Monday, 28 January 2013

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! #16

The Star Trek consultant on this week's FIGHT was Louise Hughes.


It never ceases to amaze.

Soap. Opera. The Wagnerian meets Wagbo.

For amidst the churn and the endless stormy seas that toss and palpate our precious characters across the endless turmoil that is their actor's contracts, we find death.

Just because something is being broadcast into the eyes and mouths of a people ingesting fish fingers served in a cross-hatching of potato waffles (possibly with a fried egg) doesn't mean it can't feature murderdeathkills galore.

Neighbours
Cody Willis gets shot.

Eastenders
Bradley jumps off a building and misses every soft object in the world.

Coronation Street
TRAM CRASH DIRECTED BY GRAEME HARPER.

And of course, the episode directed by Lucio Fulci where Beth Jordache has the entirety of Brookside Parade shoved slowly into her eye.

FIGHT #16


  WARREN 

 vs

THE BORG

 

WHO THEY THEN? 



Warren Fox is an angry man from the popular early evening telly programme Hollyoaks. He is eternal. He cannot die. Many have tried to destroy him, but he shalt always return.

You may say that Hollyoaks is not a show that falls under this blog's remit. To you I say, 'Fie.' Hollyoaks is most definitely a fantasy series, and resembles nothing more than the Beta Test version of The Matrix itself.



The Borg are a cybernetic race from the Star Trek series, mainly featuring in The Next Generation and Voyager. They travel around assimilating people into their gestalt hypercubes, mainly because they got the hang of Lego but Technic and Meccano were beyond them.


THEY PACKING MUCH HEAT?



The Borg’s heat is an insidious bastard. They do not wish to kill you, but instead assimilate you into their collective intelligence. It is annoyingly difficult to kill them without the powers of narrative necessity; such is their adaptability when confronted with potential pwnage.

Thus, they will often stun a victim in order to simplify the process of assimilation, or instead inject nano-machinery to convert on the move, an idea they may have got from QVC.

Warren can deploy hired muscle, actual muscles, a big ol’ sneery face, guns, knives and a variety of blunt objects. Not only is he good at killing things, he is good at covering his tracks, preferably in convoluted and over the top ways.

After all, why be dramatic when you can be MELODRAMATIC?


THEIR BACK: WHO HAS IT?


The Borg have no need of back-having, for they will simply assimilate everyone until your back is their back, which they have. Even if they did, hypothetically, need someone to have their backs due to some numerically monikered assimilation-proof dickheads getting all up in their various grills, why! They would almost certainly try to convert whoever they had placed on spine-maintainance duties as soon as it was logical to do so.

Warren, on the other hand, has a revolving door of posterior-preservers. Many of them have died in a hail of double-crosses and violent pre-watershed deaths.


NUANCES AND WHATNOT


The Borg’s origins are unknown. The least popular theory states that they are an offshoot of 4chan gone rogue.

Warren has no known nuances.



IT'S CLOBBERING TIME

 

The first person the Borg encounter is Brendan, the lovable Irish homophobic serial killing gay guy with a big moustache. He is assimilated, but not before killing three borg, sleeping with one of them, and then entering into a protection racket with a fourth. The assimilation of Brendan does weird things to the Borg.

Upon being released from prison for asking really nicely, Warren returns to Chester to discover the entire suburb has been assimilated into a new Brendan/Borg hybrid.

Warren is understandably furious, but then Warren is always furious so this is not really a shock to anyone. As the police are too busy worrying about an incursion into Chester's thriving suburban youth culture and the fact that this completely fucks up the continuity established in First Contact, Warren has free reign to set about the Brendan/Borg with a big metal stick, and thus ensues a barbarous afternoon complete with satisfying clanking noises, the spurting of hydraulic fluids, and an ambiguous masticating sound.

Eventually the Borg adjust to having Brendan among their collective, and start acting accordingly. In order to defeat Warren they embark upon a logical course of action:

Firstly they reveal Warren's long-lost brother Mitzpha is staying at their house for a few days, and they've really hit it off. Meanwhile they rob a Post Office and a Poundland in order to raise the cash to buy the internet domain http://www.warrenfoxsmellslikecocks.com in order to annoy and humiliate Warren, then beat a tramp to death and leave Warren's library card in his pants before dumping the body outside a Little Chef.

Warren is understandably angry at this series of events, and takes his anger out on one of the new characters that the Production Team have decided isn't going anywhere, before drawing a handlebar moustache on his face with marker pen and wandering around town saying 'Begorah, begorah, I totally did her in so I did' before being confronted by one of Brendan's ex-boyfriends, who happened to be passing despite having never been to Chester before. Passionate to rekindle the relationship where it left off, Warren must play along or else his elaborate scheme will be rumbled. If only Brendan's son hadn't been parachuted in by the Irish Airforce as part of a surprise manhood initiation ceremony, then Warren wouldn't have been physically attacked in the street by Brendan's ex-wife who got a phone call from a mysterious stranger telling her that her insane lust for gold would soon be answered if she arrived in Chester that day.

Faced with this onslaught of unfortunate circumstances, Warren finds it difficult to maintain this charade, but despite being kissed and hugged and slapped repeatedly manages to incriminate Brendan for the murder of whatserface. At which point Brendan/Borg turn up to reveal that it was them who were behind everything that just happened at which point the police turn up, see double, and promptly arrest every mirror in the city for murder.

Warren takes advantage of the confusion by holding Brendan's ex-wife, ex-boyfriend and ex-child hostage, at which point the Borg assimilate them all and leave Warren without any bargaining power.

Brendan Borg seizes the moment, punching Warren in the gut, embracing him, kissing him, announcing that Warren is his father, and smashing a fist into his face and through his brain.

While Warren will somehow survive this and come back to Hollyoaks in about six months, for now the Brorg are free to roam Chester assimilating at will.


AND THE WINNER IS...

  

  THE BORG




FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:

"YOU CALL THAT A GUN? THIS IS A-"

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, 21 January 2013

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! #15

This week's FIGHT is written by John Steele.


It’s Monday.



You’re back at the drudgery of the 9 till 5 grind after the sweet somatic bliss of the weekend.



You haven’t slept properly. Has anyone, ever?

And if they had, how would you know?


You can barely keep your eyes open. You see the entire world in fuzzy, muted tones of grey, but is that so bad?



What is there out there worth seeing anyway?



Everything seems lifeless, pointless. All is grey. All is dust.



You force litres of coffee or tea into your lipslot, a vain and hopeless attempt to feel human again. If feeling human involves a tiredness that weighs like an anchor and a sadness eternally unspoken, then feeling human is total bumpiss.



You shamble into work like a poorly animated corpse, assailed by bright lights and cheery faces shouting:


Good morning!”

and

How was the weekend?”

and

Looks like someone’s got a case of the Mondays.”



It’s all just too much.



All it takes is a few minute's work with a staple remover.



CRT monitors crash across the room like they’re nothing more than pebbles. Tables are torn in twain with your bare and bloodied brains.



As you tear off your clothes and scream into your stomach, it occurs to you that no-one in the office really needs their eyes.

FIGHT #15

 


BESTER
vs
SCORPIUS

 

WHO THEY THEN? 



Alfred Bester – Psi-cop and high-level telepath. A man who spends his time cruising around the galaxy hunting down rogue telepaths (affectionately known as blips,) and - regardless of the cost - bringing them into the warm and loving embrace of the Psi-corp whether they like it or not. Do not confuse Bester with the early 20thcentury sci-fi author of the same name, Bester’s cloak and dagger shenanigans can be found in the TV series Babylon 5.





Scorpius – he may look like a World War Two zombie at a Wipe Clean Deviance Shenanza, but he's actually a bloke in deep with the shadowy and nefarious research arm of a heartless, galaxy-spanning military machine called the Peacekeepers. They dabble in everything from invasive memory extraction to wormhole transport. His sinister and villainous escapades can be seen in Farscape.



Both of these chaps are unburdened by trivial concerns like “morals” or “ethics”.


THEY PACKING MUCH HEAT?



Sure, both of these chaps might occasionally carry a gun, but it’s hardly top of the list of things they’d use.



There’s no way of sugar coating it:



Bester can read your shitting mind.



He can project images and sounds directly into your brain; he can make you forget and remember things differently; given enough time he can turn you into an unsuspecting puppet and generally whisk your mind up like a serial masturbator's debut omelette.



Occupying the high and dizzying heights of a P12 (the highest psi rating achievable by an unaltered human) Bester’s psychic shenanigans are almost without peer: if he can so much as see you, you're probably doomed. If he’s in hyperspace he could probably doom you right up from a hundred thousand miles away.



Possessing a surprising strength for his apparently frail looking frame, Scorpius can quite literally pick you up and throw you straight across the room like you’re nothing more than a rag-doll made of meat and gristle. While not quite as flush with telepathic wizardry as Bester, Scorpius has the ability to sense the fluctuations in each races unique “energy signature,” allowing him to tell if someone is lying, harbouring black treason or considering being a twat in the not too distant future.



Bester wins. Raw strength isn’t even in the same league as the ability to turn a brain into nasal seepage from high orbit.



THEIR BACK: WHO HAS IT?


As a high-ranking psi-cop for the Psi-Corp, Bester has the entirety of his organisation behind him; from the covert and tenacious bloodhound hunters, a literal force of thought police, squadrons of highly trained telepathic fighter pilots, a small fleet of clandestine ships and the Corp’s training and re-education facilities. In addition to this the Psi-Corp have allies throughout the Earth Alliance government ready to pull strings and perform favours.



If push comes to shove and the chips are down Old Scorpy just needs to pick up his space-telephone and convince his “friends” to come and weigh in with their opinions. The friends in this case are the ships of the Peacekeeper Navy and their opinions are generally citied with guns. It is unwise to get on the wrong side of an organisation whose members are trained from birth to be emotionless killing machines.



Scorpius wins. The Peacekeepers have resources that would make the Psi-Corp higher-ups go weak at the bladder. With that many ships, a casual disregard for basic human rights and a willingness to subjugate entire planets, Scorpy wins hands down.


NUANCES AND WHATNOT



Like a lot of sinister types, Bester’s pain and sadness is more sad and painful than your pain and sadness. He’s trapped in a loveless, eugenically approved marriage - serving the Psi-Corp because telepaths have no choice - but always trying to do what’s right for the Corp, telepaths and humans in general. He struts his stuff in badass leather gloves and generally makes Machiavelli look like Ned Stark.



Bester’s not afraid to get his gloved hands so dirty that he may as well be doing backstroke in a sea of congealing entrails. He’s willing to do whatever must be done to achieve his goals; civilian casualties and collateral damage are irrelevant and unimportant. Bester’ll gladly destroy a man's entire life for the preservation of the Corp and is totally up for the casual genocide of non-telepaths (in his own words: “They’re just mundanes”).



Scorpius is a hideous genetic crossbred of two species, part heat loving lizard, part heat-loathing mammal, a product of a sinister science experiment (of which he is the only survivor) whose underlying ethics remain slightly bowel loosening. His unusual genetic heritage means his body produces fantastically large amounts of heat. This will quite easily send him utterly mad and kill him. To solve this problem Scorpy had a special cooling system made for him, a cooling system which spirals directly into his goddamn brain. Are you hardcore? You are? Well, I have news.



Scorpius is more hardcore than you.



Scorpius is beyond hardcore. Sadly his special cooling suit makes him look like a total gimp. His deliriously happy childhood largely revolved around conditioning to resist torture, pain, and losing at pass the parcel. Subsequently he is as hard as nails and will stop at nothing to achieve his goals and fulfil his own agenda (which basically revolves around revenge and a bit of casual genocide). To add to his bad-arsery he’s a twisted half-breed-mutant feared and respected within an organisation obsessed with racial and genetic purity.



LOL.



Both of these guys have hearts about as black as the grave. They both plot, scheme and have wheels within wheels - terrifying spiky death wheels, dipped in iodine. They’ll stop at nothing to get what they want, be it through clandestine cloak and dagger tomfoolery or doing a big 'splosion in your face. Stacked to the nines with tragedy, resources and determination they’re both basically Space-Batman. Or 'Spatman'. But they're right shits. So 'Scatman'.



Skibadabadabo. It is too close to call (Although Bester has the better dress sense).



IT'S CLOBBERING TIME

 

As with most fights the winner of this brawl would depend largely upon the circumstances involved, but for arguments sake let’s assume that both of these leather-clad hate machines know the other is gunning for them.



We meet our combatants on a neutral dusty plain (postpocalyptica New Geneva, to be precise, an orbiting platform designed precisely for this sort of situation).



The Peacekeeper fleet comes tearing into Martian orbit and begins its bombardment of the Psi-Corp fleet. No sooner has this daring and overwhelming attack begun when Bester’s carefully placed sleeper agents activate.



Peacekeeper ships turn on each other. The entire fleet is decimated in seconds, but not in time to save Psi-Corp. Reactors are breached, both fleets turning into fireballs that happen to spell out 'I'M MAD ME' when viewed from any and every direction.



While all this is going on our two combatants are monologue the bejeezus out of each other, before Scorpius casually breaks Bester’s arm, picks him up by the throat and launches him into the air. Bester lands with an ankle-shattering crunch, so Scorpius mocks Bester weak and frail human form.



Despite his obvious agony Bester retorts with a pithy comment about the power of his mind before launching a telepathic assault on Scorpius.



Unfortunately for Bester this activates the neural chip Scorpius had sneakily arranged to have planted in his opponent's brain.



To an observer it looks like nothing has happened, but inside Bester's mind he’s battling with a version of Scorpius’ personality which has now taken up residence in his brain.



Now, if this was on the telly you could probably squeeze a good two episodes' worth of back and forth evil repartee. There’d be confessions of mutually admiration for each other’s skills, then a bit where they get really chummy but then have to go back to FIGHTING because VIOLENCE IS MINT.



The Scorpius in Bester’s brain would try and distort his perception of reality and send him mad (“A regrettable course of action, but I can’t let you get in my way” Scorpius would say. Yes he would). At least, it would if Bester hadn't been trained almost from birth to distinguish fantasy from reality.



Bester simply waltzes through Scorpius’ elaborately constructed realm of madness as if it was nothing, brushing it off like a man brushing his mother's ashes from his shell-suit.



Freed from the shackles of Scorpius’ neural chip Bester unleashes the full force of his telepathic powers. His mind overwhelmed, Scorpius pulls his gun from his holster and slowly raises it to his head. With the barrel pressed firmly against his temple he shouts “Don’t do this, I can help you!”



From his throne of his own broken limbs, Bester looks up and replies:



No, you can’t. You’re just a mundane.”



The dusty air fills with flecks of leather, chunks of electronics and globs of brain matter.



There is a soft gurgling noise, like a groundskeeper has just turned on a particularly troublesome fountain mechanism.



Bester sighs, and devotes the majority of his brainpower to locating any expert in reconstructive surgery within a square lightyear from here.



AND THE WINNER IS...

  

  ALFRED BESTER


Remember kids, DO NOT screw around with a guy who can, and will, rewrite your entire personality just for lulz.

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, 14 January 2013

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! #14

This week's FIGHT is written by Sean Baldwin.

What is the law?

The law is a dichotomy.

It exists to protect citizens from the threat and fear of crime by meting out punishment to those that instigate it.

Theoretically, anyway.

Within this framework lurks a paradox: to forbid fighting the law has to fight fighting.

Sometimes with fighting.

The law is fighting Fighting.

The law is defeating itself with semantics. It must logically turn its purge inward until it has fought itself non-existent.

Only then will we have peace.

Then we will probably decide that peace is boring, and start a fight.

Then a new law will rise up in order to police the fight.

Amen.

FIGHT #14

 


JUDGE DREDD
vs
BERGERAC

 
Via Justice Dept time-tek stolen by the hideous, combat-addicted denizens of Purple Rim hell-world Sqwallgax, our latest competitors face each other, violet skin glowing under the bruising glare of an overbearing alien sun!

WHO THEY THEN? 



JudgeJoe Dredd is the toughest, most feared cop in crime-ridden U.S futuropolis Mega-City One. Cloned from ‘Father of Justice’ Chief Fargo, this huge-booted, perma-helmeted, leather and elbow/shoulder/kneepad-clad model of sobriety patrols the densely-overcrowded sectors dispensing justice as a brick-chinned, one man court service. In this case, imagine a court with a very big gun: Dredd is judge, jury and executioner.

Despite being a ramrod-rigid stickler for the law, he is a maverick.

He first appeared in the comic 2000 AD.



 
Detective Sergeant Jim Bergerac works for Le Bureau des √Čtrangers on the channel island of Jersey. An unorthodox character, this leather-blousoned, recovering alcoholic smoothly roves the island solving crimes whilst charming the female populace and annoying the devious menfolk.

Like the best cops, he is also a maverick. After countless acts of insubordinate behaviour towards the Bureau, he finally quit to become a private detective.

He appears in the dreams of many, but mainly in the TV series Bergerac.



THEY PACKING MUCH HEAT?


Dredd has even more weaponry at his disposal than the Pope. He carries a boot knife, a crammed utility belt containing the likes of stumm gas knockout capsules, a Lawgiver gun that fires off 6 different rounds (including heat-seekers and ricochets), a Lawrod extreme long-range rifle and - just in case he finds himself a bit short - a huge fuck-off cannon located at the front of his Lawmaster motorbike. On top of this he is a hardened combatant, channeling the repressed sexual energy of 50+ years of enforced celibacy and teetotalism into hitting and shooting things very hard in the face.

Although not an arsenal-wielding shootist, after a brandy-soaked accident that crushed his leg against a harbour wall Bergerac nurtures the contained rage of a man who knows that his next drink will be his ruin. This tightly-coiled spring lets his demons loose on the island’s unwary crooks and fillies in carefully-controlled bursts. Jim’s unruffled, independent attitude is personified by his burgundy 1947 Triumph Roadster, a car thoroughly unsuited to the narrow, crime-soaked roads of Jersey. What it lacks in huge fuck-off cannons it makes up for with its elongated bonnet; perfect for ploughing through hedgerows into renegade farmers.



THEIR BACK: WHO HAS IT?


When you’ve made as many enemies as Dredd (who has even been attacked by his own housekeeper, Maria, and his once loyal droid, Walter the Wobot), it pays to have your back covered. Problem is that most of his associates end up on the conveyor belt at Resyk, the victims of many a violent undoing. Despite this, Dredd can count on back-up from a stalwart array of surviving Justice Dept stalwarts such as Psi Judge Anderson, ex-Chief Judge Hershey, Judge Rico (cloned from the same DNA) and eager-to-impress young stars of the force such as Judge Beeny.
Working for the Bureau, Big Jim B has recourse to the very best personnel that Jersey can offer: several sidekick detective constables, Chief Inspector Barney Crozier and his redoubtable secretaries Charlotte and Peggy. Bergerac’s ex-wife Deborah is an occasional source of help but can’t hold a candle to her father, aspiring tycoon Charlie Hungerford, who seems to have fingers in every single crime-pie under investigation but is an invaluable, although shady, source of gossip.

NUANCES AND WHATNOT


Dredd was twice stalked by the infatuated Bella Bagley. Married exclusively to The Law, he sent her away indefinitely to the kook-cubes. On escaping she tried to kill Dredd. Guess who won.
Bergerac enjoys an ongoing flirty relationship with glamorous jewel thief, Philippa Vale, known as the Ice Maiden. His twinkly demeanour in her company suggests he’d like his jewels grabbed by her one day, if you know what I mean.
If you do not, please Google the phrase ‘Scrote erotica’. It only takes a few seconds, but the lesson you learn will stay with you for a lifetime.


IT'S CLOBBERING TIME

This is where we run the above vital information into our ‘Look at the state’ of the art computer - the bastard offspring of an ill-advised early 80s wire-entanglement between Mr Babbage, the Family Fortunes mainframe, and Max Zorin’s ‘super stallion’ programme from A View to a Kill http://tinyurl.com/bsrykly

 

Denuded of weaponry for the purposes of purest combat, the two crime-busting titans eye each other warily as they slowly circle each other. Pink dust settles in the creases of Bergerac’s trusty fawn-coloured multi-pocket action trousers, purchased via a special offer in the Sunday Express. Flexing his gloved fingers, Dredd cracks his knuckles menacingly; then cracks his knees and hips considerably less so.
Then Bergerac pounces! The lither, nimbler, shorter Jersey cop bouncing off Dredd’s ridiculously-oversized boots to launch a swinging uppercut to the vast expanse of chin that juts from beneath the aged law-jockey’s helmet. Big mistake. Dredd may be feeling the years but his jaw’s been broken so many times it’s impervious to such namby swatterings. He retaliates with a Mean Angel-style headbutt that breaks Bergerac’s nose, sending the crumpled cop floorwards to resemble a pile of bloodied Marks and Spencers-purchased laundry.
The ‘Blue Harbour’ range, since you ask.
As the crowd cheers the impassive, advancing Dredd, Jim B pulls out a checkered hankie from his collarless tan-leather blouson, dabs his nose and backs towards the arena wall, eyes piercingly searching his robotic tormentor for signs of a weak spot. Then, quick as a flash, he’s sprinting up to Dredd, aiming a kick to the older combatant’s knackers but failing as Dredd sidesteps to deftly swipe Bergerac’s legs from beneath him. Once more Bergerac hits the floor, cursing the fact that he skipped his last BUPA check up because of that late continental breakfast appointment at Charlie’s. As the grizzled lawman bears down, Bergerac spits dust from his parched mouth, dreaming of a cooling carafe of Pimm’s to sate a relentlessly rising thirst. As his inner demons demand drink, the Jersey investigator controls an urge to scream skywards, instead choosing to smirk charmingly in a fashion that wows more than just the female Sqwallgaxians.
Impervious, Dredd reaches down with a huge green gauntlet and pulls Bergerac up by his collar. Almost cockily, his other knuckledusted glove pulls slowly back like a pinball spring but before he can pummel Bergerac to a fleshy peach-stone, his feisty opponent grabs Dredd’s helmet and flings it across the arena! The crowd falls silent as Dredd holds his pose, seemingly paralysed by a move that reveals to the watching world a gnarled, patchwork head, grotesquely ravaged by age and duty. He looks up at these features as they gaze confusedly back at him from the giant, panoramic viewing screen that dominates the bowl. He looks down at the younger policeman, whose smooth cheeks still glow rosily with promise, and grunts.
We’re on the same side, kid. What the drokk are we doing here?’
Bergerac squints back at Dredd, noticing the manufactured, inhuman eyes of his foe. They resemble ice cubes, tormenting him from some unreachable daiquiri in Cristina’s bar at St. Aubin’s Bay. He can’t think straight as a savage, primal craving for booze surges through his veins, causing his clenched knuckles to glow white. Suddenly his lunging thumbs are pressing into those eyes, brutally gouging and squeezing upwards as Dredd screams like a girl, his bucket chin an omelette of juices, damp-bionics and blood. The crowd recoils along with Dredd, as though feeling the piercing pain that flows from deep within the very guts of the man as he slumps to his knees like a felled redwood.
Wiping the treacly eye-juice onto his ripped navy linen shirt, Bergerac callously kicks the hapless Dredd to the dust, rips the old man’s name-badge from his chest and pops it into his back pocket, making sure to fasten the velcro safety-flap afterwards.
Sentiment, Dredd. Always has been your downfall. Takes a good cop to find out these things,’ says Jim, striding away from his victim as a familiar slap bass and saxophone refrain lazily wafts over the arena.


AND THE WINNER IS...

  

  BERGERAC



FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:


"WE WILL SETTLE THIS THE GYPSY WAY"

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.