AIM: Pancaek Beast | E-mail: shdwdde@gmail.com | Denny's House of Pancaeks
Kirby vs. The Prince, Luigi vs. Zero, Crono vs. Falcon, Bowser vs. Leon, Auron vs. Alucard, Master Chief vs. Sub-Zero (Points: 28/32 Matches: 28/32)
You meander off, dazed and somewhat starry-eyed. You are not sure why, but you have a giant sensation of pressure. Survival on the Island of Champions is a task that few can surmount, but you are quite game.
Somewhat ruefully, you notice that demolishing six acres of forestry has not severely impaired the oxygen level of the island. In the same vein, you recall that you are mother****ing Donkey Kong and that you don't need oxygen to survive, anyway.
It does not take long for trouble to find you. You feel somewhat jarred and jaded that you did not succeed in discovering a foe this time, but that you were discovered. You hate the passive voice.
Dark, wild-haired, iron-clad, fast. A skilled chop hits you right between the shoulder blades. You jump a little in surprise. The warrior dislodges his sword from you, finding a few chunks of manly ape fur on it, but no blood. Sticking your arms out, you spin like a horny slot machine and grin like a dancing queen. The world is your burrito. But the generated whirlwind and fist-flurry somehow fails to connect and incapicitate your nemesis. Decelerating allows you to regain your bearings, but even as scenery returns to focus, you do not spy the beast that struck you.
Then you look up, and forever gone is your misconception that white men can't jump. For descending from ten yards above you is the fighter. Even as you bound out of range of the strike, you notice a certain Iranian royalty about his manner. But there is no time to consider this. The prince comes easily out of his dive and lunges at you with his sword. It penetrates your left pectoral by a few millimeters and snaps. The prince's eyes meet yours. They contain not fear, but a slight bemusement.
Again, the prince tries to leap from danger. Locking your gaze inexorably upon his aerial path, you whip out your Coconut Gun and fire twice. The first round slams into the prince's butt, spinning him into a somersault and eliciting from his mouth several very unprincely words. The second coconut lodges deep into his stomach, and he takes off in the general direction of the dark side of the moon.
The ocean is several miles away, but for the purposes of melodrama, you can hear its waves splattering upon themselves and making obnoxious noises, observing the prince's flight not with wist, per se, but with a definite genuine scientific interest at the trajectory's nonchalant disregard for the laws of gravity. But even this poetic moment is not spared to you. As you replay the tragic Prelude in C-sharp Minor in your mind's ear, a wounded cry pierces and wrinkles the melodies.
"What am I fighting for?"
You turn around and see a red androgynous android with alluring long blonde hair and a glowing sword. He is the spitting image of Ancient Greece's Achilles, except with communist undertones and robotic parts. Even this classical symbolism cannot deter you from owning his ass, though; you take a rather amused pleasure in walking over and ripping its head off. The wiring inside it, you note, is quite sophisticated, and its head portion even has dynamic facial expressions.
"ZELLO!"
The same voice is calling again, and you drop the head in abject terror, stomping on it several times. But it is of no use, for the call comes out again.
"WHAT AM I FIGHTING FOR!?"
Your eyes travel slowly, sanely, from the prone corpse on the ground to the destroyed mess that was its head. And then, disbelievingly, they rotate and fixate an entirely whole android in their glance, just as blatantly Republican and even more Greek than last time.
"ZELLO!" it calls.
It is a ****ed up, without question, but you think quickly and bury your fist in the chest armor plating of the machine. Its face looks slightly confused, and then its eyes flicker out and die, the glowing sword thingy losing its glowingness and fizzing out as well. You toss the de-wired heap of stainless steel back with the first one. Your nerves, in spite of yourself, are somewhat frazzled. But they do not rest.
"WHHHHAAAT AM I FIGHTING FOOOOOOOOOOOOOR!?!?!?!"
Totally out of ideas, you try to run from the android, away from the island. This is too much for you. You seal your eyelids, shutting out all disturbing recurring beasts.
Whump. You feel something smacking into your chest and flying several yards forward. While it does not do you any damage not stop your motion, it does cause you to open your eyes. It is yet another incarnation of the robot, which looks up at your towering form with a pained expression. "ZELLO!"
There is almost some sort of sympathy in the outskirts of your mind as you realize the only way to end this plague upon you. You slip the bongos from your impenetrable hide, hurl your head back, facing up at the sky, and howl in anguish: "ARHUGARHUGARUGHARUUUAAAAAAARGH!"
The frequency of your pitch is explosive, and you start pounding on your drums to build to the crushing climax. As you rise, you hear one final "WWWWWWw ---- FIIIIIIIIIGHTING ------ OOOOOOO ----- OOOOORR---!!!"
And then, in a theatrical and totally unnecessary flash of white light, all is silent, and the last traces of the most dangerous creature to walk the earth have disintegrated.
No respite blesses you. A different voice now, far more testerone-charged but equally obnoxious, accompanies a fiery strike. "FALCOOOOOON PAAAAAAUNCH!!!"
The punch is indeed powerful, and it shoots you outward in a straight line, and suddenly, you have defined a plane in which you will stay, thirty percent pissed off by seventy percent tolerant. The Captain, whom you recognize from your twenty-minute affair with Tifa, continues his strike with "FALCON KICK!" He slides along the ground and boots you, but you take the hit like a man, still half and half. It is when he begins to jab unnecessarily that your pissed off meter breaks a hundred percent.
You enter mother****ing Donkey Kong mode, and it is over. Hands, paws, feet, punches, kicks, backbreakers, buttstomps, and pelvic thrusts become fair game as you pound the Captain to a pulp and kick him violently out of sight. He makes a loud grunt as he vanishes, and some voodoo force yells out, "GAME!"
Feeling incredibly foolish, you strike a few ill rehearsed poses and get the hell on with your ass-kicking life.
With this spirit, you do not even notice it when someone fires a shotgun at your head. The round ricochets off. It turns out to be some long-haired guy with a bad fashion sense and an even worse sense of humor - "Hey, you've got something on your face - YOUR BRAIN" - so you casually and vaguely dispose of him.
Because there are much more interesting things to watch, such as, you notice, Alucard fighting with some grizzled guy with a massive sword. Despite your detached cynicism regarding the geezer with the sword, however, you begrudgingly acknowledge his skill. The geezer twirls the weapon with adroitness unbecoming of the blade's girth. It skates and figure-eights through the air, but not a single stroke of it is wasted. Each flicker pursues Alucard beautifully, subtly, a rooster striking out at the snake. Alucard's return strokes are vicious, vindictive, vampiric.
The battle appears to be even. Neither's blade has touched the other's blade or the other's body. No metallic sounds accompany the glistening light on the frolicking blades.
CLANG! The geezer throws grace to the winds and smashes downward with both hands on Alucard's head. The half-vampire swings up to counter and diverts the slice a little, but Alucard's sword flies far out of range. Even as the hilt leaves his fingertips, Alucard melts liquidly into a dark violet canine. The geezer pulls out of his colossal swing, but he is not fast enough. The wolf tears out the throat of the old man and vaporizes, dripping blood and chunks of larynx and trachea from its presumed center, as the geezer takes one last swing at him.
Alucard rematerializes a few seconds later, six feet from the dead man's body, unfazed. He looks over at you. "The Plan takes no survivors," he intones. You nod, remembering all the glories of The Plan.
You hear a gruff, masculine voice saying, "Don't move, monkey." You ignore the command entirely and look over your shoulder. You are rewarded for your disobedience by a large plasma bolt in the face. Unable to see or breathe, you roar primally lash out wildly with your fists. They find contact at a few points, enough for you to get a strong grip on what feels like a robotic arm and a robotic head.
Slowly, the blindness fades away, and you see that you are, in fact, holding a robot of sorts. It wears green armor and has, in its captive hand, one end of a very serious-looking weapon. You take the liberty of grinding it to a pulp.
You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and there is stress to relieve. This robot has not wronged you more than anyone else today, but you must release.
And so the barrage follows. You bestow the judgment of Anubis, the wrath of God, the thunders of Thor, and the retributions of Poseion upon this robot. Fists and feet crush the helmet, shatter the battle armor, break the knee joints, obliterate the life force. You grab it like a whip and crack it against the ground several times before disposing of it rather mesospherically, in the form of a drop kick.
You do not think it is Alucard's voice that speaks to you from above, for it is far more credible and overpoweringly decisive. White light engulfs you, and the one word descends.
FATALITY.
(A) Walk around blindly, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
(B) Ask Alucard something. How will you ask him? English, mother****er! Do You Speak It!?
(C) Take a nap. Try to put it all out of your memory.
(D) Blink a few times and get rid of that light. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you get played by nobody.
SD
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
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