-round losers remain. As the city-wide fires falter, sputtering their last greasy puffs of smoke into an angry sky, it seems a hush has fallen over the land. Eyes turn upwards, watching the clouds in fear and anticipation. Somewhere up there, beyond the clouds, beyond the sky, something is coming.

Something that wants you to catch the wave.

New Croak


In the world of global soft drink production, products that do not justify their development and marketing costs are swiftly discontinued. In the case of the dead-eyed mascot that the Croaka Cola company entered into the tournament’s first round, this was an easily step to take.

After being whacked into a gelatinous paste at the hands of underdog favourite Monster Truck, the Croaka Cola frog was judged too expensive to Frankenstein back together into a rebuilt fighter that had any chance of winning the tournament.

Instead, the board of Croak decided to return to market with a brand new formula – New Croak.

It started with the remains of their former competitor, which were siphoned into a blender and carbonated to create an extremely limited edition beverage. A new space suit was commissioned, with more massive rocket engines, a high-repetition rail gun and a vicious harpoon launcher. The frog slurry was then poured into the suit along with a few gallons of assorted frogspawn and a barrel of growth hormones, and shunted into high orbit inside an unshielded space capsule.

Inside the radiation-blasted interior of the pod, the suit’s contents became a kind of horrific primordial soup, as tadpoles guzzled each other to become the biggest and surliest amphibian in a very limited pool. All the while, a loudhailer repeated a list of pitiless business aphorisms, recorded in the Universal Language of the Frogs.

Cameras feeding images back to the company’s HQ in Atlanta picked up motion in the suit’s limbs after three days, and continued to monitor the bulging space armour before abruptly shutting off a week later. The last image seen was that of a great green face, staring into the camera with a blank Anuran gaze, before being cut off by static.

Since then, our own space-o-scopes have been tracking the movement of the pod as it flitted on jury-rigged engines between various unmarked satellites, each connected in no way at all with US or Soviet military activity.

Now the pod is coming down, and is scheduled to deploy its parachute somewhere above the old Moxie bottling plant in the Bronx on Sunday night. The plant is a decrepit wreck of twisted girders, robot arms arrayed around rusted conveyor belts, and humongous vats that once bubbled with molten glass, hyperconcentrate syrup and carbonic acid. The vagaries of orbital dynamics could not have picked a better location for a fite...


Needless to say, the PEP Cola company is ready, and has deployed its own operative to the scene.

Crystal PEP-Simian


After his tangle with Hare Metal, Pep Simian was in a very bad way. Rushed to an emergency ringside surgineering theatre and hooked up to a priceless prototype ultraheart, he died several times on the slab before his condition was stabilised.

And even that is putting a rosy glow on things. By any definition, what the chimp has become is anything but stable.

Covered in horrendous burns and wounds, he is only clinging onto life by virtue of the raging pump inside his chest and the five litres of carbonated corn syrup it shoves round his body at a pressure level comparable to that of a jet plane’s fuel intake.

If his metabolism was heightened before, it’s gone berserk now – and if he stops moving, screeching and fighting for just a few seconds, his own cells will create enough heat to burst his head from the inside.

Still, if you need violence just to stay alive, Zoofights is the place to be.

As a weird side effect of his new CO₂ and sugar metabolism, his pores constantly secrete a form of diamond-laced sugar solution, which hardens into an exotic and ultra-tough crystalline state upon contact with air.

Consequently, the clumps of wiry hair that cover his sinewy form have clumped together and acted as scaffolds for the extrusion of jagged crystal spines – both an extremely resilient armour and a potential weapon, since he can snap off long barbs and use them as vicious javelins and knives. His fingernails have fulfilled a similar purpose, forming the base of long, sugary claws for climbing and murdering.

His backpack has been moved inside his skin, giving him a crouched, hunchback form - it contains fresh fuel for his heart – while he has kept his charred, battered hat as a reminder of how Rad he once was.

His skateboard has been upgraded to fly on two antigrav plates, but don’t expect it to last long – while he was once a competent skateboarder, the skilled control of a personal mobility aid will be the last thing on his mind when he catches sight of something he can tear to pieces. It is, we regretfully admit, simply a way for him to make a cool entrance.


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