AIM: Pancaek Beast | E-mail: shdwdde@gmail.com | Denny's House of Pancaeks
Sonic the Hedgehog vs. CATS, Ganondorf vs. Vincent Valentine (Points: 23/25 Matches: 23/25)
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. You bound toward the forest with renewed sense of purpose. You hug a tree and scream, powering up. Ki energy begins to materialize all around you; dirt flies out of the ground at the force of your roaring and disintegrates. Backwards you lean, and the tree is utterly uprooted. Shards of dirt explode upward in total defiance of any physical law.
"HA HA HA"
You spin around, a process that takes you a couple of seconds due to the several-ton tree trunk pressed against your torso. You tilt your head at a most curious angle, regarding a most curious character: a grey-skinned, semi-metallic humanoid. A flowing amalgation of purple cloth adorns and shields the entirety of its body.
You are mother****ing Donkey Kong. Deep thought does not become you. But even you cannot help but ponder the philosphical question that this vision arouses: Why the hell does this thing exist?
For indeed, the creature itself seems to be questioning this as well. Its singular functional eye grips you with malice and its mouth's movements are not quite synchronized with the primitive, broken voice that it emits.
"YOU HAVE NO CHANCE"
A pause. The malicious glare warms up somewhat and quickly becomes one of distrust. "MAKE YOUR TIME," it insists. You merely look on, bemused, wondering vaguely why the creature is still speaking in capital letters.
Then, a very human and personable voice. "I say, old sport, you don't find me abominable? You haven't laughed once at my deplorable grasp of the English language!"
You realize that your eyebrow has risen so high that it were it any colder, it would be snow-capped. With a conscious effort, you bring your contorted facial expression to a more neutral one.
"A good conversationalist is so hard to find these days," says the alien rather absentmindedly, still smiling. "Glad to make you're acquaintance. I'm -"
Getting somewhat bored of the spiel, you release your hold on the tree and prod it gently in the direction of the incessant speaker. An explosive thud, the crashing of leaves and wood, but more ostentatiously, the solid sound of metal being crushed. Though the forest has not yet recovered from the fall, you drag the tree out of the forest. The mess is ridiculous, and you hate messes. You notice the small conglomerate of metal on the underside of the tree and lay it to rest on the outskirts of the woods. The tree rolls a little, and the wind blows the smear off of the wood and toward the shore of the island.
This momentary distraction over, you return to task, the ultimate demolition of the forest. To avoid drama, you act far less overtly this time. Trees fall to your mighty punches like East Asian countries falling to communism, but not once do you apply your larynx or unseal your lips. The ruckus you cause is incredible; dirt, leaves, and disgusting wildlife cascade wildly into the air.
"The wind is blowing..."
In spite of yourself, you cease your wreckage. Through the vaguely symbolic clearing dust clouds, a shadowy figure emerges. "Greetings," it says. You are impressed by the sinisterness of his voice. A mental picture forms of a redheaded, hideous visage of a human, probably dark-skinned, since you're slightly racist.
Your mental conception turns out absolutely correct, of course. The unpleasant figure becomes painfully more apparent as the dust dematerializes, the spitting image of ugliness. And he is smiling.
"It takes a lot to get me out of bed," he snarls. "I'll let you decipher the innuendo in that, but I mean it quite literally, and now, by the name of Din, an ass-kicking shall become quite necessary."
He lunges at you through the remains of the forest, feet not touching the ground, and unleashes a punch to your sternum. A mild leap avoids the attack, and you swivel your right arm in anticipatory windup. The King of Evil looks up at you and glides at you, but he has forsaken all hope. You land, still preparing the mammoth delivery.
The timing of the release of your punch is almost poetic. Your fist smashes into the King of Evil's chest. The brunt of the blow directs him in a masterfully straight line. He cuts a beautiful path straight outward and you feel extremely satisfied that he will not deviate a millimeter from his one-way path to Loserville for a long time.
(A) Fall on the ground and writhe, twitching, because all the oxygen's gone.
(B) Nap like there's no tomorrow.
(C) Whip out your bongos and try to make an emo song without lyrics.
(D) Go looking for trouble. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and where there's a will to kick ass, there is a way.
SD
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Saturday, October 07, 2006
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