Monday, 23 September 2013


It's the end.

The moment hasn't really been prepared for.

I'm pretty much typing this as you read it.















James Bond is a 00 ranked secret agent for MI6. He is ageless and deathless, a mutable killing machine. For some reason, he looks and acts differently some of the time, like he totally started off as this charmingly violent Scottish guy.

Then he went a bit Australian and understandably settled down with Diana Rigg, but that went a bit deady, and then he went Scotch again (like an egg that's had all the breadcrumbs and sausage meat taken off, then re-applied).

Then he had smarmy eyebrows, because mass murder on behalf of a bygone relic of an empire really chimes tonally with smirking sexual innuendos.

OH AND THEN he's all like smooth veneer hiding an impatient, ruthless blunt object.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE. Irish? Ish. Irishish. Boyish. Boyishirishish. A boyish Irish rogue. A birishrog. Surely that's it?

CHRIST ON A SHIT! Then there's a Bullingdon rugger slugger who'll leave your wife smelling of whiskey and fear but you won't know because he'll have punched you repeatedly in the face and hid your body in a portaloo.


Why yes. It's somewhat de rigeur for an agent licenced to kill. Famously packing a Walther PPK, though initially bearing a Beretta 418 and occasionally favouring the Walther P99 Semi-Automatic (details doubtless noted by everyone ever shot by any of these guns), Bond is an exceptionally gifted murderer. He'll deploy his weapons, gadgets, vehicles and even household furniture to this end. He enjoys it after a while, because if it's your job to kill loads of people I suppose you've got to find happiness where you can.

In many ways, it's dashed useful that he's employed by the state to do all these killings, to keep us all fictionally safe at night. You can't help but get a patriotic erection when watching a James Bond film, even if you're a lady. He's just that manly, provided you don't stop and think about what he's doing for any time whatsoever.

The prose version of Bond seems more dispassionate about killing. He's a hard-drinking, hard-smoking homophobic sociopath. Fleming didn't have to worry so much about making him palatable for a huge audience, so could happily reveal and revel in flaws to a greater extent than the film versions.


Many other agents assist James Bond. M, Moneypenny, Q, a variety of expendable 00-agents. He also tends to meet a woman who will end up saving his life at some point, but who he will never see afterwards even if she does survive.

He also has FBI agent Felix Leighter, who miraculously recovered from being eaten by a shark by coming back with a beard and a different accent. If only everyone in Jaws knew that such a trick existed.


Bond has this habit of traversing time and space at a strange rate, changing his face and personality while remaining roughly the same person with roughly the same modus operandi. Occasionally his colleagues do the same thing, but occasionally they remain the same while Bond changes.

The most logical explanation for this multi-faceted stretching of time is that Bond is either an alien with such powers with a strange and violent attachment to the British was of life. Alternatively, 'James Bond' could be a code name for a group of very similar spy-men who have all worked for MI6 over the years.

Interestingly, many of them would share similar memories and backgrounds, suggesting that perhaps some sort of Jason Bourne-like programming is done to these men. Perhaps the role of James Bond is tinged with tragedy, as men leave everything behind to believe themselves to be a destructive, orphaned killing machine. They will eventually burn out, their fate undocumented, until a replacement can be found...


Six coffins. The flag of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is draped crisply over each one of them. Uniform. Enveloping. Secure.

They sit ready and waiting in a green and pleasant field, graves freshly dug, but no other human in sight.

What happened, you may ask, that caused such a thing to pass?


The silo went underground further than it rose into the sky. Beneath Derbyshire, relics of security bided their time until death. The entities that entreated them to destroy and protect could not bring themselves to do the same. It would be like putting down an old, faithful dog.

Within the caverns, there was a complex of tunnels, cells and dungeons. Dripfed, forlorn, and destitute, it was the last resting place of those who held a name of portent. They now sat slumped, waiting for nothing, that last alluring deprivation that they had meted out to so many.

Area 007 was a melancholy place. Once vigorous men dwelt there now, and their memories were patchy. Internal monologues aren't what they were:

Was it you – the charming, bereft one – or you – the twinkle-eyed playboy – whose wife never made it? You both think it was you? Oh, no matter. I had so many women. I can't remember their names. I can't remember their faces. I can't remember the sensations. So did I really experience any of it?

Today, though, is a day of relative excitement.

There is to be a new inmate.

He comes in, wheeled on an upright trolley, strapped down like a live-action version of Operation. He head lolls, his blonde hair is faded. His eyes are not looking. His little blue pants are stained.

'What happened?' asks an old Bond, his eyebrow creaking upwards.
'Never you mind, grandad,' says one of the orderlies, 'Just eat your gruel and die peacefully.'
'Do you enjoy living in this country, young man?'
'No. Shut the fuck up.'

Cowed, the Bond's smirk collapses. Not enough stamina. No gun to back up his point, no inventions from Q branch to extricate him from an indiscreet lack of dignity. The Q he knew was gone. So was the Q after him, apparently (though nobody had liked that one, he'd only done it for the money). That was two now, after him. They didn't last like they used to.

'Honestly,' said the orderly, 'I don't know why we bother. If it was up to me, we'd just slit your throats and get it over wi-'

The orderly stops speaking, probably due to the serrated blade that is making its way through his throat. It is in no hurry, mainly due to it lacking sentience, but also because its operator is in no hurry either. He does not seem unduly fussed about the large amount of blood he is getting on his jumpsuit, possibly because he takes it off to reveal a smart tuxedo beneath. He adjusts his bow tie. Time has been kind to him.

'You!' says the Irish one no-one really dislikes but no-one really likes either, 'I thought you were dead!'
'I thought he was on the run,' says the Scottish one.
'I thought he was on the run, and then they killed him, and so he was dead, which is kind of what you said,' says the Australian one.
'Gentlemen,' says the newcomer, 'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is O'Brien-ffrench. Conrad O'Brien-ffrench. But I used to be known as...Bond.'
'Why are you here?' says the English sexual deviant Bond.
'Isn't it obvious?'
'No, you'll have to explain it as if someone was listening to this conversation and didn't understand any of it whatsoever.'
'Of course. I was lying low in a BBC Wales drama production in 2009 when I discovered the location of Area 007. I'd heard rumours for years that all the old James Bonds were shunted down here to die in peace, so that the country couldn't be seen to have blood on its hands as usual. Then I bided my time until another Bond was ready to be incarcerated. Fortunately this one was more volatile than most, and our former masters really put him through the ringer, drained him dry. Then, I used the training they had given me against them.'
'Are you here to free us? Is that it?' asks the Scottish one.
'Oh, considerably more than that.'

Before anyone can react, the newcomer brings out a gun and fires it at the heart of the Scottish one. He looks down at his chest, reaches out, and then collapses to the floor with a gasp. Then the newcomer fires at each one of his iterations, before finally turning the gun on himself.


Gathering in the field, members of MI6 and the new 007 await the monarch with trepidation. It feels only right that the person in whose name these men were acting should attend their burial, even if she knew nothing of their previous internment.

The new Bond walks, arm in arm with the monarch.

'I thought you'd look more like Clive Owen or Dougray Scott,' they say to the new Bond.
'Yeah, I get that a lot,' he says. The Prime Minister just said the same thing ten minutes ago.

The brass band strike up. The hymn is Jerusalem. A mist begins rolling in.

'M?' says Bond.
'No, M,' says Bond. 'The forecast wasn't for mist was it?'
'Possibly, later in the day.'
'Was it for mist that started above some dry graves and coffins?'

M stares at the mist. It hasn't rolled in from down the valley, it's starting here.

'Get them out,' he says, 'Get everybody out.'

But it is too late. The guests are already coughing and hacking, attempting to cover their faces with kerchiefs. The monarch is bent double, a thin stream of orange flem escaping the side of their mouth. Bond, panicking, tries to dab it back into their mouth with his gun. When he turns to M for help, he discovers his boss' eyeballs are peeling like suicidal onions, a high pitched burbling noise building as the fluid within tries to escape.

'M!' Bond cries.
'No, M!' says Bond. At least he tries to. His tongue falls free of his mouth and hangs for a second on a tendril of gummy flesh. It hovers like a skilful yo-yo, before pinging back into his mouth with a snap, lodging at the back of his throat. Bond chokes and gags. That was utterly disgusting.

Meanwhile, everyone's sort of melting. For his first big operation as a 00-agent, it's been a bit of a pisser. The monarch is trying to hug their own innards back into their stomach, as they appear to have made a sludgy lunge for freedom. M now looks like someone's done a shit in some jam, and Bond's fairly sure his penis has just sieved itself liquid through his flies.

The last thing that passes through his brain before he loses consciousness is a strange purple liquid that was previously the left anus of the monarch. It is pleasantly warm.

Some hours later, the six Bonds push open their coffin lids, and survey the carnage.

'Well,' says edgy Eighties Bond, 'I think that went okay.'
'What on earth is that?' says racy Seventies Bond, pointing at the stream of multicoloured viscous liquid that is now flowing into the open graves.
'That, I should imagine, is the remains of MI6 and the heads of state. My plan worked.'
'Ow, my head,' saysh the Scottish Bond, 'What the schit jusht happened?'
'Well, I shot you all with a knockout serum that, once metabolised, would be emitted through the human body to produce a noxious and fatal gas. Something Q knocked up years ago to deter homosexuals from using public parks.'

There is a pause while this information is digested.

'Are you saying,' says Australian Bond, 'That we just farted poison over everybody?'
'Poison that does that?' adds the Irish one.
'Yup,' says edgy Eighties Bond. 'There's now a power vacuum, and I think it only right that we should march right on into it.'

Blonde Bond speaks. He has not spoken yet, and his blue eyes betray a deep sadness within.

'I think we should all have sex,' he says.

There is a pause while this information is digested.

Blonde Bond turns to his predecessors and uses his blue eyes and pants to eye-watering effect.

'We are the only people who understand what it is like to be Bond,' he says. 'We've been through it, no-one else. We all have the same unfulfilled sexual desires, and the same outrageous confidence. I think it's quite possible that we've been afraid of this for quite some time.'

All the Bonds ponder these words for a moment and then, gradually, they all smile. Little blue pants are shanked down hefty thighs, and the Blonde Bond spreads his arms wide in welcome.

And so, as the liquefied remains of Britain's hierarchy are joined by a variety of other fluids, James Bond finally meets his optimal sexual partner on a backdrop of Union flags in a very green and pleasant land.



will not return next week.

Monday, 16 September 2013


The very worst thing an inexperienced fighter can do is beat everyone in the entire world.

Where else is the next fight going to come from?






The Child Catcher is the employee of Baron Bomburst. His purpose is to snatch children from the streets of Vulgaria. The Baron and Baroness really do not like children, though they have chosen to be pro-active about it rather than just put up with the little shits like the rest of us do. He features in the film and stage version of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Boba Fett is a bounty hunter who delivers the frozen body of Han Solo to Jabba the Hutt in the original Star Wars trilogy. He is definitely a bad-ass, as long as you don't really pay attention during any film that isn't The Empire Strikes Back.


The Child Catcher is a cunning beast, but resolutely non-lethal. His apparatus is designed to instil fear, oppression, and pain into his captives. He is capable of a jovial (if creepy) facade in order to lure victims away from their homes and into his sinister kidnapping caravan.

It sounds worse than it is.

Boba Fett wears scavenged armour and carries a conspicuous blaster pistol with him. While he is capable of defending himself, he normally only kills after receiving a huge fee.

Thus, Boba Fett wins, if only because it's more likely that someone will pay him to kill the Child Catcher than it is for the Child Catcher to kill Boba Fett by asking him if he wants some lollipops.


The Child Catcher is backed by the tyranny of Baron and Baroness Bomburst, and the armed forces of the barony of Vulgaria. An oppressive regime that rules by fear, and reduces Benny Hill's lecherous avarice to the disposition of a kindly toymaker, it baulks at adhering to Germanic stereotypes by being quite slapdash and clumsy.

They have a network of spies, but no inventors. Thus, their espionage agents have no handy gadgets with which to extricate themselves from tricky situations.

Boba is a lone wolf, more akin to the classic violent yet righteous loner beloved of the Western genre. He has done business with Jabba the Hut and faced down Darth Vader. The latter isn't that impressive when you consider that a young Boba saw the whiny, wooden arsehole version of Darth Vader.


On stage, Wikipedia lists the Child Catcher as being played by Richard O'Brien and Wayne Sleep. It does not state if they did this at the same time, though we can but hope.

Boba Fett first appeared the Star Wars Holiday Special, the first of many teats to be milked by the club-brained Nietzsche-Ewok that is George Lucas.


Someone has paid Boba Fett – the ancient bounty hunter - an awful lot of money to despatch his latest target: a strangely Semitic (ah, the past, you were slightly more racist than the present) faux-Dickensian ravager of the lies your parents tell you to make you feel safe. It wasn't that he objected to a man being a tool of state oppression, but imprisoning children on that scale is not only wrong, it's impractical.

He is hiding in the mountain ranges of this world, still kidnapping children through nothing more than force of habit. He dresses in strange, colourful, oversized garments and plays alluring music with his alpenhorn. So go the rumours. Thus, Boba Fett follows the mellifluous bellow and the trail of distraught parents along the villages of the hillside, hoping to track down his quarry.

Resting in an inn, he insists on paying for his lodgings after they are offered to him for nothing. The peoples of the mountainside have heard of his quest, and are grateful to the man who seeks to return their children to them.

'I have no wish to return your children,' says Fett, 'I merely seek to kill the man I am being paid to kill.'

He insists on paying his way. He turns down the men and women who offer themselves in both gratitude and sheer lust. This is not why he is here on this planet, in this universe.

On the fifth day of his journeying, after four villages, a dwindling scent, and one dead bear, Boba Fett hears the drone of the horn nearby, and freezes against the rock surface. He carefully aims his laser at the edge of the rockface, readies himself, and waits.

A tall, gangly human shape shudders into sight, a clipped trilogy of laughter escaping from it like an erratic deckchair. Fett fires, and the figure gasps. He's caught it across the throat, opening and cauterising so all it can do is gasp uselessly as it tumbles down. The knees gone, it folds over, and then pitches forward over the ledge.

The oversized red cape make it look like a bird that has decided to end it all. Fett adjusts his laser and takes aim. The body stops falling, and the laser juts forward. Fett takes the strain, and reels in the catch. The inhabitants of this planet would regard it as fishing, he supposes, though there's a bit more to it when you've got a hand-held tractor beam instead of a rod and twine.

The body retrieved, he sends a signal to his employer, and sits back to wait for the shuttlecraft.

After chewing on salted bear-meat, Boba Fett hears a new sound.

Somewhere close by, a child is crying.

He has seen the grief from their absence. He has seen their kin suggest their flesh in barter. There is a gap in their lives that can only be filled when their children are returned to them.

Boba Fett has some time before the shuttle is due to collect. By the time the children return to their villages, he will be gone.

As the sun falls below the foothills, and the sky is swathed in all the shades of blue nature can provide, Boba Fett finds a cavity in the rockface that echoes with the sound of children's cries. He follows it through to a torch-lit chamber. There are wooden cages, and children in rags working at some kind of mechanism. Their heads turn as they become aware of the newcomer.

'Who are you?' they ask.
'That's not important,' Boba Fett says, 'Go now. You are free.'
'Where is the Childcatcher?' they ask.
'He is dead.'

The cries he heard earlier return. A small girl, muddy blonde hair exploding outwards from her head, is weeping.

'Return to your parents,' says Boba Fett. 'The Childcatcher will not trouble you anymore.'

The girl wails. Something is not right.

'You killed it!' she yells, 'We worked so hard, and you killed it! Why?'

A scraping behind him, and the Child Catcher is dragged in by some older children. They look maybe ten, twelve years old.

The Child Catcher's cowl is open. His face is young. He is, at most, twenty.

The eldest girl looks at Boba Fett sternly.

'Did you do this?' she demands.
'Yes,' he says.
'I see.'

She thinks for a moment, and then issues and instruction.

'Prepare him.'

Boba Fett is dragged to his knees by the ensuing ruck. His helmet is removed. A hammer connects with his head, and he blacks out.


The blonde haired girl is examining the Child Catcher, wiping tears and snot away from her face.

'It's no use,' she whines, 'The stem is damaged. I can't fix it. Jorg is dead.'
'Sssh, now, Bretta. It's okay, we have a new vessel. Strip out the workings and place them into this man's body. As long as you can keep the mechanisms working, we will always have a Childcatcher.'
'But Jorg is-'
'Your brother, I know. But he wanted to go home Bretta, and we can't allow that. Fix him up, and we'll start on the new one.'
'But this man killed Jorg!'
'Bretta, Bretta, Bretta...'

The older girl's voice is calming, but her smile is full of mischief.

'I want you to strip Jorg of the mechanisms, and then place them into the body of his murderer...

...don't feel the need to use anaesthetic.'



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, 9 September 2013


This week's FIGHT is written by James Clayton.

Real po-lice? Oh, pur-lease...

Do you really want 'real po-lice'?

Are you happy that your hard-earned and even harder-claimed tax dollars are going to be spent on 'real po-lice'?

Well, friends, I think we can do better and I think you deserve better.

We all know that 'unreal po-lice' are required in these desperate times.
How about techno-techno po-lice?
Now we're talking!
Now we're really fighting crime!
Now we're getting hard on some hard science fiction, son!

You can keep your real po-lice for we have the next generation of law enforcers to serve the public, maintain order, stick up for the greater good and soak up the entire municipal budget.

Well, we could either play with crime statistics figures or play with science. Ask yourselves, what would real po-lice do?

We've got the technology. We've got the dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American Dream.


You didn't want your hard-earned and hard-lost tax dollars spent on ludicrous, unnecessarily-expensive law enforcement solutions built on futuristic technology brainstormed by imbecile minds under the heavy influence of ultraviolent pop culture?

Well, fear not citizens! We'll have none of that nonsense on the streets of this fair burg! For we are real po-lice!

*Secretly initiates back-up plan where over-expensive techno-techno po-lice destroy each other before anyone sees the research and development budget...*





RoboCop is a nice title for a late 20th century sci-fi action flick. The character himself is a cyborg law enforcer working in Detroit, Michigan. Once upon a time he was Officer Alex J. Murphy, a full-blooded family man with feelings and emotions, but that all ended when a gang of sick sadistic goons tortured our innocent hero and shot his body to itty-bitty-git-bits.

He was left for dead but (un)fortunately(!) Omni Consumer Products - the corporation proud to privatise and ruin all your public services - picked up his bloody mutilated husk and reappropriated it for their own insidious ends. He's now RoboCop (model name: OCP Crime Prevention Unit 001) and he has four prime directives...

1. Serve the public trust.
2. Protect the innocent.
3. Uphold the law.
4. (Classified).

Altogether, he's a pretty cutting edge piece of technology and he impresses himself as an appealing, awe-inspiring lawmandroid so cool that you can keep his stocky metal form staggering through numerous sequels, comic book spin-offs, TV shows and video games. Say "RoboCop!" and 87% of the crooks in the neighbourhood will crap themselves in fear.

Oddly, absolutely no-one has made a film called Hobocop, but it's only a matter of time.

With the decline of the automobile industry, Motown going out of fashion and The White Stripes splitting up, RoboCop now stands as Motor City's most successful international export. 

Timecop is a nice title for a late 20th century action flick. The character himself is a TEC (Time Enforcement Commission) agent named Max Walker and his job requires him to repeatedly whizz back into the past to apprehend and beat up bad guys who want to reverse engineer history for their own selfish gain. He does this by jumping in a shuttle-shaped time machine that gets shot at a wall in a basement beneath a secret government building in Washington D.C.

In essence, Max is a civil servant in the employ of Uncle Sam but he's got shades of mindblowing science, a certain charismatic aura and a sympathy-guaranteeing personal trauma backstory to make him both interesting and likable.

After his pregnant wife was brutally murdered he responded by growing a mullet and devoting all his energies into his crimefighting career across the space/time continuum. His brooding toughness and timelessness has also been stretched across comics, a videogame and a couple of live-action spin-offs (though to them we say "Damn you if you don't have Van Damme!").

Say "Timecop, man!" and 96% of the chrono-crooks on this cosmic string will start having a panic attack. 


RoboCop rocks a 9mm Auto-9 handgun and he's got this neat trick where he whizzes it around like a gunslinger from an old Western movie (He stole it off the TV show T.J. Lazer to impress his kid but, damn it, he made that move his own and no one remembers T.J. Lazer). He's familiar with other types of firearms and is renowned down at the police firing range as the best shot on the force.

He can't possibly miss because he's been built for perfect, 100% accurate shooting and Murphy's new programming has other combat advantages. His bulky armoured body is highly damage resistant so RoboCop can resist heavy blows, bomb blasts, extreme heat and insults from trolls on internet message boards.

In addition to thick skin (or rather, thick titanium-laced-with-Kevlar exoskeleton), OCP Crime Prevention Unit 001 has superhuman strength and, as a cyborg, a whole shock of artificial enhancements to make him even more effective as a soldier. And in spite of the fact that he's more machine than man now, he's got a sense of humour and some wicked put-downs to put down on the creeps he puts down.

Our friendly neighbourhood Timecop is packing futuristic firearms from the future (2004). Those are back-up weapons though because Walker excels in close combat in which he gets to utilise his whole stack of wham-bam-thank-you-Van-Damme martial arts moves. The kickboxing chrononaut will leave your reeling after striking you with swift feet and fists and then he'll execute a perfect split in mid-air and hold it for 10 hours.

Max Walker dances with all the beautifully brutal grace and lethal agility of Jean-Claude Van Damme to kick on in this contest.


In Murphy's corner is partner Officer Anne Lewis. She's an old-school tough cop whose relationship with RoboCop is one of compassionate empathy. Though he can rely on Anne, the rest of Detroit's police force leaves much to be desired and they're usually on strike so, yeah, so much for back up. Likewise, RoboCop can't trust the scientists and suits in the employ of OCP because they're all greedy rapacious capitalists who only want to exploit our hero for their own evil agendas.

When you remember that Murphy's family abandoned him when he died and was resurrected as a robot you realise that RoboCop is a lonely, vulnerable figure indeed. Still, the public loves him so much that they funded a Kickstarter campaign to get a bronze statue of him erected in Detroit. And each and every single one of 'em hollered "I'd buy that for a dollar!" as they clicked the 'Back this project' icon.

We get a feeling that the folks in the TEC are pretty indifferent to Max. His superior, Commander Eugene Mutazak, claims to be his best mate but friendship is a pretty fluid and irrelevant concept when you work for the U.S. Government.

Max's past partners have all turned out to be stooges taking pay from corrupt third parties and every time the Timecop returns to the present he finds that the dynamics of the office - even his colleagues' entire personalities and personal histories in some cases - have been altered. In total, Max can only really rely on himself and his past self though if they should touch each other both would physically merge into a gloopy mass and then melt away out of existence. Such are the hazards of time travel.

RoboCop comes top in this round because he has a reliable partner and more fan power propping him up.


Max Walker uses technology. Alex Murphy is technology. That's nuance.

Still, both figures are similar in that they are decent, good, hard-working men. It just so happens that the institutions they work for may not have their or the public's best interests at heart. This makes these paragons of justice slightly tragic in a way. Wouldn't it be cool if they turned in their badges, went vigilante or formed their own private detective agency? Maybe once they've had this fight they can join forces and lead a buddy cop movie or something...

They also have something else in common: a sad family situation. Both are lonely men who miss the wives and children that were cruelly taken from them in a moment of pointless, shocking violence.

Both men stand on top of subtexts about the corruption inherent in the capitalist system and the abuse of technology and institutions by those with wealth and power but you can overlook all that if you just want to get high on rollicking robo-boogie and Western martial arts. There's a reason subtext is subtext.

On to more personal details - RoboCop survives off a diet of baby food that is spoonfed to him by an underpaid underling in a white lab coat. We don't know what Max Walker likes to eat but we can guarantee that he doesn't need someone to force it down his throat. He's a grown man, not a grown mandroid infant.

Speaking of nourishment, we do know that Max likes to chew on Black Black chewing gum which is a Japanese brand. This is product placement and it's written into his lucrative contract. 

RoboCop also fronts a number of TV adverts in the Asian market and has promoted Korean fried chicken and Japanese instant noodles, among other consumer goods.

If this were a battle of commercial interests, RoboCop would win without any contest thanks to the number of times he's been replicated in action figure or commemorative model form. No one has a statue of Max Walker on their mantelpiece, a Timecop Pez dispenser or a coffee mug shaped like Jean-Claude Van Damme's head in their kitchen cupboard.

Both men are also doomed to be victims subjected to full reboot treatment. As we anticipate a future where they each come to battle their own upstart doppelganger, for now we'll let 'em clobber each other...


We decided to abandon the sophisticated computer system that used to decide the outcome of fights. In a world where everything is controlled by algorithms, where everything is synced to social media and where everything is wired 24/7 we decided the truly radical thing would be to kill the computer. We killed the computer. We killed it with fire and now we feel so free. Oh, sweet Jesus we feel so, so free...

Welcome to Detroit. To be precise, welcome to an abandoned steel mill on a dilapidated industrial site/forgotten shitheap in Detroit.

In comes our hero - a hero too good for a place this bad. He is Officer Alex Murphy and he is the top cop in this dystopian disaster pisshole of a city. He's on duty and he's dropped in on this dump in response to a call from up on high. Reports say that a collection of the nastiest hoodlums in town are knocking around these parts and Murphy and Lewis have, thus, arrived in their patrol car to investigate further.

He moves stealthily with cautious poise through wreckage and rust, nimbly making his way towards the mill buildings. While Officer Anne Lewis approaches around the back, Murphy is coming at the target from the front. (She's definitely around there but you're not going to encounter her in this fight. We decided we couldn't spare the funds for Nancy Allen's appearance fee and have saved the cash for a special cameo from Kurtwood Smith as Clarence Boddicker later in this battle.)

We thus get a clear glimpse of the pair's teamwork, strategic planning and courage - all characteristics of 'real po-lice'. That said, as Murphy stalks in closer towards the hidey hole of the dirty crims he gets a weird feeling. All at once, there's an odd reverberation in the air.

A breeze breezes and strange ripples ripple right before his eyes. The effect is like the pounding of a transparent speaker and this invisible beating booms like a horizontal puddle-splash in mid-air before spitting out something.

The something is Max Walker. He flies out of the vague portal and rolls across the dirty ground, luckily enough missing any discarded lumps of scrap metal or junked machinery.

It's a pretty hard landing and he gets a few mud stains on his TEC uniform. He sighs an unimpressed sigh then swiftly pulls himself together and hops up onto his feet.

Close enough to touch, eyeball to eyeball, the pair face each other.

"Ah," utters Walker. "Alex J. Murphy, I presume?"

Murphy is quite taken aback, and that's perfectly reasonable considering that a man with a mullet has just appeared out of nowhere and addressed him by his full name.

"What?" he asks, uncertain and on edge. "Who? What is this?"

Streaks of uncertainty shoot through his nervous system and his training and self-preservation instincts kick in. He reaches for his gun but before he has chance to draw and do that trademark twirly-fingers thing, Walker has struck.

Several left sidekicks and a swift footstomp to his femur stop Murphy in his tracks. "Ah ah ah," tuts the Timecop. "Do not try it. Now, please listen to me..."

But the local police officer doesn't want to listen to men who won't let him draw his weapon so he starts up and attempts to fight back. Murphy, here, makes a terrible mistake.

Walker blocks all the punches and grabs that assail him and responds with a series of punishing blows to Murphy's torso. As the confused cop reels the chrononaut leaps up and executes a perfect set of splits across two broken steel beams.

Murphy is agog but goes again to tackle the new arrival. "Oh, Murphy, please sit down," remarks Walker coolly, and with an agile leap he takes to the air and comes down on his opponent with a footslap to the face. Murphy drops to the floor, knocked out unconscious.


When he wakes he sees a blurry shape standing over him. It's the same guy - that inexplicable martial artist who appeared out of nowhere and gave him a helluva beating.

"Ah, Murphy! Welcome back," the figure cries out cheerily. As Murphy's hazy vision comes back into focus he sees that the stranger is smiling widely.

"Whu? Wha? Who?" struggles the battered cop, his senses woozy and his jaw sore after the thunder footslap.

"Don't worry," interrupts the mysterious mullet of mirth. "Everything will be absolutely fine. I apologise for the rough treatment but it was for your own good. Now, look at this..."

Walker reaches down and yanks up a body. It is the body of twisted ├╝ber-villain Clarence Boddicker and it has been beaten to a pulp and is dripping with blood.

(It's actually a prosthetic likeness. We decided we couldn't afford to pay Kurtwood Smith's appearance fee either and spent a smaller sum on some make-up and handcrafted special effects.)

"For you, Murphy. This is for you." And then Walker punches the half-dead crook's face repeatedly until it looks like the inside of a pomegranate. With a glint in his eye he finishes up with a euphoric howl of "Can you fly, Bobby?" and lobs Boddicker into a stream of waste that winds its way out from the mill. In all the flowing shit, acid and toxic atrocity the body (prosthetic lump) corrodes and quickly melts away into nothingness.

Walker turns back to Murphy, clapping his hands off at a job well done. "Well, my friend Murphy. It's all over. You're safe. Now please, go home to your family. Cherish them. Live a good life. Be happy and count your blessings..."

In a flash he's kicked out and has his right foot hovering an inch from Murphy's face. He is just doing this because he can and because he wants to show off. He chuckles to himself, smiles amiably at the dumbstruck Detroit lawman and relaxes back to a resting stance.

The enigmatic stranger who appeared out of nowhere then pulls a clunky console out of his jacket and pounds an oversized red button. He vanishes and Murphy is left alone.

The cop blinks, totally clueless as to what the hell just happened. He struggles to his feet and takes few deep breaths. He goes to radio Lewis to arrange a rendezvous while simultaneously deciding that what he wants to most of all is get home to his wife and son ASAP.

He feels like he's having some kind of epiphany. He doesn't know what it means but he's got a sense that he's had a lucky escape today.

The bewilderment staggers him but he knows one thing for sure. It's good to be alive...


A short while later in the far future Walker sweeps through the corridors of TEC headquarters beneath Washington D.C. There's a spring in his step and a contented grin on his usually glum visage.

He walks into the main office and encounters his boss-cum-best-buddy Commander Mutazak. Mutazak is looking a little morose and stressed today.

"Ah, Max." he pipes up upon seeing the man who is probably his best agent "Successful assignment?"

Walker lights up and responds, "Yes, successful. I think it's fair to say I won."

Mutazak frowns. "You won? Won what?"

"RoboCop vs. Timecop," Max replies with affected grandeur, drawing out an imaginary marquee billboard in mid-air as he spells it out for the perplexed Commander. "I saved Alex Murphy's life. He didn't get killed by thugs. RoboCop never existed so I guess that means that in pitched clash between RoboCop and Timecop, I come out as the winner."

He places his fists on his hips and adopts the power stance of a victorious champion.

It means nothing to Mutazak. He chuckles and shrugs. "Y'know Max, you're an odd guy. Now, hey back to work..."

Walker sighs and drops the pose, returning to his standard look of brooding world-weariness.

"C'mon, work to do, 'cause there's a Senator coming to visit later. We gotta prove we're worth the funds they pump into us before they shut us down." continues the Commander. "Let's get at it, and I don't wanna hear any crazy talk of 'RoboCop vs Timecop' or 'Superman vs Batman' or whatever..."

Mutazak pulls a sudden disgusted face, winces and in a flurry paces out of the room muttering "Goddam Batfleck!" under his breath.

Deflated, Max Walker moves towards his cubicle and takes a seat. He pulls open his desk drawer - a drawer where he keeps a secret stash of vintage action figures he would have given to his son had he not been blown up on that awful night of tragedy a long time ago...

Where once there was a RoboCop figurine there is now only empty space. Bittersweet, thinks Walker as his eyes rove across an array of colourful plastic miniatures.

Then he sees the iconic shape of a certain caped crusader. Walker meditates on the action figure a moment. He hears the echoing grumbles of his boss in his inner ear. He thinks about origin stories, muses on the way that lives are shaped by devastating events and starts to imagine, "Hurm, what if?"

Soon vague ideas coalesce and he comes to a determined plan. Without hesitation he heads out of the offices straight for the time-shuttle. His destination: the back alley behind a theatre in Gotham City, on an ominous evening a long, long time ago...




FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:


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