Monday, 24 December 2012


Tis the season to be jolly.

It’s not in my nature but I’m giving it a go anyway.

You may recall halcyon days of childhood innocence, whereupon Santa bestowed gifts of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Soap and Bubble Bath Sets upon the deserving.

Not only was the air saturated with a giddy rush of excitement, but there was a palpable sense of magic all around you, an elongated euphoria of glitter and tinsel; the promise of happiness and no sense of the brevity of its duration.

Cast your minds back to those days, back when your faces were smaller and your eyes wider.

Oh, to be young and alive in the most vital way possible. That most joyous of joys:

A truly warm, snug embrace of festivity.






Buddy is the protagonist of the popular 2003 film Elf, as played by Will Ferrell. He is a human raised by Santa’s elves, and thus a good-natured manchild completely free of cynicism.

TheGhost of Christmas Present is the second of three spirits who visit Ebeneezer Scrooge. In many ways he resembles the Santa Christmas figure of then contemporary English folklore.

He appears in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

He is also a large absent minded spirit.


If by ‘heat’ you mean ‘Christmas Cheer’, yes. Buddy has enough goodwill to all men to power Santa’s sleigh for a century. The Ghost of Christmas Present (not to be confused for The Ghost of Christmas Presents) appears accompanied by a glutton’s idolatry made corporeal (or ‘food’ as it is also known). He is very cheery and jolly, and has very persuasive songs about the life affirming nuances of the season and their relation to love in all its infinite glory.

"Any second now and...yeah. Yeah. That's what I'm talking about."


Buddy has some elves (the green cloth-capped and pointy shoes kind, not the Aryan toss-fantasy kind), Santa and James Caan. Also most of New York. And also Zooey Deschanel (from before she got annoying).

By the end of the film Buddy has a small child of his own, and as we all know small children are ideal for crawling behind people so you can push them over. Not only does the victim fall over, but they also hurt a child. What a scummer.

The Ghost of Christmas Present has 2011 (and counting) brothers. He also has two subhuman urchins – a boy called Ignorance and a girl called Want - clinging to his robes. Due to their poor health and personality deficiencies, any armed forces commander will tell you they are best deployed as decoy fodder.

It is thought that, due to his abundance of good will and satisfyingly huggable stomach, many of the people who join in his elaborate song and dance routines are also the Ghost of Christmas Present’s friends and would react badly to his being engaged in fisticuffs.


Buddy is stronger than most elves, but most elves are smaller than mankinds, although they are very diligent workers. Buddy wears his heart on his sleeve and so does not really have any nuances.

The Ghost of Christmas Present is all about the whatnot. He's got all the holly-wreath-on-his-head style you'd want from someone in his position, and holds aloft a horn of plenty. Then there's his scabbard with no sword in it, emphasising his wish for peace for all mankinds.

He does, however, have a fine line in quoting your own words back to you and making you feel like a right bad 'un as a result. Without his presence, it is unlikely that we would be witnessing Michael Caine doing his sad acting in Batman films.


This is where we ask Charles Dickens to write what he thinks would happen. He is alive and well and living in Southport, where he passes the time placing bets on illegal whippet races.

Buddy finds himself in a tall room made of stone, with a heavy wooden door sunk into the ground. All around him the wind whistles, as if desperately searching for something or someone it has lost. From far above a bell tolls eleven.

Light sluggishly seeps its way to the bottom, and the elf's splendid green costume is spattered lightly with rain and snow that seems to appear from halfway down the shaft.

'Hello?' he calls.

Gears grind, cogs spin and spark, and dry ropes squeal as the door rises upwards into the wall, revealing a cobbled square shrouded in murk and fog. Straw is scattered everywhere, but it fails to mottle the reek of blood, decay, cloves and orange peel.

His leaf-green elf show makes contact with something squidgy. Buddy isn't sure, but he's fairly certain that necks aren’t supposed to do that.

'Come in, and know me better man!'

It is a half-hearted cry for him, but given the size of his heart this is still an impassioned delivery.

Looming out of the mist is a huge rotund shape, its voice booming across the square and its footsteps echoing with an unnerving crunch as it approaches.

Buddy stands face to face with the Ghost of Christmas Present. His face is lined, his beard grey, but still his face promises mirth and conviviality.

'Hi,' says Buddy, offering a hand, 'I'm Buddy.'
'And I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!' says the Ghost of Christmas Present, 'I'd offer you a flagon of spiced wine or a shank of beef, but I'm afraid my offerings are sadly meagre right now. Ho ho! I do have sprouts.'
'Oh, sprouts,' says Buddy, 'They're not so bad. All you gotta do is chop 'em up real fine and serve them with bacon lardons, they're quite nice then.'
'Bacon lardons eh? Oh hoo hoo hoo.'

The Ghost of Christmas Past slaps his thigh and tears roll down his young and ancient cheeks. He reaches out to Buddy with one huge hand and draws him into an embrace.

It is the most wonderful hug Buddy has ever experienced. It is like all his Christmas Days rolled into one, the sights and sounds and smells. A heady rush. Wonderment. And then the whispers come.

'Buddy,' says the Ghost, 'They killed them all. We were performing an uplifting number about sharing and they killed them all with their bare hands. Help me Buddy, we are in grave danger.'
'Oh jeepers,' says Buddy.
'The boy and the girl, they grew up. They escaped. And now they're somewhere in this place that used to be so full of joy and romance.'

A rat runs over Buddy's foot. He does not care to speculate as to what is in its mouth.

'Whatever happens here Buddy, whatever fate awaits us, I want us to go down fighting.'
'Sssh. No time to argue. They are here.'

Shadows slither in the flickering fog. A half chewed bone is discarded onto the cobbles.

'More,' says a voice, a tinkling and fragile thing that makes Buddy feel immediately sorry for its owner.

'There is no more,' says the Ghost sadly, 'You took it all.'
'Why is there not more?' says another voice, a brutal and snide tone that shakes Buddy's faith in hope to its core.
'Because you took it,' says the Ghost again, 'All of it.'

The twin shadows emerge from the fog. Ragged, jutting and emaciated children, their eyes large and hungry, their bodies empty and forlorn. Buddy doesn't understand. He simply stares at them and feels sad.

The girl reaches out a thin hand, like someone offering up a spider's web.

'More,' she says, 'Give us more.'

Buddy speaks gently. 'There is no more, I am sorry.'

Her eyes flick to his. Her glare chills Buddy to the bone.

'You will give us more,' she moans, 'If you do not, we will take it from you.'

The Ghost of Christmas Past steps in between Buddy and the children.

Ho ho ho motherf***ers,' he says merrily, 'BRING IT.'

The children are on him in a second, mouths wide and talons flashing. The Ghost pummels one with a stoutly surging fist, the boy flying backwards into a wall and crashing there with a brittle, snapping impact. The girl sinks her teeth into the Ghost's shoulder and he bellows. She tears at the cornucopia that adorns his brow, scrabbling at it with dirty and chipped nails, but he grits his teeth and shakes his body til she is gripping the horn with one desperate hand.

The boy has recovered. He may appear to be nothing but a bag of bones, but then again perhaps he is. Shuffling forward like a bean bag full of chicken wings, he clambers up the Ghost to aid his sister, adding his weight to hers.

Buddy stands aside, his hand raised to his mouth, agape in stupefied horror as one of the Ghost's great horns is wrenched free, and the scream he emits is only exceeded in horror by the wretched giggling and slurping as the children drench themselves in blood and marrow.

Now, of course, the Ghost is angry.

Seething, he begins to gallop, tilting his head forward towards the oblivious boy as his sister steps aside.

The impact sounds like someone meeting a bean-bag full of chicken wings with a sledgehammer.

His stomach explodes, gored. Black blood spills from his mouth, the boy splutters and gasps and rages against the Ghost.

' is this… fair?' he stutters, before his fists lose their impetus and slump down by his body. The Ghost stretches his great broad neck muscles and twists them, flinging the broken body aside. At once the sister sets upon him.

The Ghost falls to the ground and tries his best to wrench the girl free from his body, but she is stuck fast and tearing at him with arms and legs, nails and teeth.

'Buddy!' roars the Ghost, 'Buddy, help me! Please!'
'But what can I do?'
'The horn Buddy! Use...gaaah!'

A hole is torn in the Ghost's neck as thin, powerful fingers jab and scrape away at him. Buddy sees a bubble of red emerge from the wound, and is jolted from his inaction. His curly green shoes slap across the square, and in one smooth motion he scoops up the fallen cornucopia fragment and raises it above his head.

He cries out as he plunges it down, through and across the girl's body. The Ghost of Christmas Past roars like a struck boar, and a torrent of dark red plasma surges upwards from their bodies like dreadful eruption of tinsel and blood-drenched baubles.

Buddy blinks the blood from his eyes and pulls the limp body of the girl away from his friend.

The horn has ripped him asunder, there can be no turning back now. Tears form anew in Buddy's eyes. From above, a bell begins tolling twelve.

'I'm sorry Ghost of Christmas Present,' whispers Buddy, 'I guess I don’t know my own strength.'
'It's okay Buddy, it's okay,' utters the Ghost, his grey hair now almost white. ‘Once again you have saved Christmas.'
I have?'
'Of course. Go home Buddy. Go home to your family. Go home, and know me better man. Ho ho ho.'

The bell tolls midnight. Buddy wipes blood and tears from his face. He is alone again.

He really hopes he didn’t imagine any of this.




Now that the blood of the innocent has been spilled, the sun will rise again!  
Hooray for the sun! 
Hooray for the festival of hope and rebirth!

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in the new year, with:


If you have any suggestions for who you'd like to see square go each other in future FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! articles, please mention them below.

Monday, 17 December 2012


This week's FIGHT is written by Colleen Cheetham-Gerrard.

You're in a bar. 

It's dark, it's grimy, and you know that to come out alive you must say the correct thing to the one-eyed barman, polishing a dirty glass with a grimy cloth. 

His jerkin has seen better days, but then so has his bare skin beneath it. You’d be hard pushed to say which one was leather.

Evening,” you say, nervously. 

The barman nods tersely, once. 

You have your chance. 

The shadiest drinkers in the shadiest corners pause their murky work, waiting to hear what you say. You swallow, once, and prepare for the statement of a lifetime.

I’m here…I’m here about the fight.”

The barman puts the glass down. 

He spits in it, a molten gobbet that hisses as it cleanses the glass of its solute. 

You tense. He takes a knife from a rotting, fly-harvesting roast and gently eases it across his shoulder. He weeps a single tear into the glass. There is a hiss. Steam cascades across his stubbled chin.

When it clears, all that is left in the glass is charred remains. The barman tips the glass upside down on the counter and it falls to the pitted wooden surface. It sits there balefully inside a now shining glass prison.

You think it might have been an eye.

You stare at it for quite some time.

Wouldn’t know about that sort of thing,” the barman says eventually, drying his knife on the cloth.

"Please," you say, "I can pay."

"I know you can," says the barman. Then he throws the knife.

You move quickly. Sinews are summoned, muscles stretched taught. Your head surges forward towards the blade.

There is a blinding flash, and a sound like steel being unsheathed from the caress of a glacier.

The glass on the bar explodes. Embedded in the burnt object is a knife wreathed in flame. You rub at a spot on your forehead. It tickles.

The barman stares at you for a second, and then removes a key from inside his jerkin and beckons you accompany him.

"It was an eye," he says quietly, 
"This way to the fight."

The door behind the bar is thick teak, it gets heavier with age so they say. Inside it are stone steps leading down, deep into the dark places of the world. A candle flickers at the top of the stairs, and the barman takes it, begins his descent.

A roar in the distance welcomes you. The darkness seems eternal, but then you see the flame move backwards behind you, and feel a hand on your back as you are pushed through a curtain and into stunning light, torches and staffs and gravity globes fill the chamber.

You have arrived, both spiritually and physically.

You are at the fight.

And the cry goes up:








Gandalf (AKA Mithrandir, AKA Stormcrow, AKA Olorin, AKA Lathspell, AKA oh, this is ridiculous) is a Wizard, sent by the Valar to Middle Earth to assist those wishing to oppose Sauron. Mostly, he strides around by himself, making Hobbits do things they don't particularly want to, all the while feeding his crushing nicotine addiction. For more information, try reading The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings by J.R.R.Tolkien

(Or, you know, see the films.)

Jean-Luc Picard (no AKA) is a French human, captain of the USS Enterprise, under orders from Starfleet to explore strange new worlds, seek out new civilisations, and stop Riker from sleeping with the native population. He eschews tobacco, but has a healthy regard for Earl Grey tea. For more information, check out Star Trek: The Next Generation and try to forgive the earlier seasons.


Jean-Luc Picard has the firepower of the Enterprise, flagship of Starfleet and one of the major players in the 24th century Alpha Quadrant. The arsenal includes but isn't limited to phasers, photon torpedoes and the deployment of inappropriate catsuits on Deanna Troi.

Even when he's on his own he's armed with a phaser which can stun or kill from a considerable distance.

Gandalf has a staff and the sword Glamdring that he 'reclaimed' from some trolls. The staff is meant to be magical, but mostly seems to be used as a torch, or as a blunt weapon. He also has a magical ring, the powers of which are frankly ill defined. Mostly it seems to inspire poetry.

Picard wins.


Gandalf has an uncanny knack of making people fight for him, being a member of the White Council (it's not racist, probably) and persuading people to fight against often unbeatable armies. In this case, 'people' includes the armies of Gondor and Rohan, the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, and the odd plucky Hobbit.

Picard has a loyal and dedicated crew, who run the place fairly efficiently in his absence but also mourn him fiercely. They are the best that the Federation has to offer, spanning a variety of cultures and species. He even has 'Captain Picard Day' run on his own ship in the classrooms for the children, therefore indoctrinating his future followers at a young age.

However, one of his crew is Wesley Crusher.

Gandalf wins.


Gandalf is basically an angel. He once came back from the dead and by his own admission he then had to climb down a mountain range in the middle of winter, stark naked. Textbook angel.

Whilst he has no problems pretending to be a harmless old man, it's fairly clear that at close quarters Gandalf is to be taken rather seriously, particularly if he's recently had a smoke. He can negotiate with kings, beggars, and everyone in between, and makes that hat look good.

Picard can be a miserable bugger, angsting over the right course of action, trying not to hurt any of the people he mentally classes as 'inferior species' for not following Starfleet's somewhat bland ideals. He has, however, invented an impressive fighting technique known as the Picard Manoeuvre, and can negotiate his way out of even the most unlikely scenarios. He is, of course, French, despite the Earl Grey and periodically declaiming Shakespeare. Picard is also bald, so possibly open to taunts by the much hairier Gandalf.

Interesting, both have problems with adversaries beginning with a 'B'. Gandalf fought to the mutual death with a Balrog, although no record remains on how the Balrog felt about the matter. Picard has regularly taken on the Borg and on one occasion was assimilated into the collective as Locutus and had to be rescued by Riker. Embarrassing. Technically speaking, he didn't actually die, so in 'fight to the death' terms Picard has a better success rate than Gandalf.


At this point a highly sophisticated computer, possibly voiced by Majel Barrett, processes the above information to find the ultimate winner. The computer is infalliable, remember? Don't blame us.


Gandalf and Picard are in a dungeon, looking at each other warily. Both are fairly used to being locked up at a whim of an insane local ruler, so let's not dwell too much on why or how they've ended up there.

We should work together to escape!” Picard declaims. Gandalf looks suspicious.

How do I know you're not in league with the Dark Lord?” Gandalf demands, not unreasonably given that Picard is dressed in polyester.

Picard rolls his eyes. He's good at this local mumbo-jumbo native belief thing, and prides himself on being able to talk to beardy weirdos and persuade them of his innate superiority as bred in all Starfleet captains. Within just 45 minutes, he thinks, the situation will be his and he'll be back on the Enterprise! “There's no such thing, it's all just science, and I can explain it to you...”

Pah, everyone knows that any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from spells done by computer,” Gandalf rumbles, suddenly taking up a lot more of the room, dark smoke rolling around him. “I am a Wizard, and I know more mysteries than any Man of the Third Age could contemplate!”

Having now suitably assessed Picard's strength, he knocks the phaser out of his hand using his staff. Picard goes to grab Gandalf's beard, but instead Gandalf lets him, and then spins round to fling Picard off his feet like a big musty human swingball.

Fool of a Frenchman,” Gandalf mutters, as Picard lies in the corner, bruised and having somehow ripped his uniform in a fetching manner (as instructed by basic Starfleet training). 

Gandalf turns his back so Picard doesn't see his lips move while thinking up follicle-themed taunts, at which point the Captain reveals his bluff and leaps on the Wizard's back, out of blunt object thwacking range. 

The two magically rise slowly into the air as they wrestle, and eventually Picard loses his grip of Gandalf's voluminous robes and falls to the floor, this time cracking his head on the polystyrene rocks and being knocked fully unconscious and ultimately waking up to one of Beverly Crusher's 'He's asleep, I bet he wouldn't notice if I just went for it' faces.

It is at this point that Pippin and Wesley Crusher come to open the cell door, having formed an unlikely bond and also an accordion based folk-music duo.

Gandalf starts regretting some of his life decisions.




It's a tough one, this, but Gandalf is always going to win every fight via magic, cheating and outright bribery when he needs to. Picard may have beaten the godlike-being Q, but unlike Q Gandalf isn't a complete twat with obvious and defeat-able flaws.

Even Christopher Lee can't beat Gandalf, and he combs his beard and everything.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:


If you have any suggestions for who you'd like to see square go each other in future FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! articles, please mention them below.

Monday, 10 December 2012


This week's FIGHT is written by James Clayton.

Whatever happened to peace, love and understanding?

Why, sister, they took those bitches to the foot of the Statue of Liberty and shot them in the foot with a nailgun. Sold ‘em (for a grand total of £14.56 and a Sherbet DipDab) at the Cadaverly Carehome Car Boot Sale.

The abandoned husks now have a nice set of new jigsaws for the daycare room but, hey, enough about them and our flogged peace, love and understanding.

Right now we’re all about spreading sherbet and carnage.

Feel that fizzing on your tongue?

That’s the tantalising taste of ultraviolence, the buzz of bloodlust and the tang of war.

Or maybe it’s the atmosphere around you thickening, reacting and producing a new substance from your saliva that chokes and pummels your windpipe, as nature takes a sideways glance at man’s work, and thinks:

Suck it up, suckers ‘cause it’s time for FIGHTING.’

Fighting: a war spanning multiple-multiverses where mighty warriors will mess with each other’s bodies, minds and souls purely for your vicarious sadistic pleasure.

A world where even the air you breathe wants to hit you.

Are you intrigued?

Are you excited?

Are you stuck and in desperate need of a diversion from frustrating jigsaw puzzles with missing pieces?

If so, here’s this week’s wham-bam-slamboree for you to sample and stick your lollipop into.






Lady Rainicorn is both mythological creature and meteorological event. She is, as her name suggests, a rainicorn - a hybrid of rainbow and unicorn - from the Land of Ooo; A wondrous technicolour vision with long blonde hair and amazing magical abilities, the Lady is a peaceful sort who enjoys playing the viola in her free time when not adventuring or attending social gatherings. She communicates only in Korean and is currently in a long-term relationship with Jake the Dog. For further details, see the Adventure Time cartoon series.

Roy Batty is an android who does not dream of electric sheep but actually dreams of more life, fucker. A runaway from the Off-World colonies, this Tyrell Corporation, Nexus-6 Replicant is a mercurial muscular specimen of intense animal magnetism - the formidable Aryan embodiment of the advertising slogan “more human than human”. With his futuristic power clothing, shock of Cyberpunk Tintin hair and piercing Teutonic eyes, Batty is an unnerving bloke to run into on a dark acid rain-streaked evening in dystopian Los Angeles. For further details, see the novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, and any cut of the Ridley Scott film BladeRunner, including the forthcoming ‘Visually sumptuous but incoherent bollocks’ edit.


Lady Rainicorn has a lethally sharp horn in the centre of her forehead which can fire chromatic light beams and be used to alter the colour of any object she aims it at. Her body intercepts beams of sunlight and ‘dances around’ on them, enabling her to fly, phase through walls, stretch herself and perform a whole array of other moves that defy the conventional laws of physics.

Her paradoxical signature secret move is the Rowdy Queen Rainicorn Wheel Roll.

Roy Batty prefers hand-to-hand combat and with his superhuman strength he’s confident that he can stand his ground against armed opposition. Alongside the ability to punch through brick walls, Batty was designed to withstand tremendous pain and will not flinch if you, say, shove a nail through his hand (he in fact relishes it because he’s a sadistic synthetic who finds the notion of sensation quite erotically stimulating, actually). He’s nimble, agile, rock hard and altogether an exemplary athletic model whose volatile moodswings are often accompanied by swiftly executed ultraviolence. His signature secret move: Oedipal Android Eye Gouge.

The Lady succeeds with flying colours and comes out on top in this round.


The Lady’s lover is Jake the Dog who can stretch into whatever shape he damn well pleases (this comes in handy when you’re trying to copulate with a flying band of coloured light). She also has the support of Jake’s adventuring shinobro, the underage hero Finn the Human. Additionally, she’s also backed by Princess Bubblegum and her Candy Kingdom subjects plus pretty much all the weird and wonderful characters who reside in the post-apocalyptic world of Ooo. They’re a colourful bunch.

Batty is backed by his renegade Nexus-6 cohorts, all of whom he lured away from a life of servitude under human masters on the Off-World colony. They are Pris - the femme fatale gymnastic “basic pleasure model” who looks like Daryl Hannah - Leon Kowalski who shoots people who ask him confusing questions about tortoises and Zhora the snake-dancer with crystal sequinned skin. They’re a colourful bunch.

Batty probably edges this one because even though they are outnumbered, superhuman android strength is always going to overcome an amassed army of anthropomorphic candies and cupcakes.


Once upon a time, rainicorns were known as creatures with an insatiable taste for human flesh but the Lady apparently doesn’t have a desire to feast on man meat. Roy Batty’s status as a synthetic human probably means that rainicorns would pass him up if the primitive hunger urges were to surface.

Being only able communicate in Korean coos has caused the Lady problems in the past and there’s a risk that potential allies may not be able to understand her without the aid of a Universal Translator. She may also be pregnant with Jake’s baby (a Puppy Rainicorn, or Painicorn, with the potential for more offspring leading to a Rainicornucopia) which makes her vulnerable both physically and mentally with extreme hormone surges a possibility. It’s not necessarily all bad news though: Rainicorn morning sickness - the ultimate technicolour yawn - is a real trip to behold.

As for Batty, there’s a chance that his brute aggression and determined drive may be tempered by poetic affectations which are further spurred by his overhanging existential crisis. The Nexus-6 model may become maudlin if it starts musing on its own curtailed mortality and inevitable artificially pre-ordained demise. The realisation of feelings, empathy and distractions like doves and the rain which inspire spontaneous philosophical monologues; these strip Roy of his fighting will.

Overall, both players have pacifist tendencies that may rise to the fore depending on mood and circumstance. That leaves question marks hanging over the anticipated encounter.


This is the point where we run all the above information through our highly sophisticated computer program to establish the victor. You can tell that the computer  program is sophisticated because, according to its Facebook profile, it likes Pre-Raphaelite art, Italian Neorealist cinema and “reading National Geographic while relaxing in a bathtub filled with patchouli oil, Schubert on the stereo and a grapefruit mimosa on the side”.


Both gladiators engage in a bit of light sparring and land some jabs and hoof blows as a sop to mainstream audiences but soon get weary and they decide to embrace their inner ‘artiste’. This takes some preparation and Rainicorn starts blowing suspicious-looking bubbles out of an ornamental pipe and listening to 8-bit covers of Creedence Clearwater Revival tracks while Batty strips half-naked and reads extracts from Nietzsche aloud.

After this five-hour interlude, both antagonists decide to be antagonistic and go at it again. Believing that the tears of a unicorn may bring him the additional life he craves - perhaps even the eternal sort - Batty starts to attack the Lady’s face with a shard of broken glass. She parries his thrusts with her unicorn horn and dazzles him by firing chromatic light bolts. The replicant is dazed and his iconic blonde hair turned a lurid shade of purple under this assault. He soon bounces back, however, and manages to catch the Lady’s left eye as she attempts an ill-advised somersault-sidekick combo.

Howling with pained anguish (or, more accurately, making hysterical Korean screaming noises) Rainicorn then goes berserk. Half-blinded, she bolts around the arena on a rampage, accidentally killing several spectators including Pris (skewered) and Peppermint Butler (shattered into a thousand fragments). Roy eventually gets the drop on her and wrestles her down to the ground, ripping off her horn to completely subdue his opponent.

Her essential vitality completely cowed, Lady Rainicorn melts away into a puddle of multicoloured misery before evaporating into the storm clouds now looming above. As the acid rain breaks Roy Batty gleefully stabs himself in the thigh with the Lady’s lost horn. He is euphoric, high on brutality and the sweet pain coursing through his finely-crafted body but the jubilation doesn’t last. He starts to feel the countdown to death within his core being and realises that the magical eye-juice will not work on a replicant. His victory is hollow and all these moments are lost like rainicorn tears in the acid rain. Thus, Batty sadly slopes off to the Ice King’s mountain palace peak to spend his final few hours contemplating the ultimate futility of it all.




Though there are rumours that Sir Ridley Scott is dissatisfied with the end result and has prepared an alternate Director’s Cut which suggests that Lady Rainicorn emerges as the true victor. Reports from insiders who’ve seen this version reference the repeat origami unicorn visual motif which is believed to represent rainicorn immortality and the species’ ability to transcend the mundane physical plane. You’ll have to wait until the 25th anniversary blu-ray release to get certain confirmation of this.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:


If you have any suggestions for who you'd like to see square go each other in future FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! articles, please mention them below.