Monday, 29 July 2013

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! #42


What is a fight?

Well, I'd define it as 'Awesome, it's all violent and fisty and sometimes there's pith. Aw man, I've not properly mourned my dog's death.'

You may have your own definition, but you are wrong.


FIGHT #42

 

MR GUM

vs
THE TWITS



WHO THEY THEN? 




Mr Gum is a foul smelling rotter with a beard that could kill baby mice. He hates “children, animals, fun and corn on the cob”, and plots the destruction of the town of Lamonic Bibber on a reasonably regular basis. Despite his persistent evil-doings, he has yet to be brought to justice by superheroes, because they're a selective bunch and Captain Britain totally hates being seen near poor people.


He can be found in the Mr Gum books by Andy Stanton, illustrated by Dave Tazzyman.




The Twits are a married couple who spend their time plotting to annoy each other, which is better than the alternative: they direct their fury and aggression on the outside world. Hideous, thorny, devious, terrible people, Mr and Mrs Twit would chew a slug in half just to hear it scream, and then spit bits of dead slug at each other.


They can be found in the Roald Dahl book The Twits, illustrated by Quentin Blake.

THEY PACKING MUCH HEAT?


Mr Gum is more of a slow-burner. He doesn't just march on down into Lamonic Bibber town (often referred to by the more syntactically pleasing phrase 'the town of Lamonic Bibber') and start chucking whelks at people, oh no. He schemes and he gibbers and he dreams of people's suffering and he wakes in the morning and he turns his shower on. He doesn't get into the shower because he likes his musk, but it does him good to know he's wasted loads of water.

The Twits are more prone to lashing out with their sticks and their stones and their words, all of which will hurt you. Some of their words include 'I'm going to hit you with my stick', which I think we can all agree makes one feel painful just by thinking about it.

THEIR BACK: WHO HAS IT?


Mr Gum can count on his good friend Billy William the Third to not only have his back, but also the spines of many luckless animals who never wanted to have their marrow blasted from their lumber with a hose. Billy is a butcher by trade, and remained unaffected by the horse meat scandal. Sometimes, despite their friendship and shared enmity for the townsfolk of Lamonic Bibber, he and Mr Gum have punch ups.


The Twits have each other, and no other friends. It would be sad if it weren't for the human heart's capacity for hate.

NUANCES AND WHATNOT


Mr Gum's favourite TV show is Bag of Sticks.



The Twits enjoy home-baked cooking, such as bird pie. They catch the birds by putting glue on the branches of the big dead tree in the garden and waiting for birdies to come in to roost. They also have a monkey in the cage, making them no better than Justin Bieber (the pop star whose every mistake is scrutinised by several billion people and who has not had a real childhood for the last four years. Still, his music is awful).

IT'S CLOBBERING TIME 


Mr Gum and Billy William the Third are on the run after another one of their schemes has gone a-rye, after they were defeated by four rhombic tonnes of rye wheat was dropped on their dreams by a passing Belgian.

Stopping only to fry a girl called Peter's favourite skipping rope, they run into a run-down house on the edge of town. It is so dishevelled that it hurts their eyes to look at it.

'By the beard of the great horned scurvy demon, I'm not a fan of non-Euclidean geometry,' speaks Mr Gum.

Upon instruction from his comrade, Billy William approaches the door to the hovel and raps on it.

He received a walking stick through the letter box, right into his gut, and a cackling voice on the other side criticises him for his sub par flow. The door is kicked open, kerpowing Billy in the face and knocking three of his teeth out. Soothsayers and divinants would be able to tell Billy William the Third that the way they fell portends great woe and a dependence on straws in his future, but such folk are conspicuous by their absence.

Standing and then walking (slowly) over the prone, gum-troubled form of the butcher, Mrs Twit and her walking stick make their entrance to the rumble. Sighting the sight of Mr Gum, like a Mad Hatter enjoying an explosion at a glass bauble factory, Mrs Twit reckons this one to be a task for her lazy husband, while she sits on a wall drinking port from a unicorn's horn.

'Gideon!' she cries, and a beard with a scuzzflipper hanging off it finishes pouring whisky into his beard to kill off the ants that live there. Mr Twit sees what must be his nemesis, and roars for six or seven minutes until he is deaf with pleasure. Mrs Twit passes the time by beating a worm to death. Mr Gum's attention is distracted by the various bags of sticks he sees lying around the garden, but then he notices the fearsome sound coming from the raving bear-faced sticklefront ahead of him.

'Shabba me whiskers,' he whispers, the ancient warfaring cry of the beard-wearer. Mr Twit recognises it well, for it has been the last thing many an over-confident fuzzy face has heard before he scratched their eyes ablaze with his facey facey foliage.

Leading with their chins, the two men run at each other, beards aloft, preparing to give their enemy a chafing. Novice beard fighters take note: a chafing is what you wish to supply, and not a chaffinch. Alas, after the coming together of beards, all that ensues is an almighty kerfuffle, as the sharp hooks of hair mesh and integrate, rending their owners as one.

Mrs Twit has killed all the worms in the garden, rolled up their squishy bodies into a ball, and then rolled it into an unwary cat's bum before she notices the two men embroiled in a hairy situation. Sighing, and rolling her ice, she goes into the shed to write a letter to her MP. When he writes back informing her that he is too busy building a naked lady out of bank notes to help, she gets the hacksaw out of the rickshaw, and sets about parting the errant follicles. It is an old, rusty blade, and it makes slow progress amidst much Eeking and Oohing.

'You're not doing it right!' shout Mr Twit and Mr Gum.
'You're not doing it right!' shouts Mrs Twit, 'And my arms getting sore. Is it my fault that your beards haven't been washed in so long that they have the strength of ten men made of steel, self-belief and guns?'
'Yes,' says Mr Twit.
'Well pah, I've done something constructive with my time. You two should move up and down while I hold the saw up, and then we'll swap.'
'No, we should spin around and around the saw,' said Mr Gum, 'Because then we'll feel like we've been a-huffing and a-puffin tripe fumes.'

And so they spun around the saw, like a post-industrial wasteland maypole dance, only to get their beards all tangled up in spirals around Mrs Twits' arm.

'Clods! Barksickles! Funicular runny sluices! You'll have to spin the other way or we'll never be free!' cries Mrs Twit. Wearily, the angry and violent gentlefolk do so, but to no avail. After three or four hours of spinning around and around, the have bore a hole in the Earth's crust, and it is starting to seep hotness all around them.

'Lorks' thinks Mr Gum, 'This is a rum-plum-sloe-gin do indeed. There's only one thing for it.'

While Mr and Mrs Twit continue to argue, and flick drops of magma down each other's shirts, Mr Gum starts to eat his own beard in a desperate bid for freedom. Apart from the fact that he punctures his alimentary canal in several places, it goes well until he gets to the hacksaw, which he has to wrap in several layers of hair with his tongue so he doesn't cut his belly open from the inside.

Burping, Mr Gum comes to terms with his skinny chin, and asks the Twits for some feedback on his new look. They are nowhere to be seen, but from his tum comes a rumbling and a grumbling.

'Oi. You manky git. You've gone and scarfed us down like we wuz pate de fox grass, which we aren't.'

It is true. Mr Gum has eaten the Twits, and is starting to feel a painful sensation in his front.

'We'll get out of here, you mark my words!' comes the cry, as the earth's crust is suddenly rent asunder beneath him, leaving one leg on one tectonic plate and one on another. Mr Gum screams as the hacksaw bursts through his pelvic parts and two leering faces peer out.

'Escape! Good and proper! We've got the better of you now you wretch!' shouts Mr Twit, before pushing out with his hands and levering himself free from the wound on Mr Gum's groin. He screams as he plummets into the fiery chasm below. Mrs Twit remains obstinately inside Mr Gum, who has no option but to contract his stomach muscles and force her out. With a grunt, and a grimace, and a tear in his eye, Mr Gum emits a Twit.

Mrs Twit attempts to claw her way back in, but Mr Gum's diet of tripe and offcuts has made the inside of his stomach a difficult place to get a grip on. She slides off, down into the rupture on the face of the Earth which is probably going to cause an even higher fatality rate in the foreseeable future.


AND THE WINNER IS...

MR GUM

He has survived, but doomed us all.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:


"OH, AND I SUPPOSE YOUR CHILDHOOD WAS IMPORTANT TO YOU, WAS IT?

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, 22 July 2013

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! #41


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


Who will win in a canonically unlikely fight?” is a popular trope across the higher forms of literature.

Alien vs Predator.

Dracula vs Frankenstein.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

All classic works.

However, a question not asked enough is: who would make a better team? Who would band together to take on the whole universe? And thus we have:

Alien and Predator vs Superman and Batman

(It's tremendously disappointing).

Can you just imagine how awesome it would be if Aragorn teamed up with, say, Brienne of Tarth?

And then rode around every other Fantasy universe solving crimes?

Admittedly, this is a question asked quite a lot in comic books, mostly ending up with Wolverine joining yet another team, eg.

I'm a loner! I don't need anyone, bub!”

Except the X-Men.”

Well, sometimes.”

And The Avengers.”

I owe Stark money.”

And Alpha Flight.”

Piss off.”

Generally speaking teams aren't given their due. Teams are great. No one – literally, no one - ever has a traumatic experience when teams are being picked at high school.

Loyalty to a football team is a peaceful, family friendly activity.

Politics, too, is enriched by the various tribal allegiances. The current governmental regime in UK politics is an excellent example of just what teamwork can do.

Then there's Team Edward vs Team Jacob.

In other words...

Fuck teams.

This is a blog for people who want to see obscure fictional characters beat the shit out of each other in canonically unlikely fights.

Teams are good for one thing:


Punches hurt more when your friends see them.



FIGHT #41

 

THE LEAGUE OF GENTLEMEN
vs
THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY 
GENTLEMEN


WHO THEY THEN? 



The League of Gentlemen are a loose grouping of characters who inhabit the allegedly fictional village of Royston Vasey. Grotesque, dark and generally odd, they live in an insular world and generally react very badly to the outside one. Played by only three people – Mark Gatiss, Reece Sheersmith and Steve Pemberton – they are men, women, child, and local. The League of Gentlemen ran for three series (and one disappointing film).




The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen is a loose grouping of late Victorian fictional characters, re-appropriated by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neill for a series of graphic novels. Together they fight for the glory of the British Empire, because that was a super institution, obviously. They are men, women, both, and invisible men. Later on in the series characters from later novels and works of fiction appear but for the sake of sanity we're sticking to the early issues. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was also made into a film, but here the word “disappointing” doesn't cut it.


THEY PACKING MUCH HEAT?


The League of Gentlemen consist of an incredibly wide variety of characters. Simply by sheer force of numbers they might pose a credible threat, although points should be negated for the fact that most of them would attempt to maim, kill and eat each other, only possibly in that order. Whilst they're all capable of acts of almost unspeakable horror, certain individuals are worth pointing out as being particularly dangerous. Local butcher Hilary Briss is capable of... well, no one is sure what he's capable of, but he's certainly handy with a knife. Pauline is a dab hand at kidnapping, as well as the traditional psychological torture meted out to a job seeker. Tubbs and Edward are capable of practically anything, as long as someone isn't local. Papa Lazarou is probably one of the scariest things to ever be seen on BBC2, including Homes Under The Hammer.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen consist of a slightly less wide variety of characters but from a much wider fictional pool. Deliberately chosen to encompass some of the most powerful figures of Victorian literature, they're hand-picked to create a team of devastating efficiency. Mina Harker has survived the unthinkable; Quartermain is a crack shot; Captain Nemo is a scientific genius with a proto-submarine; the Invisible Man is, well, invisible.


That's before you even get near the strange powers of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Individually, they have the ability to be lethal. As a team, they are capable of bringing down some of the greatest fictional villains of all time. They have the skills, the equipment, and the abilities. Some people have all the luck.


THEIR BACK: WHO HAS IT?

The League of Gentlemen is essentially tied in to itself, inhabiting an individual and mostly fictional world. Even their own creators tried to kill them in the aforementioned disappointing film. Few outsider have been invited in, and so few can said to have their back. One is Christopher Eccleston, a brilliant actor with apparently no sense of quality control. Another is the inexplicably popular Roy 'Chubby' Brown (real name: Royston Vasey).

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, theoretically, can call on the support of any character from Victorian and Edwardian literature, what with this essentially being the premise of the series. There's also the very real point that they can call on some of the resources of the British Empire at the turn of the century. To put this into perspective, by 1922 the British Empire ruled over 458 million people and approximately a quarter of the land mass of the planet, leading to a continuing political, economic, linguistic and militaristic hangover on the planet that is still thoroughly in existence today. Also, that's a lot of red-shirts.


That said, Roy 'Chubby' Brown is very popular in Blackpool, so bar a large portion of the population of Blackpool the Extraordinary Gentlemen can count on British Empirical superiority. So there we go.


NUANCES AND WHATNOT


Nuance wise, the League of Gentlemen have cast a long shadow over British comedy and television. The three actors have gone to write and star in a variety of comedy and drama programmes, whilst the hidden writer has also gone on to write for a variety of comedy and drama programmes. The dark, gothic style of comedy remains popular, and the phrase 'Are you local?' is so prevalent that a pub round my way has a yearly festival called 'Are you Loc Ale?'. This is amusing after several pints. 


You will have several pints.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen can take responsibility for being there at the start of the Steampunk sub genre, taking Victorian fashions and industry and melding them with the computer age. Of a sort. Steampunk fashion today is increasingly popular, looking cool in a corset and goggles without taking into account the racial and social problems that a continuation of Victoriana would bring. It can also take a certain amount of credit the idea of taking other author's creations and moulding them into an unlikely scenario and mashing of genres, with prominent examples including Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and, of course, the popular blog FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!.

Look, I'll be honest, I'm slightly grasping at straws here. With so many characters and permeations available in each canon, the nuances are either so subtle I can't grasp them or so strong they seem too obvious to write about.


IT'S CLOBBERING TIME



Mina tried to look around the darkened room, finding herself wishing for enhanced senses; anything to try and puzzle out why she was here and who else was with her. She knew that at a distance – but not a distance she could measure, not at the moment – there was a large group of people nearby who felt... odd.

There was suddenly a rustling in front of her, and Mina heard the striking of a match. It lit up a hideous countenance which filled her with an instinctive dread. The man – if it was a man – smiled.

Hello Dave.”

Suddenly, as if from nowhere and strictly for narrative purposes, bright lights lit up the room, rendering the dark visage briefly angelic. Then they dimmed, and left the room in darkness again.

Mina headed backwards, quickly and quietly, before lighting another match. She was overjoyed to see some familiar faces stood near her – Captain Nemo, Allan Quartermain and a collection of clothing who she presumed was Hawley Griffin. Indeed, it looked like the whole League had assembled in this strange place, although she knew not why.

Her relief at seeing these figures meant it took her a moment to notice who was standing along the opposite wall. A collection of grotesques were peering at her from the other side of the room.

Edward, Edward!” squeaked Tubbs, peering at the strange group of people - far too glamorous to be residents of Royston Vasey - “What are they?”

I don't know, Tubbs,” responded Edward. “I don't think that they're... local.”

What kind of barbaric accent is that?” asked Hawley from the other side of the room. “They're not... Northern, are they?”

Edward, he's undressing me with his eyes!”

The one called Edward walked slowly forward, an expression of pure disgust across his face. He stopped, and turned his head to look at them all. He chose the no-tail with the thin, white hair. He should pose the lightest threat.

Quartermain's reaction to seeing a snarling mass of inbred fury flinging himself towards him is to swiftly flick out a handgun and shoot him right in the chest.

Edward, no!” shrieked Tubbs, running towards his twisted remains.

Taking advantage of the confusion that immediately breaks out, Papa Lazarou's long, clever fingers curl around Mina's wrist. She finds herself being dragged away, a demented minstrel nightmare-face leering “You're my wife now.”

Mr Hyde lumbered forth into the fray, having watched the fracas with interest. Warning Quatermain to take a care with his rifle lest he do something unspeakably biological to him, he waded in, swinging wildly. Cries of “Harvey, no, think of the toads!” and “But I have a Crème Brulee gig next week!” echoed around the hell as bodies flew, and Allan trained his gun on the larger crowd, identifying them for better or for worse as a threat.

It was beginning to look like an overwhelming defeat for the League of Gentlemen, superior arms and fighting skills winning, despite the powers of Papa Lazarou leading to an early casualty on their side. However, more numbers were slowly grouping at the back for the residents of Royston Vasey.

What's going on, Pauline?”

I'm not sure, Mickey luv,” was the response. “But let's go get these bastards!”

Armed only with pens, Pauline would have been taken out automatically, but when Geoff attempted suicide rather than fight, he managed to miss his own head from three centimetres, and struck Quartermain through the heart. The Extraordinary team had lost their vital sniper.

Bloody hell,” said Geoff into the sudden hush, thereby echoing the thoughts of all surrounding them.

The Extraordinary team become aware they were increasingly surrounded by a wide – yet somehow facially similar – variety of enemies.

Surely we should be able to call on some classic forms of literature?” cried out Nemo, buckling his swash as best as he was able in a grim knife fight against Hilary Briss. “The evils of this monstrous Empire surely at least enable us to call for back up?” He was stopped by Briss nicking his face using nothing but his cleaver.

No back up came. Even Griffin, ducking and diving amongst the multitude, was leapt on with great force and dragged under, seemingly never to return. The last thing he ever heard was “I got one, Pauline!”

Eventually only Mr Hyde remained, his mighty power managing to take out several minor characters but failing to protect Nemo, who was dragged away bleeding and mutilated by Briss; Griffin was lying prone at the feet of Pauline and Mickey, who was crowing over his victory.

The crowd parted suddenly, and a panting Hyde was left alone, surrounded by a braying crowd filled with blood lust and their losses. Out of the darkness came a single figure, vaguely feminine, wearing a pair of familiar hiking boots.

You,” she pronounced, “Are not local. I think my son David would like to meet you.”

The howls of pain roared long into the night. Oh, what vile things were done in that struggle


AND THE WINNER IS...

  

  THE LEAGUE OF GENTLEMEN



Sheer numbers and dirty tricks prevail.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:

"YOU SAY POTATO AND I KILL YOUR MOTHER"

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, 15 July 2013

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! #40

To savour a fight, we need to be in peak condition both physically and mentally.

How, then, are we to partake of FIGHTING as often as is medically recommended 
(five times a day)?

Why, through fighting each other in abstract ways of course.

There are numerous examples of things called 'Games' in the world. 

Don't be fooled by such terminology.


They are methadone to fighting's heroin.



FIGHT #40

 


THE ROCK
vs
PAPER MARIO
VS
EDWARD SCISSORHANDS


WHO THEY THEN? 




The Rock (aka Flex Kavana/Dwayne Johnson/Rocky Maivia) is a wrassler. He wrassles. Sweating, oiled men in leather nappies grapple with each other in the ring. It's excellent children's entertainment. 



Paper Mario is like Normal Mario only he's very thin. Rather than go to hospital, he embarks on missions to rescue Princess Peach from Bowser because one of these days it'll be totally worth it. I mean, it's not like it happens all the bloody time and no-one ever learns any decent security-measures as a result, unless this is some sort of long-term gambit on Mario's part where he pays Bowser to kidnap the Princess so he can rescue her and possibly become romantically involved. That would be weird.



Edward Scissorhands is an artificial man, possibly immortal, who was left with scissors for hands after his inventor dies of a heart attack before he could finish his work. Because people are essentially cruel, he was never known as 'Edward Normaleverythingelsebutreallyhandsarequiteimportantyou'd
thinkthattheywouldn'tbelefttillastbutthereyougosomepeopleIdon'tknowhonestly.



THEY PACKING MUCH HEAT?


The Rock is essentially just one giant muscle. He can out-act, out-fight, and out-go-on-a-family-friendly-adventure any other living being.

Mario has a hammer, although his ability in combat is dependent on his star and flower points, and also his timing in potential button mashing situations.

Edward Scissorhands is essentially a gentle creature, but he does have scissors for hands and a desire to punish those who wrong Winona Ryder. Heaven help you if you're a store detective with only one shift to go before retirement.

THEIR BACK: WHO HAS IT?



The Rock has alienated many of his companions from the world of wrassling, by being brimful of chutzpah and heading up the rankings with all the alacrity of a greased urchin escaping a discipline via a convenient chimney. Wrassling isn't really about teamwork at the end of the day, more about wrassling your opponent until he's just a sweaty man-mass writhing under your control. As a result The Rock's wrassling chums are possibly more likely to betray and hinder him. Just look at Mr Ass.

Paper Mario assembles a team along the course of his adventures, all of whom have abilities that enable victory over specific foes, terrain and frequencies of light. Of course, take them out of the context of the Mario universe and these might be less impressive, but they're doshgarned useful while you're there. Not Luigi though, he stays at home, cranking something rotten.

Edward can only really rely on those close to him, as due to his appearance many are immediately suspicious and fearful of him. Ultimately it turns out that he would be alone, as the world was not made for one as scissorhanded as him.


NUANCES AND WHATNOT



The Rock has such charisma, twould be a shame if it were not given a larger platform than the world of wrassling to showcase it. Alas, twas twot two twe.

Also, he sometimes looks like famous pitiful hate-figure, Rob Schneider.

Paper Mario is different from normal Mario due to his paper thin constitution. The fact that the whole 'Everything's made of paper' thing isn't explained at any point, it's no big deal.

Edward has killed, which stands him in good stead for any unlikely fighting scenario, but then again Paper Mario has probably killed the most creatures out of any of these beings. Plus, with his papery, fibrous surface, you could totally use him to write hurtful things about your enemies on.

IT'S CLOBBERING TIME 

Paper Mario doesn't like the look of this.

Goombario tells him that the huge guy can get away with breaking people's spines through sheer charm, and the pale creature's digits are snip-snip-snipping nervously, like he might lash out at the cruel world he's found himself in. The brush of metal against metal shrieks quietly and makes Paper Mario think twice about taking him on first.

Paper Mario considers his options. Who else does he have as backup?



Thanks Wikipedia. Thikipedia. Thanks Look Around You. Thook Around You.



Paper Mario decides that his best chance of success it to attack the Rock. His friends form the initial attack wave, and so Paper Mario utilises the chance provided by the Rock systematically stuffing all of his friends into a hollowed out turtle shell and punting it into a spike. His best chance, Mario reckons, is to utilise his two-dimensional paperyness to smother the Rock in a deadly embrace.

It's on. Paper Mario pounces.

The Rock reels. Then notices that it isn't a moth, it's a weird sliver of plumber clinging to his leg. Paper Mario mis-timed his attack, and landed on a limb that is non-essential to the Rock's continued respiration. The Rock grins. Sparks and starshine are emitted from his teeth, and he uses this to set some dry grass alight.

The Rock is a hard man, in every sense of the word. His grin does not waver as his shin is singed by the screaming death throes of a flat Italian hero. The Rock shakes his leg, and the ashes fall to the ground. Some of them go inside his sock though. This is why you should never wear socks with your battle sandals, no matter how manly you are in the presence of burning hot ash.

Now for the guy dressed as Robert Smith cameoing in Tron, thinks the Rock.

Edward Scissorhands is looking lost and forlorn in this place of combat. He doesn't like it here, in this place he can't be bothered generating descriptive prose for. He wants to be back with his sculptures. Instead, he's got this man with flaming footwear approaching him with a familiar look in his eye. This does not bode well for Edward, but then again what has he got to lose?

The Rock advances. Strategy...planning...safety...he ignores all these things. The best form of defence is to kill everything else in the universe. A mighty foot is raised, ready to smash down onto Edward's solar plexus. Alas, Mr Scissorhands has been sculpting for many years, and also has scissors for hands. He is lightning fast. Skin and flesh rain down around them like moist confetti. The Rock raises an eyebrow as he notes that the bones of his foot are now exposed.

Unfortunately for Edward, Paper Mario had mushroom residue on his feet.

The smoking remains of Mario are inhaled by Edward, blunting his senses, making him hallucinate. He sees his lost love, and his creator, as they merge into one being and then rain down on him as a normal-handed child. He skips through a meadow of monochrome, rusty blades, dousing petrol over everything as the sky boils. Then he imagines a dragon who refuses to take no for an answer, and remembers the basic protocols of installing a fresh u-bend.

Edward is delighted by these delusions, and claps like a happy child. This renders him 'armless.

The Rock, meanwhile, has tied his opponent up and set his hair on fire. He uses the soon-roasting body to cauterise his wounds. Edward barely notices any of this.


The Rock is a hard man, in every sense of the word.


AND THE WINNER IS...

     THE ROCK




FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! will return in:


"I DON'T REALLY WATCH WRESTLING VERY MUCH 
BUT I BET YOU CAN'T TELL

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.