Monday, 10 June 2013


This week's FIGHT is written by James Clayton.

The Gods of War have a sweet side.

Believe it or not, sometimes they actually wash their private parts before making sweet, sweet amour to their victims' nostrils.

Sometimes they take casualties out to candlelit steak dinners after carving up their carcasses post-said nasal buggery.

Sometimes they put Rainbow Connection on their iPod as a change from the usual death metal and Wagnerian dirges that make up their workout soundtrack. After you've just bukkaked some lifeform's septum squint you need to relax and unwind, y'know?

(If you're curious about the Gods of War's cardiovascular and strength training regimes, by the way, we urge you not to be. You should always stay on the other side of the gym from a God of War and never, ever sign up to one of their Bikram Yoga classes.)

Sometimes they even donate money to the Salvation Army, but that might actually have been a mistake. They aren't 'that' type of army but, regardless, the point is that the Gods of War have a sweet side and sometimes they like to let it show, bless 'em.

Here is one such sample of the War Gods' sense of humour and touchy-feely affectations. FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! is going to get fluffy and if you don't like it, the Gods of War will answer unkindly.

Stock up on tissues and vapo-rub, because this is going to leave you breathless...





Tribbles are an animal species native to the planet Iota Geminorum IV. Multicoloured little balls of fur, their only purpose in life is to eat and reproduce (just like yo' momma). Born pregnant with 50% of their metabolism devoted to spawning offspring, their exponential multiplication capability is now so renowned that the phrase "Multiplying like Tribbles" has entered popular vernacular. They first appeared in season 2 of Star Trek: The Original Series in the episode The Trouble With Tribbles. Due to their popularity they made a return in the animated series episode More Tribbles, More Troubles and have popped up for further cameos in other Star Trek canon works.

Troll Dolls - also known as Good Luck Troll or Dam Dolls after their creator Thomas Dam - are appealingly grotesque plastic playthings native to planet Earth, first appearing in the Danish town of Gjøl, 1959. Famous for their massive peaks of multicoloured hair, the glassy-eyed figurines soon spread worldwide and became a mini-phenomenon, subsequently going in-and-out of fashion according to the temporal whims of pop cultural taste. In spite of it all the toys have lasted thanks to their iconic kitschy fugliness, their awesome rainbow tufts and numerous cameo appearances on TV and in films. All these features combined with the compulsive power of nostalgia keeps them highly prized as collector's items. It's just a shame that human society values them more than the real giant Trolls of Scandinavian legend. Who will care about this endangered species and lovingly brush their hair, hey?


Tribbles do not carry weapons because they don't have limbs and dextrous appendages. They are fluffballs without distinct features but they're still packing potential that you may recognise as 'heat'. The soothing purring sounds that Tribbles make lulls all those nearby into a mollified, subdued state. The extreme reproductive ability also means that they can muster an immense army in a short space of time. Soft strengths and strength in numbers, then.

Trolls do not carry weapons unless someone puts, say, a sharpened pencil or a toothpick between their digits. Even then, they haven't any dexterity, co-ordination or martial training so such props would be pretty pointless (yes, a pointless sharpened pencil is a paradox [don't look at it too closely]). Their shocks of hair - a look stolen by Paul from the Tekken videogame series - may, however, be utilised as a weapon of shock-and-awe. Accentuating their slightly discomfiting ugly 'ickle fizzogs and weirdly large eyes, the multicoloured hairdos are both astounding and disarming. The featherdusty fancy tops may be employed in an infinite array of devastating manners. I hope you're not ticklish.

It's a close call, but the Trolls come out on top because they have creepy little faces in as well as deadly fluff. Plus there's a risk that children might accidentally swallow and choke on their small hard parts.


Tribbles have a cult following and Trekkies love 'em. Most of the sentient life forms in the galaxy adore the endearing 'ickle bundles of love with the exception of Klingons who see them as a mortal foe. Aside from futile efforts to try and curb the Tribble population growth (genetic engineering doesn't work), no one really wishes Tribbles any harm. How could you hate them? Awww! They're just adorable!

Trolls have a cult following and there are many toy collectors out there who'd come to the rescue with pepper spray and knuckledusters bared should someone threaten to give a helpless Dam Doll a haircut. The most famous fan of Trolls is probably Richard Mayhew who is the hero of Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere. Mayhew kept them on his office desk before he was sucked into London Below and we assume that his affection for the model figurines was a literary device to represent his idiosyncrasy and slightly 'odd' character, thus making him an empathetic figure for the reader who, we realise, really doesn't belong in the quotidian 9-to-5 world of the modern metropolis. Or maybe he just didn't want to splash out on Lego. You know what the Scotch are like.

Tribbles win the popularity contest and purr in satisfaction.


Lacking bloodshed, frightening scenes and above-moderate violence, this is the first FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! to hold a PG certificate. You can bring your children to this one. It'll entertain them and put them in the perfect mood ahead of your eating them later. Happy Meals always taste better than Unhappy Meals. No wonder you always get your money back in McDonalds if you rock up to the counter in clown make up and mime 'This meal was tinged with melancholy' to the backdrop of the soundtrack from Belleville Rendez-vous.

It's a good job your children are going to be nourishing, because we're also going to have to hoover up after this encounter. You can guarantee that fluff is going to get everywhere.


This is the point where we run all the above information through our highly sophisticated computer system to establish the ultimate victor. Our computer is definitely more sophisticated than M-5, the titular device of the Star Trek episode The Ultimate Computer which took over the Enterprise, attempted to render Captain Kirk obsolete and then attacked other Federation starships. Not cool and not sophisticated. Our computer would never pull impertinent and irresponsible stunts like that. Shame on you M-5.

Captain's log, Stardate 4721.5. We're in space and in space no one can hear you squee.

A Federation starship floats in unguided orbit around the abandoned planet of Omicron XVII. It has been left to drift, its crew no longer controlling the craft.

What happened here? According to the memory banks all on board teleported themselves into the vacuum of deep space shortly after a rescue operation to aid a marooned trader was ordered and successfully achieved. What could possibly drive well-adjusted people to such desperate measures? What kind of horror and despair could have unhinged their minds and urged them towards space suicide? Awww hell Jim, I'm a doctor not a psychiatrist! More logical minds can study this and find it fascinating at a later time, for now it's time for a fight.

Facing each other in one of the craft's corridor, we have twelve Tribbles on twelve Troll Dolls. They stand stationary, eyeing each other up, lined up adjacently and locked in serene focus facing the opposition.

Nothing moves.

Still nothing moves.

There appears to be more Tribbles on the scene than there were two minutes ago. Still, the vicinity is still characteristically still.

More Tribbles? Are we at 30 now? No, surely there are more.

There is still no movement, though the Tribbles appear to be continually multiplying.

Staying still in the corridor, still.


No moves.

Stillness, still.

Tribbles (more and more and more of them). Trolls (same number). Still.

Silence. Pregnant pause. This is a very long pregnant pause but the pregnant Tribbles are still spawning in discreet fashion.

We're still still.

Tribbles. Trolls. Inertia.

The Tribbles are stacking up on the one end of the corridor, backing up to the sick bay. Before them, the trolls stand unmoved.

Nothing is happening.

Oh! A wobble! A slight variation in the orbital trajectory sends a Troll face first onto the floor. It's true that it could have been momentarily possessed and manipulated by an omnipotent alien telekinetic sentience but, in all likelihood, probably not. Why would the most intelligent organisms in the Universe wish to waste energy on interfering in a fight between Tribbles and Troll Dolls?

The echo of the fall dissipates. Silence is restored. We wait. We wait for nothing to happen.

The Tribbles are clearly multiplying and spreading down the corridor. At some point they'll come into direct contact with the Trolls. We'll wait for that.



Holding on.

Want to take a wild guess at how many Tribbles there are now? Closest rounded up to ten wins a cask of Romulan ale!

Still not much action.

There are no tumbleweeds in space.

It looks like we have more Tribbles and they are gradually getting closer to the Troll line. The Trolls remain defiant, unshaken and unstirred.

It's still quiet.

Hanging on.

FLASH! Lens flare (because it's a J.J. Abrams joint now). Waves of light course up and down from ceiling to floor. Tribbles and Trolls alike are enfolded in sparkling beams, luminous surges singing and pulsating. With twinkling and melodious sounds - and some more unsubtle lens flare - they reverberate and suddenly...

Gone. The corridor is empty. The unmanned Federation starship is now un-Trolled and and un-Tribbled. The (non)combatants have all been teleported away from the craft. Abandoned of all life (organic and artificial), the vessel continues its pathetic lonely drift around Omicron XVII and will do so for eternity.

Now, two months later we found ourselves back on Earth in a specialist menagerie owned by rascal entrepreneur Cyrano Jones. It was he who beamed the (non)battlers away from their (non)martial encounter and transported them back to his home world.

It turns out that Troll Dolls are a priceless rarity in the 23rd Century and so, by auctioning off five of those in his possession, Jones has become one of the richest men in the Solar System. His fortune is further built from the box office takings his personal Tribble zoo recoups. He has an infinite supply of these critters to wow visitors with and sometimes he sells them on when he's running short of room. On their way out paying tourists also get to marvel at the other seven Trolls that Jones has generously decided to place on display for public viewing.

Altogether it's a strangely soothing experience. Everybody leaves happy. Awww.





FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:

I Piss On You And I Piss On Your Prime Directive And I Will Piss All Over Your Cold Dead Corpses”

"Err, okay Benedict, let's try using the line Damien wrote, okay?"

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.

If you wish to take issue with our verdict, please post a well-informed and reasoned explanation as to why below, as is the style of the internet.

No comments:

Post a Comment