You Are Donkey Kong
Fanfiction up the fucking wazoo
And for once in my life, I complete a writing project.
You are Donkey Kong
You become conscious.
A rocking sensation engulfs your stomach and mind. Something soft but overwhelming is pressing on all surfaces of your body. It is loose, moist... and it is constricting your breathing.
Slowly, powerfully, your eyes open.
"AROUGAH!" you yell. Peeling open those lids has caused direct exposure to the soil above you, and you shut them in pain. The earth muffles your roar; loose dirt falls into your mouth, along with what feels like a worm.
You snap fully awake. Adrenaline explodes through your veins to fight the pressure on your torso and face. You swing your limbs ferociously. The reckless motion loosens large chunks of the earth, freeing the machine that is your body from your tomb. Your flailing leg shatters something wooden above you, and you sit up in the dirt, expelling saliva-drenched soil from your jaws.
Pant... pant...
Streaming tears cast white lines through the mask of dirt on your face. The burning in your eyes does not subside. Whimpering, you try to rub your eyes clean, but the same disgusting crud encases your giant knuckles. You shake your head, squeeze your eyes, spit savagely, using any means necessary to clear your facial orifices of the grime. The sequence dislodges dirt from your eyes, ears, and mouth, and you clap your hands together. A basketball-popping impact produces a minor explosion of soil, but you seal your eyelids and lips to prevent any from entering your just-cleansed cavities.
Finally, you look around. You are sitting in what is unmistakably a coffin. Around you, there are several other ominous coffins. You shiver, realizing that they probably contain other living beings.
But there is no time. Your eyes and stomach tell you that you are on a ship at sea. You run to the edge of the ship and find that the ship is moving away from land.
The information electrifies you. Your first impulse is to jump into the Pacific Ocean, but upon further consideration, you decide that this might be a bad idea, especially because you do not know for sure that it is the Pacific Ocean. Being mother****ing Donkey Kong has its downsides, and poor geography is one of them.
Your eyes fall upon the stacks of coffins around you. You can't just leave them there... Well, perhaps you can, but you've always cultivated a sense of heroism, and that is not going to change.
And so you decide to rescue as many coffins as possible. You're not exactly big on saving souls, but it does seem heroic, and plus you suck at swimming. You take two coffins under each of your coconut-like biceps and take the fifty-foot plunge.
Things do not go according to Plan. Two of the coffins shatter upon impact with the surface of the water and slip away from your grasp. Their contents drift away, and the dirt washes away a freshly uncovered crimson echidna and heavily made up clown.
The coffins, slightly submerged, support you as you drift to shore. Slowly, you realize, you are drowning your only companions. But you don't have a choice.
Or do you? You examine the coffins and see that one is slightly green beneath the growing waves, the other a solid ebony.
(A) Keep the green coffin and toss the black one. Who knows what type of gifts it may bestow upon you? Why keep the face of evil?
(B) Toss the green coffin and keep the black one. Anything that reminds you of K. Rool needs to bite the crest of the waves fast and hard.
(C) Toss both coffins. Sure, you like to be the hero, but you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and while swimming is not your forte, neither is using these corpses as lifesaver rafts.
(D) Keep both. Who cares if they drown? It's for a good cause - saving your ass, the only one that matters.
---
Staring at the green coffin is making you slightly seasick. With great justice, you hurl it from your person and latch on tightly to the black coffin, swimming hard to shore. No one is calling mother****ing Donkey Kong a racist. You do not look back.
Exuding this newfound righteousness, you paddle halfassedly and haphazardly. The grey sky and oppressive mist prevent you from having a good visual on the island, but it looks like it's getting closer. The waves continue to rock and roll, stiffening your muscular grip on the black coffin like a tasteless sexual metaphor, growing and swelling and bulging until finally coming to a peak.
Always one for stamina, you manage to maintain the hardness of your structure for around an hour straight, a massive block of granite somehow staying afloat on a black coffin. The strain drains the blood from your brain, and you allow sleep to soothe your fatigued, sculpted form.
PIH... Put it her...? ... Dixie Kong... Beer...
Unconsciousness, you find, is typically more pleasant than reality. It makes a very nice insulation for your monkey ass when salt water is eroding your pristinely "rugged" look that you spend so much time ignoring. It also makes you feel warmer, for some reason.
Crash! You jump twelve feet in the air, a feat very feasible for mother****ing Donkey Kong when you're jumping using your prodigious arm strength.
Ssss. You land solidly on the pavement, shaking the heavens, but you look down and see that the sizzling sound is coming from your feet. Steam is rising rapidly from between your toes, spiraling almost poetically into the air.
It takes your brain less than a minute to realize that you have just gotten out of the fire and into the frying pan. Again, your leg muscles bunch up into a knot and explode, vaulting you into the air and onto the grass next to the pavement. From your green pasture, you closely examine the coffin. There is a cross on it under a large chunk of seaweed, and water is seeping out of every imaginable pore of the tomb.
POOF
Something mystical and misty seeps through the lid of the coffin and materializes. Mother****ing Donkey Kong though you are, you still cower a little bit as a half-vampire materializes before you.
"Thank you for saving me, mortal," says the metrosexual, in an incredibly theatrical voice that makes you hee-haw like a donkey. "I was mistakenly shipped off of the Island of Champions because I happen to sleep stylishly."
You guffaw a little more.
"I take it that you want an alliance, then," he says. You are a little taken aback.
"I can supply you with any of the following..."
(A) Shelter. You're mother****ing Donkey Kong, but a bed's nice.
(B) Bananas. They're no Horde, but they do soothe the soul.
(C) A Coconut Gun That Can Fire In Spurts
(D) A MYSTERY!!! POSSIBLY A TRAP
---
Cosmic elementary school logic tears at your mind. A good man provides his family with shelter... Food is the basic need of all living things... and everyone loves a good adventure...
But you are not a "good man." You are not "everyone." Hell, you're not even a mere "living thing"; you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you will take what you know you want.
For a moment you freeze, realizing that you are unable to communicate directly. "Froar," you say politely, trying to negotiate with him.
Ineffective.
Racking your mountainous mind for ideas, you close the chasm between yourself and the half-vampire, somehow immune to the heat of the pavement, and reach under the dirt of his coffin. Your peripheral vision catches bemusement crossing the half-vampire's face, but you've secured your grip.
You spin around to face the half-vampire with flair that no human could possibly imitate. In your hands is a set of bongos. You strike a C on it, attempting to convey your message.
The half-vampire blinks rather stupidly at your attempt at communication. Goddamn musically inept. You tap out a C major scale, ignoring the impossibility of doing such a thing on bongos, but as mother****ing Donkey Kong, you have talent for which devil would sell his soul. Again the parlee seems unfazed.
Growing ever angrier, you finally begin to bang harder and harder on the bongos, laying out a phat beat like none other. Soon a bassline and melody emerge, musical marvels that astound even you. Considerable buildup is now emanating from the drums. Your paws, accelerating far beyond the speed of sound, are now visible only as what appear to be giant electron clouds; position seems determinable, but velocity is a total tossup.
And then the lyrical section begins; you are unable to sing them, but you continue synthesizing the music nonetheless, and the climax begins to grow clear.
You detach yourself swiftly from the bongos and strike a terrifyingly sexy pose, feet together and arms spread wide above your head, forming a Y-shape. Not missing a beat, you then bend your elbows and join fingers to cranium, forming a twisted sort of M. Then, with directed vigor, you stop the music violently and throw your arms to your left. Your right curves down gracefully to your chest, which connects to the left.
"C?" says the half-vampire. At last, you collapse, panting. Breaking the language barrier, you find, is far more difficult than breaking the sound barrier.
"So be it," he says, and he strides casually over back to the coffin. As you rest your titanium ass on the grass, he produces, from the same dirt in which you found the bongos, a large wooden cannon. The half-vampire struggles to carry its awesome form; it dwarfs him easily. You take a moment of sadistic pleasure in watching his knees quake. Then your primary objective of "kick ass, monkey style" returns, and you relieve your ally of his burden. Instantly he snaps back upward, regaining his composure.
"There you have it," he says unctuously. "This is a large island... you have ample time for exploration. I hope to see you in six weeks, my friend."
And with that, he turns into a large bat and begins to fly off.
Wait, what?
(A) Yank his vampirical halfass bat back down to the ground and ask what's going on. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you want answers.
(B) Actually take the advice so generously given and begin to explore the island. Six weeks is a ****ing long time.
(C) Eat. Sleep.
(D) Put your Coconut Gun to the test and shoot down that bat. It might kill him, sure, but that's a risk you're willing to take.
---
For a moment, you remain poised, dazed, watching the black bat illuminated brilliantly in the setting sun. Then you realize yet again that you have no ****ing clue what the hell you're supposed to be doing. The same primate gene that drove Thomas Edison to invent the lightbulb is now raging within you to shoot that mother****er down.
"Yeah," you say, whipping out the coconut gun and taking quick aim. The bat is quickly exiting attack range, but you double-tap the hefty trigger. Your gun expels two of the hairy fruit, and they rise in a beautiful straight line toward the bat.
Thunk, thunk. The rounds connect with the bat around a hundred feet above a thick forest, and you take off after it, magically concealing the coconut gun and bongos beneath your skin. Your legs thrash the undergrowth; your arms protect you from brambles that threaten to scratch your face; your overtly masculine odor prevents irritating insects from trying to have their way with you. In essence, your bounds cover ground through the forest faster than the average cheetah or blue hedgehog.
The half-vampire in a small clearing, waiting for you. Still his face remains dignified and somber, but there are various twigs in his cloak and a rather large, ostentatious blue rodent in his hair.
"Well done," he says. "I see that you pass the test for target practice."
You scratch your head a little. Yellow question marks seem to materialize around the edges of your vision field.
"Perhaps you would like to know exactly what is going on," the half-vampire continues, rubbing his posterior a little with his right hand.
You nod.
"I am Alucard," he says, in a rehearsed tone. "This is the Island of Champions. Sixty-four competitors, sixty-four of the greatest warriors in all the lands, all the seas, and all the corners of space have assembled here... but only one will prevail."
You look at him blankly.
"Every day for two months, starting in a week or so, one competitor is destined to fall. No one knows how, exactly... But by midnight, the number of competitors on the island always diminishes by one."
You try your best to look intrigued, but already you are scratching your head and your ass in slight confusion.
Alucard begins to look frustrated. "You know the show Survivor?"
You shake your head.
"Well, in any case," he continues, as if he has never paused, "I think this is some sort of social experiment. Surely you've read Lord of the Flies?"
Not wanting to drag on the conversation any longer, you nod.
"Well, it is a lot like that," Alucard explains, breathing a sigh of relief. "I believe that this island setting will cause the deterioration of the morals and morale of the so-called 'champions' - that they will turn against one another. The corruption of these..."
You continue nodding, not understanding a word of the gibberish that is coming from him. His voice is distracting; it makes you wonder about the special leaves that grow on Candy's tree and what pleasant effects smoking them might incur. Perhaps banana reefers sometime...
"... And that" - you wake up; it looks like nighttime - "is why I must now depart. You'll recognize a competitor by the red band that will be somewhere on one's body."
Alucard holds up his left arm. Tied around it is a long red ribbon.
"Starting tomorrow, only sixty-four people will be allowed on the island... and there is only one more hour left in 'today.'" Despite his comical voice, even you feel the serious undertone.
"Helping you wasn't my original intention," Alucard intones, "But I have faith. It is all a part of the Plan."
He vanishes into the night; only the red band remains visible... and slowly, that rises into the moonless sky and vanishes, as well.
The large crossbreed rodent that had perched in Alucard's hair falls to the ground and begins to saunter off. You notice a red ribbon tied around its neck like a convenient noose...
You lunge, but it dodges and darts through your mammoth grip, and the chase is on.
(A) Chase by foot. True, your vision's total crap, but you can still beat a ****ing Nidoran in a footrace.
(B) Climb through the trees and attempt to pounce on it when it least suspects you. You'd think that a giant ape would be easy to detect, but you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you are not so careless.
(C) Try to lure it to you. You're a male; she's a female; and any female that can resist your allpowerful sexiness doesn't deserve to be on the island, anyway.
(D) Put it in. (!?)
---
Let no man say that Donkey Kong condones interracial bestiality, but even you can bend the rules sometimes. As the Nidoran tries to escape, you prepare your throat. Just before its blue form vanishes from sight, you release a monstrous explosion from your belly. The belch withers every tree in a ten-yard radius; they instantly bow and sway at the command of your frightful prowess. A few surrounding you collapse and ensnare the Nidoran.
The physical barriers of escape are of course not the only things stopping the pitiful creature from leaving. The belch has drenched your environment with the stench of pheromones, and she is now twisting and turning, trying to ascertain the source of such sexiness.
"Mmmm," you murmur. Her gaze snaps to you, pink hearts appearing in her eyes. You gulp a little, unsure if you want this little eight-inch creature on your eight-foot, eight hundred-pound body. Then reality of your situation - or Alucard's version of it - strikes you, and you again notice the cute little ribbon around her neck.
"Mmmm," you say again. Against your will, an evil smile has gripped your cheek muscles, squeezing and turning your lips maliciously upward. The infatuated rodent is now approaching your right leg. She latches on with she petit claws and begins the ascent upward, tracing your bulky form.
Gotcha! Your hands ensnare Nidoran, cupping her easily inside. Her form is actually rather prickly, and she's writhing beneath your grip almost sexually... In fact, you're not sure whether you want to know that.
In any case, you decide that suffocation is probably rather ugly. Flinching, you dangle her by the tail, which is diminutive even for such a miniscule creature. She is still wriggling, slashing her claws and perhaps even pelvic-thrusting; it is rather an astounding show of acrobatics... but it will not save her from you.
You switch your grip from tail to red collar. The thrashing continues, but now you are thoroughly immune to it. You lumber out of the forest, toward the ocean, feeling slightly fatigued. It is an odd sensation that you are unaccustomed to having, especially since you've just napped for several hours during Alucard's explanation of the events.
Unless...
You try to pick up the pace on your movements but are unsuccessful. The Nidoran has become docile in your grip. Haze now presses at your vision; the beach swims pleasantly before your eyes, but you are unsure how much of the effect is due to the actual swelling of the tides and how much due to the throbbing in the forefront of your brain.
With great vengeance and furious anger, you wind up a knuckleball, preparing to launch Nidoran far into the Atlantic - or Pacific, whatever. Then, in spite of all of the poison that is apparently seeping through your veins, you realize that the ribbon looks incriminatingly like your tie. Gently, over the nibbling at your fingers, you remove the ribbon and tie it around your neck.
And then you hurl - first, by chucking the Nidoran several thousand feet into the sea, then by emptying the meager contents of your stomach into the same waves.
You feel like total ****.
(A) Spin around until you throw up again.
(B) Look for some medicinal herbs. You have no idea how these would actually look, but anything will probably help the poisoning.
(C) Climb up a tree and search for a banana. You feel like ****, but you're still hungry.
(D) Take another nap. You're mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you are mother****ing tired.
---
Despite never having taken a biology course in your life, you are nonetheless adept at seeking natural cures to the ailment. There is no feeling in your legs, but somehow they lead you back into the forest. Your vision quickly deteriorates into blackness.
... And awake again. Little time has passed, it seems, for it is still very dark. There is an unpleasant coating over your fingers, and your mouth has a similarly revolting touch.
You yank your hand out of your mouth. There are red and white speckles all over it, along with a terrifying amount of saliva. You aren't much for preening yourself, but even mother****ing Donkey Kong has some sense of hygiene. You wipe your hand inconspicuously on your butt, dislodging most of the substance. You spit out the shards from your mouth. They glisten a little in the dark of the forest floor, though from what light source, you are unsure.
You look closely around you on the ground. Next to the spittle-drenched oral dislodgees are a few chunks of spotted growth. Unsurely, you pluck one. It is a red and white mushroom.
This... is a medicinal herb?
Entering M.D. mode proves useless. Your differential diagnosis is inconclusive, but at least you've found the right treatment. Throwing bullocks to the caution, you tear seven of the giant fungi from the ground and stuff your considerably sized cheeks. You work your jaws clumsily to slice and dice them. Pleasure floods your brain; it is an empty, substance-induced sensation, but despite your guilt, you cannot refrain from indulgence. You close your eyes, allow the paradoxically numbing thrill to take you ...
You pick a few dozen more shrooms and slide them beneath your skin, where it resides, restrained, with the other fabled equipment.
Depleted of ideas, you begin to wander through the forest on no set path. The woods are largely undisturbed. Here and there, there are trace footprints and broken branches, but you are mother****ing Donkey Kong. You ignore these pitiful signs of lesser creatures around you and stride forward with no hesitation.
Snap! Bang! A bullet comes out of nowhere and lodges in a tree next to you. Shards explode from it, but it is unmistakably a shot intended for you.
Your wits scatter for one split second.
(A) Go straight for the gunshot. Find that mother****er and hunt him down.
(B) Climb up the tree and recuperate to come up with a Plan.
(C) Take a nap. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you're tired.
(D) Bust out the bongos and lay out some phat beats. Original? No. Guaranteed To Make You Feel Better (TM)? Aw hell yeah.
---
You are tired, but there is work to be done. Someone has just fired upon you. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong; you do not stand for that type of ****.
The fires of Beethoven strike you. You whip out your bongos and unleash your might with them for the second time in the past twenty-four hours. Music pours freely from your heart and from your drums, unashamed, reviving the jazz age and the flapper age and God knows what ages. Strands and streams of time trickle through your notes, a corroding force that decimates and decomposes. Your eyes are shut, but as you drum to your heart's content, you can sense the trees becoming petrified with this unusual passage. There is a heavy grunt from the area where originated the shot. The associated body makes lumbering sounds as it pushes its way through the undergrowth to escape.
But you pay it no heed. The music is all-consuming, fiery, bringing forth such curious rhythms and harmonies from the depths of your soul. For several golden moments - or is it several golden days? - you lose yourself in pure ecstasy, floating among the clouds and tangoing with Scatman John.
And then you are back to Earth. The bongos are back under your impenetrable leather skin; a ridiculous grin remains plastered on your face; your eyes are transfixed in some faroff land, and it is nighttime again.
Your senses smack you like a tax evasion subpoena. Most of your perceptions are fine, but the smell is terrifying, flooding your eyes with tears. You stop breathing and curl up on your back, rolling back and forth through long rotted plants... and fungi. Who knew that these power-enhancing mushrooms could become so repulsive after aging? But you cannot consider, for the odor is now burning your skin and causing you to get a grade-A headache, not to mention an unsightly nosebleed.
You do the only thing that makes sense: You sprint as fast as you can out of the forest, across the pavement beach, and back into the ocean. The salt water stings your wounds even as your tears, blood, and dead skin diffuse into it... your pocketed mushrooms go away as well, but you hardly consider these but you are tough; you do not even flinch at its effects on you.
The tides gently escort you back to the pavement. The waxing crescent greets you solemnly and stolidly. You shake your deadly fist at it in rage. Is it mocking you? Does it know something that you don't? No celestial figure mocks mother****ing Donkey Kong like that!
Just to satisfy your sudden inexplicable rage, you reach into your folds and yank the Coconut Gun from it. You fire in spurts at the moon. The trajectory is a perfect line, unspoiled by irritating nuances like gravity or friction. Constant velocity and direction guide your twin coconuts up, up, up and out of sight. But you know that they're heading to the moon.
Then, briefly, logic grips you again, and you pocket the cannon. The bare essentials are eating away at you, slowly. You must get sleep or food. Fortunately, you are much better equipped to do these things than most other contestants.
(A) Pass out on the pavement. If a car comes by, it can kiss your ass - quite literally, if it thinks it's gonna run over this gorilla.
(B) Use the mad headbutting skills to try to knock some bananas out of the nearest tree.
(C) Take shelter in the forest and forage for stuff there. Sure, it's nearly killed you a few times, but you're mother****ing Donkey Kong. You're not afraid.
(D) ... You're gonna need a hacksaw.
---
Farewell, o sweet world and sweet awareness. You shut your eyes and don't even feel your body falling to the ground.
...
God knows how long you've been asleep, but when you come to, you feel a wide variety of sensations. Your brain is finally at peace. It seems that sleeping has done your psychology some good.
On the other hand, the entire left surface of your body feels... rather odd. You open your eyes to a setting sun and some seriously destroyed foliage in the forest. You have been sleeping on your left; you now bear deep pavement imprints down your left arm, torso, leg, and face. The pavement is still grillin', but you feel too damn good to let that affect anything.
Most curious of all, however, is the minor stinging that pervades your rear end. With your free right hand, you grope around behind you and feel a massive smoldering metallic object, wedged between your rectum and your coccyx. You pull, hard, and even for you, lifting it into the air is a struggle. You turn your head and take a look. In your hand are the twisted remains of what was presumably a futuristic racing pod.
You stand up. There is a mass exodus of blood from the left side of your body, and you nearly tumble over as it floods your right side. You perform a couple of mango mambo moves to stabilize yourself completely, crack your knuckles, roll your neck, and are ready to roll again.
You inhale, exhale deeply a few times, easily putting out the flames with the force of your diaphragm; the trees on the outer ring of the forest quiver a little at your tremendous strength. You are thinking. The Contest of Champions starts, you somehow understand, very, very soon...
This may well be the last time that you ever see this pavement again. You are about to head into the forest for real, leaving behind all these memories, consisting of... Well, in all honesty, you cannot think of a single good memory from standing around on this pavement, and you are getting a bit bored with this sentimentality, and you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, so you get your ass plowing back through.
With all the vigor of the premiere entree, you run right up to the edge of the forest, put your hands on the ground, and handspring. Unfatigued muscles vault you high over the tops of the highest trees. Were you anyone else, you would probably call the view fantastic, but you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you have long harbored an unpleasant sensation of vertigo. Rather than watching the greenery rushing beneath you, you treat yourself to the sensation of wind slapping your cheeks, snout, and the backs of your eyelids.
... CRASH. The fall knocks you unconscious for yet another Deus Ex Machina, indeterminant amount of time. You rub your head, eyes shut, and stumble a bit, swinging your free arm blindly around. Something's there... or rather, not there.
DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG. DONG.
Slowly, powerfully, your eyes open. You are in not a forest, but an expansive grassy field as far as the eye can see. There is also a perfectly circular pond around thirty feet wide of uncertain depth, with one fifty-foot tree standing conspicuously alone in the grass. You automatically presume the tree to be the center of the... is this an arena?
It is time.
(A) Get the hell out of the field and look for somewhere more... suitable for you.
(B) Climb up the tree and attempt to use it as camouflage.
(C) Stand around for twenty-four hours. Tournament? What tournament? You are mother****ing Donkey Kong; no one's gonna hurt you!
(D) Put it in. And by that, you mean put your ass-kicking body in that lil' oasis over there.
---
Without a moment of indecision, you sprint to the center of the field, take a deep breath, and hurl yourself into the water. A diminuitive splash, invisible in the midnight hours, and you are underwater... you swim down for several yards until you feel a mushy bottom. A gentle stream of bubbles trickles from your nostrils. It is ****ing pitch black.
You stay submerged, not breathing, staring up at the utter darkness of the surface. Several hours pass with you in your water resting place, gazing longingly upward. But you do not doze off. You are wide awake, and you amuse yourself by picking a little at your right nostril, which has become somewhat congested, even without water. This, however, only lasts you two minutes; for the rest of the time, you make funny faces at the surface. You are one patient son of a gun.
Gradually, the sun rises. It bleeds right through the still water. The water above you is absolutely clear, and the eerily unrippling surface is totally transparent.
Then the stirring begins. "Mmm," says a distant voice from above you, "Looks so pretty and secluded and... I usually don't take off this suit, but I guess even I like to smell decent once in a while..."
From above, something ominous and shadowy and dark and intimidating leaps into the pond and moves, frog-like, through the water. Ripples and waves begin to form, and you blink a couple of times to adjust your eyesight to the scattering light. A feminine shadow now covers you and the bottom of your pond, darting back and forth. As your vision returns, you discern a blue leotard wrapped around a tall blonde woman. You hear trickles of laughter echoing down the height of the pond. She is the image of freedom, happiness.
For one instant, she dives down a little, sticks her yellow-haired head into the pond, eyes innocently open. She sees you, scrunching your lips and lifting your left eyebrow to snowcapped heights, staring deep into her face.
And you are angry.
A terrified bubble explodes out of the woman's mouth; she pulls quickly out of the water and breaks toward the edge. You take off instantly. Powerful strokes and natural buoyancy spring you to the surface in around half a second. A tunnel of light rushes at you like those delectable mushrooms rushing to your sensory pleasures. The surface explodes upon your exit, and you soar out of it, flexing your muscles and exuding a fascinating awesomeness before landing squelchingly on your feet in the grass.
There is a MIDI-generated sound, and you find a small scar on the left side of your chest. The force of the blast does not even faze you. With some incredulity, you look at a robotic, yellow and red-clad figure, pointing a cannon at you. A blue windshield or something is covering its face, but you can absolutely tell that it's the same woman - and you can also tell that her face is screaming "WHAT THE HELL." It's a good feeling.
Most importantly of all, you can tell that there is a red bandanna strapped around her arm. Regaining a bit of her wit, she fires a missile at you. You swat it away with the back of your hand. It falls into the beautiful pond and explodes, destroying its pure virginity.
And you are angry.
Sure, this woman hasn't done any harm to you, but she just wrecked your hiding spot, and mother****ing Donkey Kong doeson t stand for that type of disrespect.
You stride over, muffling her itty-bitty ice beam, and easily grab her arm-cannon thingy with both hands. She struggles ineffectually, beating you over the head. You sense a bit of mild aggravation, but her ate has already been sealed, anyway. Exerting just a little bit of effort, you crumple the cannon in your palms.
Ignoring the shriek, You hold the woman by her helmet in your left hand, dangling her feet a yard above the ground, and wind up with your right hand. You sense the absolute terror imprinted on the woman's face beneath you as you toss her a few feet into the air and wait... she descends... and you unload your punch, an uppercut that breaks the entire torso of your nemesis and takes her deep into the stratosphere and off the Island of Champions.
It is a good day for mother****ing Donkey Kong. But the fighting, you see, has torn up the grass of the field and made a general mess. You're outta here.
(A) Go North. In the daylight, it looks like there are palm trees and no ocean. And where better to relax than... a place with palm trees and no ocean!?
(B) Go South. You have no idea where this leads, but you have a good feeling about it.
(C) Go East, into the sun, where apparently there are bananas.
(D) Go West, into the mountains. Why? Because you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and if you want to do something that just "sounds cool," like "Go West, young Donkey Kong," then God Damn it, you will.
---
You assume authority and scurry away from the sun, bounding forth on all fours. The grass-covered earth trembles, parting in your wake. It takes you a couple of minutes to clear the miles of grass and a few hours to reach the mountains. Your shadow shrinks gradually as you run, uninterrupted. But the sun continues to chase you, cutting an exorable path through the sky, until it glares at you menacingly from overhead.
But it matters not, for you are now in the mountains. You begin the ascent up the mountain and find something most curious: a stream that runs uphill. It begins with a small puddle, the bottom of which is invisible to you. The stream seems to break all the rules, but... you remember the words that Alucard said to you: "Rules can be broken here."
Ignoring the fact that Alucard has ever actually says such words to you, you resume your running up the mountain. Trees of moderate height are beginning to appear around you, at first extremely sparse, then closing in around you slowly like seventh graders around an adult magazine. Though the density does seem to increase exponentially, they can never obstruct your inexhaustable running power.
... Except that you're getting pretty damn tired. And hungry. And sleepy. And.. thirsty. Is there a way to quench all four of these...? Yes, there is. It doesn't seem pleasant, you decide, sprinting uphill, but it will have to do. The sun has already obscured itself largely behind the mountain; you have no idea how late it is in the evening, but it has been a decent day of exercise, and you need to do something.
So you stop running and viciously uproot a tree and eat it. It tastes disgusting, and it's massively abrasive to your stomach, but you're mother****ing Donkey Kong; you're tough enough. Chewing, you discover after several bites, seems to help.
Then you dive in the stream and immediately howl in pain, for you have just cracked your head against the bottom of it. If you were less agonized, you would probably make a mental note not to dive into one-foot-deep bodies of water, but hitting your head seems to stop you from making deep intellectual leaps like this.
So you pass out. Not because you are weak, mind you, but because you feel like it.
Poof! The sun is high above you. Apparently you've been out cold for almost twenty-four hours. You come to consciousness with a massive scrunch of your face and feel something cold and wet pressing against the back of your body. Even before turning around, you begin to piece it together.
Cold... wet... it must be water!
And indeed, when you look behind you, you see twenty-four hours' worth of stream water throbbing and pulsating, begging to be set free. You are about to move, when there is another Poof.
You turn around, genuinely confused. What source..?
Poof! A flash of light blinds you, and you shield your eyes a little as you try to open them. The image is rather distorted because of the glare, but you believe that there are... two dark-haired girls fighting in the bed of the stream, both wearing red bands around their arms. One of them is dressed skimpily in red, shooting bullets at the other, missing entirely. The latter, clothed in green, seems to be fighting by blinding her opponent using a... camera?
You observe through your fingers for a few more seconds as the unstable chick in red stumbles backward and falls down off the streambed. Green-jacket girl points her camera menacingly at her fallen foe, advancing. "Don't move or I'll shoot!"
Common sense tells you not to move, but psychological twists have an effect even on you, mother****ing Donkey Kong. At the girl's threat, you leap instinctively into the air. and out of the stream.
With all the force of a river, the buildup from the previous two days explodes uphill and knocks the green-clothed girl clean off her feet, carrying her up with it. You jog a little to keep pace, soon reaching the top of the mountain. The peak is extremely steep, and you realize that it ends in a cliff. The helpless photographer shoots up off of it and, with a scream, falls into what you believe is the Pacific Ocean.
(A) Get down there and try to save her! There's still time!
(B) Go back to sleep and wait for the next day.
(C) Go look for more food. This mountain's getting boring. How 'bout that sandy beach with a palm tree and no ocean!?
(D) Use your high ground to nail that other woman, if you know what that means. You're mother****ing Donkey Kong, and even if you're not gonna bang her in the traditional sense, you can still give her face a banging she won't forget.
---
You blow one final kiss to the day's victim and realize that it's not quite over yet. There is still, as they say, unfinished business.
So you turn your back to the cliff and the setting sun and sprint back downhill. Going downhill, you realize, is much more difficult than going uphill. Each pump of your legs carries you dozens of feet, and you only manage to take three of these prodigious strides before falling onto your head and rolling downward like a katamari, crushing trees and absorbing them into your awesome person and making you a brambly, tree-lovin', one-part avalanche.
You brake hard and manage to pull out of your ball. Trees go flying everywhere and decimate the lush mountainside. Your knees take some serious damage as you dig your heels hard into the thinning topsoil, kicking up barrels of dirt.
Barrels...
You to feel slightly stoned; dirt is coating most of your eyes, preventing you from perfect visual clarity. Something slightly feminine-looking is hovering before you, and you see the red thing tied around its arm. It doesn't take much thinking to realize that this is not Ada Wong, the lady whom you were seeking. But your primal urges overwhelm your normal flawless reasoning skills, so you seize the figure around the waist and begin to pull it up the mountain. You carry it the full length and plop it hard on its ass right at the edge of the cliff.
Suddenly, you hear a piercing "Wait!" The frequency of the blast nearly destroys you; your eyes narrow to slits, and your palms cover your precious ears. Something with a red ribbon in its hair is walking up. You're still a little hazy on exactly what it is, but it's mostly skin-colored, and - "Oooh!" - it is also apparently the source of the replusive sound.
Massive damage mentality grips you, hard, and renders you quickly incapable of responding to it. Then, primitively, your instincts again kick in above your common sense. Your mind remains quite aloof to the events that occur. The voice numbs your brain, but the sensation is far from pleasant. Your hands, separate of any conscious thought, begin to grab large chunks of earth and roll them into barrel shapes.
And then you start rolling them down. The path between the Challenger and you is slightly demolished, but there are still enough trees to produce a generally twisted maze. You seem to jump from one frame to the next, rolling the "barrels" of dirt down the mountainside one by one, barely hesitating to watch as the skinny little creature makes its way around the obstacles that you are so sordidly rolling.
Hop... hop... She jumps over your projectiles like a 1980s arcade character as she reaches the top. You try to expedite your rolling process, but it is of no use. Before your brain can send the message to your fingers, several minutes have passed, and your enemy has already reached your little apex at the cliff. Suddenly, she is now rejoicing with your prized captive. She stands boldly before the blue-clothed woman that you brought up the cliff, and ... it may be just your brain kicking into hyper-overdrive again, but you can almost hear something whistling in the back of your head, almost see a pink heart flashing above their heads.
The strange eroticism of a hideous underage skank and a female warrior lady brings you back to your senses jarringly. The pink heart shatters from your sight as you realize that they are intruding on your territory. The vague bemused detachment gives way to aggression and all the testosterone of a gorilla in heat. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong.
So you punch the now-embracing duo hard in the side, shattering their grip. The blue one flies off the edge of the island quickly; the skimpily dressed one gives out another shriek and falls hard down the mountainside. The magnititude of the little *****'s scream knocks you out instantly. You lie spread-eagled on the spot.
You wake up a couple of nights later, but The Voice has disappeared. Narrowing your eyes, you descend the mountain.
(A) Get ye gun. Yes, just bust it out and open fire. Who knows what interesting people you'll meet?
(B) Head to the desert. It's a desert island, get it!? Plus there might be bananas.
(C) Go to that northerly city-looking thing up there. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you have some parties to crash. Literally.
(D) Take a nap. It is always an option. And plus being knocked out cold by high-pitched voice doesn't necessarily make you well rested.
---
You drop down, off of the foot of the mountain, around its toes and heel. Something dark and intense is burning in your eyes. It could be the fires of hell, motivating you toward the city, or it could simply be the dirt that has somehow become personified. In any case, you like pretty badass and enraged as you gallop into town.
It is midnight by the time you actually roll in, and the city couldn't possibly look more alive... Well, actually, the city could look a lot more alive. Stray lights illuminate scattered houses, but surrounding them are much darker, more forboding apartment complexes. They have a run-down feeling, and you decide to explore one just for the hell of it, knowing full well that no good can come of it.
Or who knows? The door has literally rotted off of its hinges. Your mere approach toward the house generates enough motion to knock the door down and inward, but there is no sound as it hits the floor. You stick your head through the doorway and look downward. The drop looks considerable, but you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you are not afraid of anything.
So you step in and fall two full stories into the dark basement. It is extremely cold and damp. Though your layers of fur, muscle, and fat protect you from actually sensing this, you get a generally unpleasant feeling from the place. Not being able to see anything at all also seems to be a minor hindrance, especially when you realize that something particularly cold and damp has clamped down on your forearm. Instinctively, you swing your captive arm into the air. The grip tightens for a second and snaps easily. There is a silence, followed by a squelching, rattling sound, as the thing collides with the wall of the basement.
Cautiously, you make your way over to your fallen assailant. More disgusting grips intercept your path and yank you backward, causing you to slip backward. You fall, landing gluteus maximus first, but you do not hit the moist floor with your fantastic ass but rather something humanoid-shaped and slightly decayed. You push, shove, punch, kick out around you, dislodging these slimy beasts from you. Subconsciously, you know exactly what they are, but even you do not quite want to acknowledge the fact that zombies are attempting to do whatever it is that zombies do to innocent, harmless virgin schoolgirls.
But you are no harmless virgin schoolgirl. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong. Your lashing out easily demolishes the hordes of zombies that are swarming you, and you begin to make your way out, swinging your fists. A few have latched onto your unconquerable thighs and shoulders, but they have absolutely no stopping power to your solid progression across the floor. Total blindness isn't helping you much, but you'll get out... somehow.
BANG! BANG! Sparks of gunfire come out of nowhere. The bursts reveal the hideous faces of the mutilated zombies. Their contorted facial expressions explode as you shove your fists through their mouths and shatter them. The flying bullets also seem to help in doing some mass damage. Getting carried away, you unsheath your Coconut Gun from beneath your skin unload indiscriminantly around you. You have no idea where any zombies are, but judging by the instant splatterings that greet your ears, your rounds are encountering some serious zombie flesh. Over and over, you pull the trigger, spinning around to maximize destructive power. Your coconut supply seems limitless.
After around one minute of trigger happiness, you return to your senses. Gone are the hulking presences in the room. And then a brilliant light shines into your eyes. You hold up your hands in defense instinctively, hearing a shotgun load.
"Another competitor," says the feminine voice. You squint, unable to make out exactly who is talking at you, but you hear the cocking of a shotgun. You shield both eyes and chest.
BANG!
Rounds splatter your chest. They do not pierce your musculature, but they do make superficial wounds, and you are pissed. "AROURGH!" you yell, and though you are entirely blind, you can feel the blood draining out of the zombie killing chick's face. Your imposing hand descends upon her face and smothers it. With your other, you casually wrench the sawed off shotgun from her hand and crumple it into a paper clip. Holding her head in your hand, you stomp very hard on the ground. It cracks open a little, and you force it open with your legs. Running water is audible beneath it.
Taking her flashlight from her, you drop Claire Redfield into a running stream headed for the Pacific Ocean. Or so you think.
(A) Look for a doctor. You're wounded.
(B) Look for a bar. Sex and beer usually help.
(C) Get the hell out of the city. You're mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you've had enough of these mother****ing zombies in this mother****ing mansion.
(D) Take a nap... in the middle of the city streets.
---
Feeling more than a little under the weather, you clamber out of the mansion's basement and stumble across stereotypically creaking floorboards until you find a dust-covered phone. It is of the "Razor" brand, clearly state of the art material. You flip it open and deftly dial your local doctor. People don't credit you much for it, but you are actually quite technologically savvy.
"RRRRRRAWR," you yell into the phone. Then you quickly hang up and loiter outside the mansion, bleeding casually from littered bullet wounds in the front of your torso. It takes a few minutes for the "doctor" to arrive. You squint; the city lights are making it very difficult to make out exactly who is going to nurse you to health.
The first feature of your physician that you observe is her chest. She is wearing a tight white shirt, which you assume is part of hospital protocol. There is a large red ribbon cross sewn onto the front of the chest. Whatever is underneath is stretching the fabrics of both the shirt and the cross on it. As she gets closer, your gaze shifts from the wriggling armadillos to her face. Stylish dark hair frames an innocent, almost dopey smile.
Her motion is exquisitely feminine. She presses her elbows close to her sides, causing her hands to jut out impractically and limply as she runs. A criminally short black skirt flaps with her every step, and before even you realize it, she is upon you.
"You're hurt!" is her first comment, and at that moment, any affection that her physical appearance may have lent you evaporates. Of course you're hurt; why do you think you called the hospital in the first place? You are mother****ing Donkey Kong; you don't need to feign pain to get some whore.
But she ignores the shift in your facial expression, eyebrows turned up in genuine worry. "I'm Tifa," she says. "The hospital's a bit short-staffed, what with all the Tournament of Champions injuring everone, so I was sent here. I'll be your nurse, though this looks pretty serious."
You keep your eyes narrow. You still don't trust a ditz, but her voice does sound nice enough.
"Now let's see if I still remember this Materia junk," she mutters, and places her hands in electrifying distance of your chest. In fact, the distance does jolt you a little.
"Oops," she says lightly, "Sorry about that residue. I was ... never mind."
And now a calming, soothing effect spreads over your entire upper body and, just a little, to your lower body as well. You actually close your eyes, enjoying it. Tifa shifts behind you, but you merely growl in satisfaction as her diminuitive soft hands attempt to grip the tense muscles around your neck. Her hands prove incapable of mustering the strength truly to loosen the cemented cords, but you shrug back and forth to loosen yourself.
"Hey," she whispers in your ear, as she slides her hands up and down your back, "Will you do me a favor?"
Instantly suspicion explodes into your veins again. Your eyes snap open, and you turn around. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you don't get ****ed by anyone - not even busty nurses. You raise an interrogative eyebrow and slowly close your fist around her throat.
She looks absolutely helpless in your hand. Terror dancing in her eyes, she points trembling inger. "Can you take out this pesky Ivy character?"
You turn your head skeptically, and your jaw drops. A lady is standing behind you, eyes sinisterly narrow. Sensuous flesh is exploding out of the most minimalistic strings and pieces of cloth. You release Tifa from your grasp and turn toward Ivy, who brandishes some sort of weapon. She lashes out at you, eliciting a scream from Tifa, but you catch and snap her blade with two fingers. There is not even enough time for her to look surprised before you overwhelm her face with your hand.
"Th- thanks," says Tifa timidly from behind you, walking into the mansion. "I'll find a way to get rid of her really quickly! Just hang there, will you?"
Against your better judgment, you "hang there," allowing Ivy to writh, beat your hands, jiggle her hams and jugs and other attributes.
"Okay," says Tifa, walking out of the mansion. "A taxi should be h-"
At that moment, a futuristic-looking racepod thing appears out of nowhere, and an absolutely ridiculous-looking guy jumps out. You are distinctly reminded of the twisted wreckage that you earlier discovered jammed up your ass, but you say nothing.
"Captain," Tifa gestures at the still-fighting Ivy. "Will you dispose of this?"
"OF course!" yells the ridiculous-looking guy militarily. He snatches Ivy out of your hands quickly and hops into his vehicle. Tifa enters as well.
"'Til next time, noble warrior!"
And they zoom off.
(A) Go back inside the mansion and see what prank calling will do for you.
(B) Find a hotel to stay the night. For free, of course, since you are, in fact, mother****ing Donkey Kong.
(C) Look for something to eat in town.
(D) Reflect upon Tifa to yourself and... you guessed it, take a nap.
---
You enter the mansion again with a major sense of purpose. The ghost town outside slowly comes to life; the Razor cell phone balances delicately between your sausage fingers.
You hit a swift random combination of keys.
"Hello?" A voice trickles through the speaker in the phone and swirls delicately into your aural canals. "Who is this?" Her silver tongue seems to reach and delve deep into your mouth - er, ear - even though the phone. The sweet juxtaposition of her words caresses even your anaconda-sized tongue to formulate something to say.
"It's the first member of the D. K. Crew!" you say, with great rhythm and rigorous vigor.
You can hear her swoon. Your heart melts. "I'll be right there..."
Click.
Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep... ring, ring, ring
"Yeah?" It is the voice of a sexy woman who has had more than her share of men. You do not respond. "Hello?" There is an expectancy to the voice, an exasperation, a genuine "I'm gonna kick your ass if this is a prank call" quality to it. "Look, I don't know how you got my cell - I don't even know why I have a cell phone, but if you don't tell me who you are -"
"ARGGGGGGH."
"Alright, that's it. No one wakes me at this hour in the morning and gets away with it..."
Click.
Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep... ring, ring, ring
"Princess Daisy!" The soprano's voice is an arrow from the phone, piercing you to your core. Unpleasantly reminded of the brat nemesis who earlier escaped you, you seal your eyes and try to block her out.
"May I ask who is calling?" she squeals. Even holding the phone at arm's distance, you flinch at the abrasive vibrance.
"Helloooooo!" Daisy trills, and finally you give in.
"KONG. KONG. DON. KEY. KONG."
"I'll seeya soon, sweetie!" she giggles.
Click.
Deciding that you have had more than enough fun with your calls now, you carefully replace the cell phone back where it belongs and begin to exit the mansion. You pay no heed as it begins to ring, playing a tune that sounds oddly like that of a TV show.
"Where. In. The World!"
You shut the door behind you.
"You!" It is a tough, angry female voice. You turn around and see... the color purple. The actual tints and shades of the color dance wildly about one another, twisting and turning themselves into a rather feminine figure. You are unable quite to follow the progession of purple scarves, hair, cleavage, especially when they begin to move sporadically.
"What exactly do you want at this hour?" she yells, looking offended, slightly deranged, perhaps even sexy, now that you are beginning to figure out where parts of her anatomy belong in her hideous dress scheme. You do not respond; you remain scratching your head in slight bewilderment, unable to decipher the meaning of this sense of... "fashion."
"Respond!" she yells. No longer is it a command; it is now a declaration of battle as she draws out what appears to be a trading card from her pocket in high style. The deluge of purple twists and turns ridiculously, overwhelming you once again.
"Hold it right there!" The voice cuts across the city streets and slices your chest open. Your hands rise to grip the wound, even as the force of the words knock you sideways. The purple conglomerate turns viciously around to face the criminally cute-looking princess. "Don't you mess around with mother****ing Donkey Kong!" she scolds. Even as you writhe in pain, you cannot help but grunt a little in assent.
Daisy and Sheena begin to have a generic sort of fight. Due to your wound, you are temporarily unable to join in with the fray. Their actions are causing some light in the streets to mingle with that of the rising sun. Most notable, you find, are the sparks that fly from Daisy's frying pan.
"I am here." The spectacular calm of the voice stops the catfighters like a Walther PPK. All motions stop as you gaze upon the angelic form of yet another female. She swirls gracefully between the yellow and purple. "Stop fighting. There are much more important things to do."
Silence. Neither questions her words. Both rather choose to revel in their symphonic beauty. "Come," she says, "I think I may have found Carmen Sandiego."
And with those hypnotic words, all three females drift off vaguely down the city streets. You amble along behind them, slowly recovering from the trauma of Daisy's voice. The white witch continues to lead the paths, twisting and turning down the streets. Normally you would laugh at such adherence to streets; you have no qualms about walking through houses to get to your destination. But aside from unparlleled vocal skill, this woman possesses also a most commanding stride. There is no apparent break in any of her movements, but they are somehow infused with the righteous dignity of a military commander. You cannot help but acknowledge the cliche as it applies to your situation: Time flies.
For it is clearly midday by the time that you arrive at your destination: a runway. One lone airplane resides at one of the edges, perched almost arrogantly, and your party drifts mindlessly toward it. As they are just about to board, the leader stops abruptly.
"Carmen," she barks authoritatively, "You've been discovered! You left a whole trail of boring clues that I don't feel like stating right now, but there's no escape!" Even in her assertion of arrest, she reaches out soothingly with her voice. The hatch opens. "That's right. Don't resist it..."
The three ladies file in as you watch dumbly. You catch a glimpse of something in reddish clothing, but it vanishes quickly along with the rest into the cockpit.
Then you seize your opportunity. You grip the tail of the plane with two hands and, exerting some genuine effort, begin to swing it in circles. Several seconds pass before you manage to overcome the inertia, but you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and there ain't nothing you can't do. Round and round, the plane goes as you spin it... it lifts into the air, an engine revving, but you continue to swing it. Louder and louder, the propellers whirl, but you pay no heed. Pressure builds in your arms, but it feels so damn good... and then you release.
The plane soars upward, spinning, attempting to stay afloat. It quickly exits your range of vision, but you can tell that it will remain out of control. If you stretch your imagination, you can actually envision the plane crashing several hundred yards into the Pacific Ocean, the inevitable explosion, the puffs of white, red, yellow, purple... and four red ribbons, floating to the surface of the wreck.
You're ****ing hungry.
(A) Take a nap. Hunger usually vanishes pretty quickly... right?
(B) Head for the forest. You do not know how to get to the forest, but you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and if you think that you can find mushrooms, then by God, you can find mushrooms.
(C) Look around for those ****ing bananas. You're on a goddamn island; there've got to some somewhere.
(D) Check out the airport and see if they have any food. Airport food pisses anyone off. But you like getting pissed off.
---
You shake your arms a bit, feeling the burn of hurling the aircraft double-handedly. A potent combination of famine broods in your mammalian mind, and before you know it, you have entered the airport. A host of passengers has gathered for the six o' clock flight, and they regard you with some curiosity. Their pitiful crawling humanoid forms have infested the entirety of the airport. You couldn't throw a barrel without crushing one of their heads.
And then you spot a conspicuously empty area. A ring of people seems to have formed around a portion of the floor next to a wall. It catches your attention, and you step on a few passengers to get there. It does occur to you briefly that some of the contestants may be in the crowd, but there is no way in hell that you're going to waste time mingling.
As expected, the "avoid zone" surrounds the airport cafe. You go in and look around. A very shady, tentacled mass is lurking in the shadows of it. A red band adorns on of the quivering tentacles. At the counter is a pale, underweight, lost-looking girl with green hair, sporting a red bow in it. You avoid eye contact with both, feeling their judging eyes upon your flamboyant necktie.
The unholy trio holds its silence for a few seconds before the girl at the counter breaks it. Timidly, she taps a little, clearly trying to get your attention. You continue to stare resolutely at the space between her and the alien in the corner. She lets out a little cough, a cough founded in the most delicate of vocal chords, but you still pay no heed. You are now examining your toes. They are very finely formed, melding quite smoothly into your feet.
"Excuse me?"
Finally, you look up at her without expression, dark eyes boring blankly into her pale ones.
"Would you... like a coffee?" she stammers.
You furrow your eyes just enough to make her swoon and pass out in terror. She falls rather crunchily to the floor behind the counter. You sidle your girth behind it and find, nestled there, a banana milkshake. The girl is beginning to come to beneath you, but no thread of attention can be spared to observe her varying states of consciousness. Reaching under your marsupial folds of skin, you produce a coin and deposit it down her cleavage. She shrieks, but it reflects off of deaf ears. The liquid is already slithering down your throat...
Ping! The glass shatters in your hand. You stick out your tongue, panicked, trying to catch the remains of the shake, but somehow, unrealistic physics propel it all over the floor instead. You look over and see a smirk on the twisted dark face of the girl in the corner. She sends her tentacle things at you, but it is clearly not enough. You feel some sort of psychic power attempting to grab you, but you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and that **** doesn't fly with you.
Finally she begins to use her Psionic storms and sends her little Zerglings at you. You find them a minor inconvenience as you bat them away, slowly reaching the creature. She lashes out with her claw, and you catch it easily, breaking it and gripping her neck in the process. Zergs begin to gather around you, and the alien mutters incoherently through the pressure on her neck. You feel vague scratchings on your skin, certain irritation but of no real consequence... and then heat. Lots of it.
You turn around and see the pale girl, engulfed in white and purple flames. She is shooting random fire spells that cause fascinating dancing patterns. Unparalleled figurative language floods your mind, previously untapped verbiage potential, and loath are you that you do not have a pen or paper at the moment. In any case, the flames incinerate the Zergs quite effortlessly. You feel your rear end beginning to accumulate some burns and quickly exit the airport, still clutching the alien in your hand.
When you get outside, you remember again that there is no plane awaiting you. Somehow, however, the creature has managed to regain her voice and is now forcing it through your grip.
"I will dice you and liquify you until you are nothing more than coconut juice," it hisses.
Without a second thought, you roll her up into a ball, crushing her spine and various appendages, and shove her into your coconut gun. You fire once, and Sarah Kerrigan flies toward the sun.
(A) Go back to the airport. There have got to be challenges there.
(B) Go to the sports stadium and attention whore a bit. As in, get some positive attention.
(C) Find a movie and watch it in a theatre. You've got a sense of culture, right?
(D) Stand around. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and something will happen.
---
Time passes like a rocket. You stand stolid, oozing copious amounts of awesomeness, watching above you as the sun and the moon spin and dance across the sky. Several days pass in the span of a few minutes. People enter and exit the airport in bursts.
Whump. Something in the form of an unsightly pink blob breaks you from your time-speeding reverie. Everything seems to slow down, and you hear a vague whiny sound, playing at around a third of its normal speed. The unsightly pink blob is rubbing its snout in pain; a red bow is in what could possibly considered its hair.
"Whaaaaat waaaaas thaaaaat fooo - heeeeeeey, hoooow aaaare yaaa mooooooviiin' soooo faaaaaaaaast?" she drawls. You proceed to run from the airport, gripping her by the toes and letting her upper body twist and turn below it. "Wheeeeere aaaaaare -"
But you have already reached the edge of the island before her finish. You do not know what ancient magic is empowering you, but it feels pretty damn good. The thing is still complaining. You take a professional shotputter's stance and aim far into oblivion. Or rather, the Pacific Ocean.
For some reason, just as you are about to fire the squealing blob off, you hear a sound, thrice elongated, from behind you. You whip around and find a girl clad in white, wearing one of those damned red ribbons in her hair. She is holding a crossbow, pointed directly at your heart, and before you know it, she has squeezed the trigger.
The projectile moves in distinctive slow motion, and the girl deftly fires another in relatively quick succession. Dropping the pink paperweight in your hands, you toss your upper body and thighs backward, lying flat, and wave your arms unnecessarily. One crossbow bolt passes over your nose, the second just barely through the narrow gap of your right armpit. You twist your had, and a third bolt crosses that area. Several more arrows graze your form, but your ability to bend the rules of physics affords you avoidance of every move.
You straighten up and propel yourself at the girl. Next to you, the pink thing is slithering off. You snatch the crossbow out of the white girl's hands; it takes her around five seconds to change facial expressions, but you do not wait. The crossbow bolt explodes unforgivingly from the weapon and skewers the left foot of the escaping pink creature. A few seconds after the strike, she lets out an unending, estranged cry. You feel something poking you from behind and find the white girl beating at you ineffectually with her hands. For a moment, pity overcomes you. She looks so absolutely helpless and cute, her walnut-sized fists beating upon your boulder behind.
The feeling passes quickly, though. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you do not like people that attempt to cause you harm, pitiful as their efforts may be. You place a calming forefinger on her head and press down gently but powerfully. She sinks around three feet into the soil and waves her hands in protest.
Then you head to the shishkabob rosy rabbit thing. You yank the bolt from the ground and left it into the air, tilting it in different directions and watching the pink creature slide back and forth on it like a keychain as you stroll back to the girl in white. You pinch her ponytail and pluck her petite form out of the ground.
Somehow, inspiration strikes you. Placing the stake and its impalee on the ground for a moment, you delicately undo the ponytail in the girl's hair and fiddle around with it until you manage to knot it around the crossbow bolt as well.
Finally, you pull the projectile from the earth and hurl it like a javelin. The arc it forms is beautiful, and time finally seems to kick into correct gear again as two more competitors leave the Island of Champions.
You gaze for a few minutes into the sunset before hearing a voice behind you.
"That's not very nice, is it?"
(A) Bolt in fear. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, but you have a bad feeling about this one.
(B) Dive into the Pacific Ocean. You're not exactly leaving the island, but you're gonna need a shelter point.
(C) Close your eyes, shut your mental doors, and try to take a nap.
(D) Whip it out.
---
"Well?"
The devil that is fear stalks the corridors of your mind and of your heart. His pointy ears, his hellish laughs, his confident smile send fire into every vessel, every neuron, every muscle. He taunts you, a calming voice of logic that somehow curls your heartstrings. "You cannot defeat her, unless..."
A dramatic pause for effect, dampened only slightly by the fact that you do not speak English.
".. unless," he continues dramatically, "You sell me YOUR SOUL."
You shrug, trying to conceal from the devil your total desperation, but you know the truth of his words.
"Well!?"
You remain quiet, listening to the agitated rise in his voice.
"Damn it!" yells the devil, "I'll help you out just this once, all right!?"
In a hugely unnecessary gesture, you shove your hand upon your rear and withdraw a familiar instrument of destruction - and of music.
"Hello?" calls the little voice behind you, and finally, you turn to meet it. It is a ten-year-old girl dressed in abominable cuteness. She is smiling at you at just the wrong angle. Her eyebrows have that lilting, tilting quality, and in general, she is simply too dangerously adorable. She radiates a sort of venomous huggable feeling about her.
"I'm glad you finally turned around!" she giggles. "I'm Roll!"
It is then, as she flashes that incredibly smile at you, that you thank God for letting the devil steal your soul, for if you have your soul, you will most definitely scoop her up into your arms and cuddle her. With your mind firmly set, you lay hands to bongos.
The din is fantastic. Earth, fire, wind, water, and heart tremble before mother****ing Donkey Kong and the traditional beats that you bust out. You throw your head back to enjoy the music as your hands apply The Awesome (TM) all over your drums. But as you turn back to stare into the face of victory, an icy hand breaks unscathed through the fire of the devil and clutches your heart. The symphonic lacings of your music begin to die down. Roll has not been defeated by your song.
No, she has more than survived the attack... she is swinging her cute little tush back and forth in what is, you realize with growing horror, clearly a dance.
She is enjoying it.
"La la la," she sings, to herself, still dancing, as your music fades away. "Aww, you stopped already? Big bad Donkey Kong doesn't want to play anymore?"
The fire freezes over. The devil lets out a cry of despair, but you shove it to the side. You stretch out the behemoth arms, and Roll runs unabashedly into them. Unadulterated joy is etched across each of the juvenile lines in her eyes. You cannot explain the emotions and sensations within you; you are so unused to this absence of animosity or sexual intent... perhaps it is the same feeling, you muse, as that of a father beholding a daughter, or of a child hugging his dog.
You dance with her, tossing her up in the air, listening to her uplifting cheers as she bounces up and down in your arms. You have a foot race with her when you poke her; you patronize and condescend, allowing her the opportunity to touch you but always shying away at just the last moment. You clear valleys and hills and mountains and lakes in simple love.
When she exhausts herself, you take her meager hand between two of your fingers and begin to walk back toward the beach. The setting sun flies unbroken into your eyes, and the burbling seas shatter its light in thousands of different directions. Gently, with an overwhelmed feeling, you ease Roll's tired form into the tides and allow them to carry her away.
There is a burning sensation in your eyes. You and feel wetness, but you are sure that it is because of the ocean.
Then, from behind you: "Don't move."
(A) Interlock your fingers behind your head. Kneel down. Place your forehead to the ground. And then kick some ass.
(B) Pull out the Coconut Gun that can Fire In Spurts.
(C) Do absolutely nothing. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong. There ain't nothing you can't handle.
(D) Put it in.
---
The metallic click is unmistakable. The tenderness of the moment drifts slowly away, and a bitter numbness slowly spreads over your body. You remain frozen.
"Now turn around and lower your arms, real slow."
Obedience is your first instinct; God knows why, but the slight drawl is surprisingly appealing and bears power. You turn and see her: twelve feet away, just out of immediate strike range, a redheaded, makeup-slathered, tight-shiny-clothed woman. If you saw her on the street, you would probably *****-slap her on general principle. But she happens to be pointing a very business-like gun at you. It is a dominatrix's weapon, stretching from a forced, contrived nozzle back and looping industrially to a precisely formulated grip.
"Lower your arms," she hisses again. Deliberately and contemptuously, you bring your palms to your rear end. "Where I can see them!" she barks.
Fluidly, you bring your left hand before your body, fingers splayed open. Without the smallest deviation in poise, the gunman flicks her eyes for an instant down and relocks them upon yours. "Your other hand?"
Slowly, surely, you pull out the Coconut Gun. As you draw, her eyes lock onto it shamelessly. It takes her several seconds to realize that it is a weapon, and she opens fire with a small cry. But your diversionary tactics have succeeded. Dozens of rounds tear viciously into the impenetrable hard wood of your Coconut Gun in the span of a second. Were you anyone else with any other sort of shield, you may not have survived the attack. But you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and the barrage of bullets barely dents the beautiful outer coating of your preferred weapon.
It takes the broad about a second to reload her gun, which for you is more than enough time. Up snaps your Coconut Gun, and you fire. Miraculously, she actually dodges your first two rounds, resorting to unfair tactics, including ducking and rolling. As you aim for your third shot, she unleashes another spray upon you. You decide not to get hit and, with a delicate combination of dexterity and brute force, twirl your cannon as a staff to deflect her bullets. The rotation frequency soon approaches airline speeds, and your spin begins to generate hurricane-force winds. The air begins to wail, a screeching suicidal symphony of eternal torture. The gusts now turn the bullets back on their own. The blur at your fingertips is no longer visible as a gun, but you can see just high enough through it to witness the deluge of reflected bullets dicing the woman's body to bits.
And then the stream stops at last. Blood leaks from thirty-three bullet wounds and scrapes on body, but your tempest continues. Her broken body falls limp and begins to keel over forward, but you turn you your amplitutde and get seriously hard core with your revolving weapon. A narrow column of wind blasts her into the air and lifts her over your head and into the ocean.
You look back out, stopping the movement. Your vengeful cyclone has caused an unnatural disaster out there. The tranquil, pacific ocean has become an iron-grey raging hellhole. It swallows the gunman's body, and as it does, you realize that the body is not that of a human, but that of a disintegrating hologram... or something. The digitized figure vanishes almost seamlessly as the sea beats itself and collapses upon its insufficency. There is a spark of electricity, and your nemesis is forever forgotten.
Dramatically, you stand facing the sea and lift the Coconut Gun high above your head, a general offering the head of his opponent to a pagan God. Salt water splashes your face, though your gaze seems to stain them a blood red as the droplets fall.
The storm subsides rather rapidly. Offended, you jump and turn fully around in the air. The sun has risen again quite cheerfully to a three o' clock-ish relaxing angle, and a swimsuit-clad woman is there. Her femininity is remarkable, and perhaps on a different day, you would pay more attention to her. But her bikini happens to be red, and she has just interrupted the war dance of mother****ing Donkey Kong, and... well, that just ain't gonna fly.
So you stride up to her, grab her by both of her happy fruits, and pitch her effortlessly into the ocean. She splash she causes is considerably more noticeable than the splash of the girl with the gun, but no angry Poseidon rises to the challenge. You cast your gaze only for a few seconds this time, knowing that any romanticism is inevitably shattered...
... and are proven right. Into your peripheral vision crawls a very average-looking chick with a gun lurking in the shallows. Completely exasperated, you spend no time beating around the baby seal and blow her quite literally out of the water. The first coconut breaks her sniper rifle and crushes her chest; the second most certainly squahses her stomach and shatters the lower portion of her spine. The body flips up into the air and lands back down gracelessly before slowly drifting off to sea.
Exhausted, you begin to trek back to shore, looking for shelter.
(A) Nap right here, right now, on the sand. It's soft and dry. You're big and sexy. Good combination.
(B) Find a tree and sleep in it. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, lord of the jungle. Even if said jungle consists of a palm tree.
(C) Head back to the city and hit up a hotel.
(D) Scan the island for your one true love. For you cannot rest until she is with you. Who is she? You have no idea. But it sounds like a plausible explanation for not going to sleep. Right?
---
For you, "trekking" can consist of dragging your feet through the mud at less than a foot per second. But it can also mean endless boundless speed. The velocity at which you choose to trek lies somewhere between that of a slug and that of light, though the theory of relativity does seem to apply decently enough. Time is slowing all around you.
It therefore seems to take you six hours to get to the city, cause twelve car accidents, and find a hotel, when in fact in real life, it only takes ten minutes.
You lean over the counter at the hotel. It is a modern place with space age white aesthetics everywhere the eyes can roam. Everything is plastic, inorganic, professional, screaming out that it no longer belongs to the nineties. On the other side of the counter, a grizzled cigarette-toting agent lifts an eyebrow to your drooping lids. "You lookin' for a room?"
You nod drowsily, yawning, searching for enlightenment.
"You're gonna need to p -"
Your hand shoots out instinctively and wraps around the guy's neck.
"- please come on in. You're in room 213. Up the stairs."
Offended that anyone should want to force you, mother****ing Donkey Kong, to climb up a set of stairs, you do a somersault in the air, hover momentarily, and drive your rear end with all the forces of gravity and God into the ground. There is rumbling from behind the guy at the counter. A piece of the wall falls down, and you see with satisfaction that the entirety of the first floor has collapsed. The first door reads "210."
Drowsily, you lumber into your room and fall asleep instantly.
A solid fruity voice intervenes.
"Donkey!"
You do not respond. It sounds oddly familiar.
"Donkey!"
The sensation is interesting. You don't perceive the speaker to be a threat, per se... but you have the strange urge to strangle him.
Then you feel the tip of a sword lightly entering your rectum, and you snap awake, howling in anguish. A mosaic of tears shatters your vision, but the ugly color scheme ascertains the identity of your anal prodder.
"Good to have you with us again," says Alucard, as you soak up the tears with the fur on the back of your hand. He has an exceptionally grim expression on his face. You wonder idly if perhaps he has a genetic disorder that allows him to maintain that sexy "who peed on my couch" look all the time.
"I'm afraid there has been a problem. Another vampire is on the island."
Almost instantly, you begin to zone out, but Alucard actually gets to the point immediately, saving you from the pleasure of another long nap. "We're going to have to take out Soma Cruz."
A pause for dramatic effect. You begin to nod off, but a persistent pain in your rear cautions you against sleep.
"Anyway, we're going now. He's in the next room. I'll need your help."
The confusion on your face is ample invitation for Alucard to point, and you take his lead by clearing the wall with your cranium. Plaster and dust rain down upon you, staining your noble fur white and utterly blinding you. You hear the sound of a struggle but pay it no heed. You struggle to rub your eyes clear of the crud but are unsuccessful. Loud bangings, the sounds of swords being drawn, Alucard's voice yelling out fatalities...
Finally you are able to see again, but the fight has ended. Alucard is gasping slightly. A pile of bloody white robes lies at his feet.
"Thank you for your assistance," he says.
(A) Follow Alucard around. He seems to have a Plan.
(B) Go back to sleeping. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you need your beauty rest.
(C) Flap your arms and try to turn into a bat. You never know where this type of awesomeness leads.
(D) Bid Alucard go on your unhappy way. This just... isn't the life for you.
---
The white light surrounds and blinds you, but you fight back, rebel that you are. Ki runs rampant through your mighty arms, and you flap them regally. Light disperses around you like little air molecules. You rise in the sky like a majestic raptor of the skies. Suddenly, as you realize the uselessness of this simile, the light vaporizes once again. Your arms continue to undulate and fight the air.
Bearings flow to your senses. The sky is endless about you, the island a small speck beneath you. A hundred yards above where you hover, limbs beating the air mattresses for support, a GIANT ROBOT is also floating, seemingly without effort. The Earth is blue, but there is no God.
With an air speed of twenty meters per second, she skydives you, a package of mecha, cleavage, and blue hair. Her head smashes into your face in a decisively inorganic crunch, and you howl in pain. Her acceleration combines with that of gravity and pushes down on you, but you beat your limbs ever harder and stay afloat. Her cyborg but life-like eyes bear down upon yours, her nose pressed hard up on yours.
"Succumb, being of flesh," she says, but you only flap harder, now kicking your feet as well. Were you anyone else, you might marvel at the ease with which you rise in the sky with tons of robotic steel pressing on your forehead. There is no legitimate way in which you should be able to withstand the almighty force that is capable of crushing multiple universes. But your cranium holds its own remarkably against the galaxy-crushing power of the KOS-MOS. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and flying with weights on your skull has long been one of your "closet talents," as they say.
Finally, you decided to stop flapping. The drilling pressure above you continues, but you ease your head out of the way and, for all the great justice in the world, do a barrel roll. KOS-MOS crashes straight into the island at a speed much greater than the initial velocity of twenty meters per second and makes a mile-wide crater. The good earth promptly swallows her up, and you gravitate mildly toward the center of the pit, your arms now forming a makeshift parachute.
At the heart of the wreckage, there is a narrow and bottomless well that you are absolutely sure leads to the planet's core. You do not know why you hold this belief with such strong conviction, but you are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and the last time you were wrong was in the Nixon administration, and even that was only a "further" and "farther" error.
Landing is a pleasant sensation. Your upward acceleration has resulted in a very feasible final velocity, and your feet contact the earth rhythmically. You tap dance a little to steady yourself, slightly drunk with high altitude air, and staggeringly scale the walls of the crater. But just as you pull yourself over the edge, you hear the familiar voice.
"Hold it right there!"
You freeze, knowing somehow exactly what lines follow.
"Now turn around and lower your arms, real slow."
And as you turn around, you look down into the pit and see a redhead, blue and shiny like a NASCAR racer. Both of her hands are wrapped tightly around an American goverment-issued handgun. Her stance is absolutely flawless and professional. "Where I can see them!"
Just as your fingers wrap tightly around your weapon, the woman speaks again. "And if you bust out that Coconut Gun, I promise you that you will not live this day d -"
Her words bore you quickly, and her accurate guess of your course of action is rather insulting, you find, so you kick her gently in the face. Her gun goes off, but her aim is totally lost, and you casually disarm her and drop her down the narrow hole through which KOS-MOS met her fate. You tire quickly of deja vu experiences.
This in mind, you also pay no heed to the next slut with guns attempts to bullet-rape you from behind. Attached to a blockily protuding chest and hardly clothed body is an androgynous, repulsive face that appears to have been hit by a train. You decide to give it an equivalent treatment and thrust your fist in it. The twin guns drop unhurriedly to the ground, and the owner of the guns flies up and out of the pit, far from the island. Its flapping skirt affords you a glance between its legs, and you queasily ascertain that it is a male with breast implants.
But this "development" is totally inconsequential. You drop it from mind and allow the familiar white light to cascade upon you.
(A) Swim through it, because you can.
(B) Take a nap. You are getting damn tired.
(C) Mold the light into a banana and eat it.
(D) Yell really loudly. Pointless? Yes. Totally mother****ing Donkey Kong? Hell yes.
---
You are unable to see, but blindness of no consequence. The third time is the charm, especially if you happen to be mother****ing Donkey Kong. Which you are.
And thus, you stretch your arms in a gorilla-hug and curl your fingers. Unquantifiably, your grip enshrouds a solid piece of the light. Eyelids firmly locked shut, you pull, hard. Showers of light rush by your face and your ears. The floaty energy offers no resistance to your tugs and pounds. Light's fabric bends and shrinks and curls up into a small, manageable form.
When you open your eyes, you are unable to look directly at the figure in your hands, but its shape upon your digits is absolutely telling. Banana.
Squinting and averting your gaze from the light-imbued fruit before you, you deskin it righteously and methodically and place it slowly into your mouth. Your throat engorges its pulsating length and even the flaps of peel around it. There is no physical sensation upon the insides of your mouth, only the elusive pleasure that you get when you beat Minesweeper - a feat that you have only accomplished once. Nonetheless, you caress the flavor of victory with your tongue, and it does indeed taste like a banana, only more philosophically and symbolically enlightening.
The entire length of the nutritious package slips down your esophagus, unchewed but coated generously with saliva. And as the light fills your stomach and your metaphorical heart, your eyes snap open.
It is a dingy town with no livelihood. Though organic beings appear to drift in and out of mud huts, their souls are as soiled as the real estate which houses them.
But you are oblivious to the poverty that surrounds you. Instead, you take a genuine, sincere interest in a hygienic-looking, lavishly dressed, incredibly sexy young white male, holding a bladed contraption. He sports a red armband.
He mutters something incoherent and badass and immediately casts some sort of voodoo magic on you. Flames dance along your fur for no discernible reason, igniting your skin from six layers within and giving you a few sixth-degree burns - not that they affect you. You retain control of your combusting Balrog of a body and catch the fascinating weapon as the man swings it. Your smoldering eyes bear into his emo ones for a split second before the sword explodes out of your grip, and he escapes unharmed.
All around you, you hear natives oohing and aahing. You are unsure exactly what has transpired to screw you over so royally. With the fury of the Enlightened Banana, you spontaneously explode, making the flames even bigger and your aura even more badass, if indeed that is possible. You lunge and thrust your Fist of Fire at him. The gunblade meets your fist halfway between the second and third fingers, but even as it explodes to deter one punch, your other transfers several trillion newtons into his body. The heat and force tear a gaping mouth in the air of the village, and its vortex sucking powers accept your victim wordlessly.
"You look demonic enough, Balrog!" yells a voice behind you.
Two bullets pelt the back of your head and ricochet off. You spin around and see a white-haired man brandishing a black gun and a white gun. He leaps instinctively and fires two more rounds. Unsure of his intent, you swat the bullets with the back of your blazing hand. They slam into the chest of their originator and kill him instantly. The portal caused by your previous incident opens wide and accepts the white-haired gunman as a second offering.
You stand, a pillar of flame, before the leering mouth of another dimension, daring any to attack you. The villagers cower before you and make offerings that you promptly toss away, including sheep, cows, and a certain orange-clothed man in a jumpsuit.
"Halt!"
The villagers desist in their Devil-worshipping ways instantly and flock to an Asian man in shotokan karate gi. "Ryu, save us!" one of them cries out.
A little miffed that your cult has abandoned you so quickly for such a pitiful savior, you grab them all and shove them all into the portal. The effort involved is akin to that of beating Solitaire, so you're doing all right. The martial artist merely looks on impassively at your gluttonous waste of lives until you finish taking out the population of the village.
"Now we will fight," says Ryu, and he sets upon you with all the righteous anger of a stereotypical Japanese samurai. Fist and foot fly to you, guided by decades of dedication and unforgiving sparring.
He misses entirely; you sidestep him, and he falls into the portal along with all of the others. Generic badass with guns #3 shows up, but you toss him out, as well.
No more challengers await. You toss your head back and laugh, the spitting image of Satan...
Until you yourself are sucked into the portal. Utter blackness surrounds you. Your fiery complexion is smothered on the interior of this creature, and all the thrashing in the world cannot save you from a very undignified excretion.
Before you stands a pink ball of fluff with a devilish fire surrounding him - a mockery of yourself. You advance and prepare to demolish it, but it begins to talk, and in spite of yourself, you stop.
"Stop! Look at me."
You examine it and recommence your assault, but again it interrupts.
"I am you! I am your shadow! I am the devil!"
So what?
"Is this what you want to look like?"
You examine it very thoroughly. It looks a lot like you, except that instead of having an ape's body, it has a pink puffball.
"You look like the devil, just as I do! And guess what?"
The epiphany hits you like a bad simile, swallowing your mind and bending it to the point where it wants to commit suicide.
"You are not the Devil! Defeat the inner darkness! You filled your soul with light but is that what you want to be?"
You know the answer, but even as you regurgitate the light and send the fiery ball flying to Kingdom Come, its voice speaks the truth that you again embrace.
"This is not you! You are mother****ing Donkey Kooooong!"
And the light from your mouth swallows you up again.
(A) Curl up fetally and wonder how you could have been so stupid as to eat the light. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you feel sick.
(B) Try to go on another power trip, this time by folding the light up into a cape and flying around like Superman.
(C) Look deep within yourself and try to find the answers to Life, the Universe, and the Kiddies Waking Up In The Morning.
(D) Take a nap.
---
The ensnaring light bathes your body, and your eyes close calmly, assured of the comfort that white silence brings. Sin seeps out of your skin and diffuses into the light. Fatigue oozes from your nostrils and mixes with the lather.
"Ho ho ho!" A raucous cackle pops the bubble of unconsciousness. "What have we here?"
Your body, you find, is hunched, your arms wrapped lovingly and protectively around your knees, tucked into your chest. And your vision is dark. The white light is gone, but even so, this is darker than the usual fare. You look up gradually and discover a large shadow in which you are currently curled up.
Inexorably, your gaze meets that of someone larger than you. It is a reptilian creature with fiery eyes and childish complexion. Heavy, yellow, kerotin armor plates its frontside all the way up to the underside of its face. "Don't you look like quite the delicious morsel! Wonder what Peach will say once King Bowser bring her her new pet monkey! Gwa ha ha!"
Disbelieving of the creature's abrasive voice you unroll your body and rise to your feet. Subconsciously, the reptile's height jars you. You now see directly eye to eye with it. But its expression has changed from the most condescending confidence to an awed arrogance.
"Oh..." Its voice falters a little as it surveys your serious business facial expression. "It looks like I misjudged you. You're not a pet monkey."
Damn straight you're not.
"You're mother****ing Donkey Kong... Well, this changes things!"
The accursed beast strikes before you are ready. Its clawed punch is slow enough for you to block, but the absolute force of it knocks you back nonetheless, into the dirt behind you. Absolute dirt and wasteland stretch around you, expanding to the horizons of your vision. You land firmly on your caboose and grimace a little.
"Aw, did that hurt?" Bowser waddles over to you as you rub your ass. "Not used to feelin' pain? Well, guess what? Me neither!!" He bellyflops onto your gut, and you yelp as your lungs ejaculate the air. You swing arm and leg to get him off, but he merely shifts his weight so that his spiked ass resides on your naked navel. Your punches, so apt to bleed blades and shatter shields, bounce easily off of Bowser's protective armor coating. Stretching his limited arms, he places his paws grimly on your biceps, pinning them to the ground. You howl and give pelvic thrusts but cannot dislodge the Koopa.
"Oh, man, this is epic!" he chortles, tossing his head backward. "King beats Kong! Mushroom Kingdom's Stud beats down the world known Mother****er! Talk about rich!"
And he leans forward, baring pearly teeth. "Know why these are so clean, Donkey?" he asks in such a thoughful tone that for a moment you stop resisting.
Then his mouth opens, and the stench and inferno of hell explode at you. Fire surrounds your eyes, ears, and nostrils for five excruciating seconds, a heat that chars you, jolts all of your limbs back to their full angsty strength.
He continues to smirk when you manage to detach your eyelids. "Well, it's not because of my impeccable hygiene! HAW HAW HAW!"
Finally, you summon the power. You lash your body like a whip and buck Bowser off of you. He does not soar in the air but rather skids off of your searing face, chuckling a little. You swing your arm as Bowser turns 'round. "Don't mess with the King!" he says, as if incapable of producing any dialogue beyond a quotable one-liner.
You unload an uppercut on Bowser's jaw. It is a power that might decapitate a normal opponent or at the very least make him an illegal immigrant to the moon, but Bowser merely flips over onto his front, eating dirt.
A scuffling sound distracts you. You turn around and see Alucard, sword drawn, clashing with a... is that a blue ninja?
Sproing! Bowser's rear end crashes down on your cranium. You do not consider how he has managed to get that repugnant ass of his that far up in the air, partially due to the Milky Way that you see before your eyes, mingling with the sight of Alucard encased in utter ice. Your vision fades, and you stick out your hands uselessly, feeling around, watching as the self-assured ninja walks forth and grips Alucard's head.
There it is. Your fingers close around something spiky and fat, and instinctively, both hands clench it. "Yo!" yells Bowser, "Hands off the merchandise! NO ONE touches the tail!"
But are not any "one" or indeed anyone categorizable by "no one." You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you swing Bowser down hard. A pit forms in the shape of his heavily spiked back. With colossal tug, you maneuver a fulcrum to smash Bowser into the blue ninja. Your club's landing on the ninja's head knocks the ninja five feet into the ground, so that he is but an unconscious head. The force sends tremors through the ground, shattering the ice that imprisons Alucard. He shivers a little.
"I'll take it from here," he says, instantly as authoritative and professional as he has always been. With a whirl of the cape, he vanishes ninja and koopa from sight and from mind.
"Ignore the fact that that ability has never appeared in any of my games," he instructs you suavely, "It's all a part of the Plan."
(A) Wait around expectantly for the white light to show up again. You're mother****ing Donkey Kong, but even you can recognize a blatant pattern.
(B) Make yourself a sammich. The Plan makes you hungry.
(C) Take a nap. You're tough.
(D) Stay awake. Taking naps seems to be a good way to get your ass kicked by large reptilian creatures.
---
You cringe a little under Alucard's critical glare, the almighty power of the Plan oppressing you. You stand, hands folded behind your back, at military-like attention. His eyes sparkle in the sunlight like aluminum foil.
"I'm hungry," Alucard decides. "I'm going to dine."
The idea sounds brilliant to you.
"Time for some blood."
Your appetite changes. Uneasily, you give Alucard a little salute. The corners of his mouth twitch a little, hinting at a smile, or perhaps at disgust. "Care to join me?"
You back away, squirming at the reddish tinge in his eye.
"Your loss," he says, and turns into a giant bat.
Where do you begin? It feels like it's been weeks since you last ate. No one seems to ****in' acknowledge how much pain your stomach has been suffering over the last God-knows-how many days. But now... now, you aim to rectify those accursed, damned mistakes.
So you decide to make yourself a sammich.
The quest should not take you too long. Using superior knowledge of cardinal directions, you thrust out one arm and spin, accelerating until you can no longer distinguish the scenery rotating before your eyes. When you stop, the moons of Saturn are pressing hard against your dazed mind, but you shrug them off and head directly forward.
Mother****ing Donkey Kong's instincts are never wrong. In under a minute, a city appears upon the horizon, illuminated from the west by the setting sun. Caught up in the poetry of the moment, you do not consciously notice when you trample something scrawny and unattractive on your path. Indeed, normally, you wouldn't even notice her even after you ran her over, but today is somehow different.
"EEEEEK!"
The screeching Hertz knock you flat on your face. The electric jolt of pain on your nose sends a spasm through your body, flipping you onto your back. Your jaw drops open; you lie incapacitated slightly, twitching, panting. Your eyeballs, along with the rest of your muscles, flicker out of your control. From your broken vision, you see a very familiar creature rising from whence you trampled it.
Her hair color is that indescribable shade between yellow and brown, styled just how you least like it. The bare minimum of clothing encases a pale, melonin-deprived body. The general figure of it is rigid as a board and flat as your Samsung LCD monitor. And it is beginning to whine again.
"Aaaai remember yoooou!" it calls. You convulse, arms tightly clenched to your person. "You're that mean moooonkey!"
She towers over you, a blank, unreadable smile twisting her facial features. Your vision, impaired by the torture that your ears are suffering, cannot distinguish whether the expression is malicious or merely stupid.
"Are you okay?" she enunciates. The power of the voice stimulates you once again, but as fortune would have it, this time, your limbs twitch in such a way that your fist shoots out and crushes her vocal chords.
Instantly, the paralysis becomes mobility. You regain full control of your body. Every ligament aches, but you pay no heed to the comparatively minor disturbances and lactic acid buildup, as you bore into the throat-clutching slut before you.
Inexplicable pleasure courses through you; the realization that you are no longer vulnerable intoxicates you and grants you a temporary streak of unlimited sadism. Lovingly, you smash her face, breaking her jaw and ensuring that her voice will absolutely speak no more. Her panicked eyes look out at you, exuding relished fear.
Payback. You slam your fist into the upper echelon of her head, softly enough not to shatter her skull but hard enough to swell her eyes shut. Blood pours down the front of her face. You allow it to decorate your fist. Next come her wrists. You encircle them in your grip and grind them easily to dust. Ignoring the writhing, you grip her behind her neck and under her buttocks and compress her spine to forty percent of its original length. The popping sounds have a musical quality to them. Fueled by the rhythm of the demolition, you crumple her up into a manageable ball and roll her, bowling ball-like, off the edge of the planet.
"Oh dear," says a voice behind you. Its frequency is irritating, but far more tolerable and survivable than that of the beast that you have just slain. "Whose castle is getting me now?"
You lift your gaze back toward the city. Two pink-clad princesses are examining you with fascination. You can hardly blame them for staring. You are, after all, mother****ing Donkey Kong. Why shouldn't women be fascinated with you?
But these females seem hostile. The speaker yanks a projectile out of the ground and hurls it at you. Enraged, you bat it backward, tripling its velocity, giving it enough force to carry the speaker off of the island, lacy pink ass first.
The second girl regards you sagely, without passing judgment. She has no pressing personality, only a genuine likeability. But she does not speak, only sucks you in with her infusedly blue eyes.
Seven feet of blade enter and exit her body, forming a curious orifice in her chest. No blood spurts out, but she arches her back in instant death. A tall, silver-haired swordsman stands behind her. He seems built in the form of Alucard, but as a legitimately heterosexual male, you can say that he is far less physically attractive.
And thus, he is useless to you. You snap your fingers, and a green teletubbie-style dinosaur saunters out of the sunset and to your feet. On its way, it tramples an Asian girl that was foolishly trying to camouflage herself in blue. You mount the lizard and charge the silver-haired man, but he merely impales the rubbery steed as he did the flower girl. You slide down his blade, still sitting on the shishkabob dino.
Frantically, you dodge the next ensuing thrust of the swordsman and take off. He gives chase on foot, waving his sword, host of two dead bodies. You burst into the city streets like Paul Revere and begin yelling, "The British are coming!" in your rap voice.
To your utter surprise, the first door that you pass opens in your path. You run right through it, removing it from its hinges, and stumble to the city's ground. The door's opener, a spiky-haired kid with a key, walks out and places his hands on his hips. His gigantic shoes occupy a large portion of your vision, but your eyes lock onto the silver-haired menace behind them.
"Now just what do you think you're do-"
The third victim of the Deus Ex Machina joins his two predecessors on the Masamune blade. You scramble to your feet, and the swordsman continues to give chase through the city streets. To his collection he adds a green-clad plumber.
Zap!
Just as the silver dude is about to overtake you, a bolt of lightning saves your ass. A redheaded swordsman has finally taken up the challenge against the silver-hair - and in high style. The two engage in a fight of epic skill and proportion involving many derogatory words on the part of the hunter - "Infidel! Do you know comprehend the power of Jenova!?" - and much silence on the part of the redhead, whose eloquence cannot be summarized with sordid ellipses.
The duo expend ki with a deathly finality. The loser will clearly never again see the light of day. Hours pass; it is well into the midnight hours before the fighting slows to the point where you can actually see what is going on.
"Halt, noble Crono!" The redhead freezes.
Alucard has again materialized out of nowhere. "I will be your second!" he calls out chivalrously. Crono looks relieved, and then the blade passes through his chest and flings him up as the next victim.
"Sephiroth!" yells Alucard, drawing his blade.
"Good evening," says Sephiroth, vanishing from sight.
There is a long silence. Alucard stares into the deserted city street, pondering the loss of a great ally.
And then a moment of consideration.
(A) Have Alucard make you a sammich. The fight was just getting intense.
(B) Go to the nearest deli and make yourself a sammich. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and you are gonna do what you've gotta do.
(C) Find a nice cafe and get a hot waitress to make you a sammich. Then chill out and have an intellectually stimulating conversation with Alucard as you eat.
(D) Get ye gun at the most expensive bar and get drunk off your ass.
---
Appetite yet uncut, you clap Alucard heartily on the back.
"Arugah," you say, and pull him sportingly but forcefully with you down the streets of the city.
"Look, Donkey." He resists a little, leaning backward against your arm - as if that's going to do anything. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong. His weight counteracts the inertia of your body as a marshmallow counteracts the motion of a truck. "Where exactly do you think you're taking me?"
Never much one for words, you steer Alucard easily into the local Starbucks and seat him across the table from you. "You know I don't drink coffee, hell anything but blood," he says rather exasperatedly, "Hell, I don't even like people."
You smirk, lifting your hand a little. For once in this crazy island experience, you know exactly what's going down. "What exactly do you think I'm going to order?" Alucard buries his face in the menu, flipping through the menu. He remains enshrouded in it for a few minutes without response. Then he begins to lower it again.
"As I expected, nothing that I --"
He stops, eyes wide open, unsure whether or not they can see anything. White fabric, stretched tightly beyond all imitation of decency, lingers under his nose. Slowly, determinedly, he raises his gaze to meet soulful, dark, feminine eyes. There is a moment's silence, to though Alucard, it no doubt seems to last a lifetime. "HelloooOOOOoo Nurse!" he resonates.
"Hey there, hot stuff," says Tifa, reaching down Alucard's shirt and stroking his chest.
"Actually," Alucard responds, all suaveness and cool, "I'm Undead, so you'd be calling me "cold stuff" if you really knew me."
"That's what I meant." Tifa winks widely. "Anything I can get you boys?"
"Didn't know you were so slutty," Alucard tells her breasts.
"Only for you, sweetie." She kisses Alucard on the cheek and backs off. "I'll make Donkey here a sandwich," she purrs.
"You do that." Alucard turns back to you as Tifa leaves the table. You and he exchange manly, knowing smirks. "You know, I don't need to get laid this badly."
But you only continue to smirk at him.
"Yeah," he concedes, "It is part of the Plan."
Tifa returns, arms overflowing and back curving with your sandwich. It is a beast of a submarine, nearly matching Tifa's chest in girth and spanning two meters in length. She staggers before handing one end to you and collapsing over her end. You effortlessly relieve her of the burden and, widening your esophagus, cram the entire length of sandwich down your throat. Its length expands and protrudes against the lining of your stomach, but you only press harder, until your fist is six inches down your esophagus. The emptiness of the last few weeks vanishes utterly, becoming memories that you will never again know.
Tears flow from your eyes. Satisfied, you wipe away the tears and resign yourself to watching Tifa's groping Alucard. This activity would keep your content stomach entertained for the next two hours if not for a sudden infernal noise and the tearing down of the cafe. A pedo-bait girl in a thugged out dress is twirling a little staff at you while a giant horned firegoat thing is ripping apart the city. Alucard jumps out of his seat at the table, but Tifa only presses down harder.
So the burden lies with you. The fire-breathing monster attacks you, and you duck for cover. Its fireball misses spectacularly and incinerates the rest of the cafe. With the spirit of Daniel Boone, you leap to the top of the goat-like horns and bring the devil down to earth. When its face smashes into the ground, it jerks violently and dissipates into white light. Fortunately, this white light is not enough to swallow you up.
The girl, looking terrified, twirls the staff and does some weirdo dance steps. As the skies darken and the Earth trembles, you strike a badass pose. The girl summons Shiva, God of Ice; you summon Mega Man and Sonic the Hedgehog, who are actually utterly useless. They leap at the Aeon and are quickly encased in the densest and most deuterium-filled of ice. A high-pitched whistling sound assaults your ears; their impact causes them to shatter into a hundred thousand bite-sized pieces. You shoot a glance at Alucard. He is waving his sword. "Stand strong, Donkey!" he yells, a task made difficult indeed by the fact that his tongue is in Tifa's throat.
You do the most sensible thing: Run. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, but you are not stupid, and you do not intend to get your ass frozen. It is a most unpleasant sensation; the last time you had ice cream, it took several days for the brain freeze to wear off.
Your excape is short-lived. As you pick up the entangled bodies of Alucard and Tifa, you hear a metallic sound of a sword being drawn, followed by a sound of steel skewering flesh. You turn your gaze down and actually stop running. Perhaps the tenth pink-clad princess you've seen is holding a regal sword becoming of her stature, stained with blood. Alucard leaps out of your arms, somehow disentangled from Tifa. You drop your eyes to the woman in your arms. Her top is burst; her magnificent chest pierced and destroyed. Fresh blood pumps out of the wound.
Alucard takes a second and a half to draw his sword, assume battle stance, and strike the guilty weapon from her hands. She raises her hands to cast a spell, but Alucard cuts her dress at just the right angle, spinning her to face the back. She releases the uncontrolled blast straight at the summoned Aeon. Shiva howls and vanishes. The summoner girl begins to twirl her staff yet again, but you are far faster. You bound over to her and graciously snatch the summoning device from her hands. She looks up at you, pleading; you snap her staff and her neck.
Meanwhile, Alucard duels the princess. His sword lashes out at her, leaving her essentially incapable of attacking at all with all of her defense. The very image of aristocratic dueling, you think. Who the hell would use a sword when he could use a bullet?
Pew! A muffled spurting sound cuts through the clash of metal and hits the princess through the heart. Slowly, you look into the single uncovered eye of a white-haired old man in really, really hot spandex.
"Looked like you boys had a bit of trouble," he says, unnecessarily blowing the tip of a state-of-the-art American SOCOM pistol with silencer.
"Who the hell are you?" Alucard de-materializes and re-materializes in less time than it takes to say "Solid Snake."
"Solid Snake," says Solid Snake.
"Well, Solid Snake," says Alucard, sword to Solid Snake's throat, "I-"
Alucard stops talking abruptly as Solid Snake's head flies off of its shoulders. In the devasted city grounds, there stands Sephiroth, shimmering, God-like, flamboyant, overcompensating, hyphenated.
"Sorry about the Deus Ex Machina," he drawls. The voice slithers and slathers around your ear canals and won't get to the ****ing point. It is a voice that you would like very much to destroy.
"We have some unfinished business."
You tense up, raising your gargantuan fists. Alucard moves toward you, backing you up.
"Wait!" Sephiroth laughs. "Two on one? that hardly seems fair. I have some friends."
From the sky cascade the most fascinating group of individuals. To the left is a redcoated Communist with a South-European mustache and ridiculous accent. To the right, a yellow-haired woman with striking eyes and a sword that matches the size of the sandwich oozing through your intestines. And right behind Sephiroth, there is an elvish man in green clothes and tights, aiming a very serious-looking bow.
"Ready for some fun?"
(A) Take on Sephiroth first. He has messed with you for ****ing long enough.
(B) Take on the plumber fellow. You can't tell why, but you have this intrinsic desire to kick his ass. **** Sephiroth. Your instincts take priority.
(C) Put it in that blond woman. And by "put it in," you mean your foot into its throat.
(D) Sit back, take a nap, and let Alucard handle the situation. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong. He has a Plan. That's the way things work.
---
Now he's done it. This has gone on for far too long. You scrunch your forehead, squeeze your fists, pump your forearms, and unleash an unstoppable holler. KONG. KONG. DON-KEY KONG.
"Now you've done it," Alucard informs Sephiroth, who appears merely amused by your display of ferocity. "This has gone on for far too long."
"Hmm." Sephiroth merely smiles at you, illogically not attacking you while you are powering up.
"You know," says Alucard conversationally, "If you want to stand a chance against him, you'd better whip out the Masamune against him."
Sephiroth laughs, pointing his sword at you. "I've killed tens of thousands. He hasn't even killed nine thousand."
The other three look on like little serfs under Sephiroth's almighty aura. "I think I finally understand this 'Island of Champions' idea."
"You do?" Sephiroth raises an eyebrow. "That's good! I was beginning to be afraid that you didn't realize that the entire point of bringing all of you here was so that I could be the lord, extending my domain of evil unto the greatest defenders of justice - and to bring them crashing to their knees amongst themselves! World domination is only a step away - if it weren't for that idiot ape, I would have killed you and destroyed humanity by --!!"
"Actually," Alucard interrupts, "It was all a part of the Plan."
The point of his Sephiroth's blade looks and leaps to Alucard's head, but the vampire dissipates into mist, backing off a yard or two out of Sephiroth's range. With the greatest contempt and a fruitless effort to appear disdainful, Sephiroth again speaks. "Well them, you chumps, go get him!"
The redcoat, the woman, and the tights-wearing elf sprint from their positions, heeding their God. Alucard goes under in a tangle of fireballs, Buster Swords, and Light Arrows. Sephiroth, meanwhile, turns back to you. You have finished shouting.
"Time to get epic!" yells Sephiroth, stabbing forward. You sidestep it and move in, punching Sephiroth in the jaw. In a normal fight, that would be a knockout, clean and simple. But it is not a normal fight. You are mother****ing Donkey Kong, and this is Sephiroth. As a result, your punch does not send Sephiroth backwards, but rather makes his entire body rigid. You feel an exquisite resistance; visible energy ascends and explodes from the location of impact. The sky darkens, a thunder clap slices the atmosphere, and melodramatic, theatrical rain starts pouring down for no apparent reason.
Tensed up with the force of the punch, you are too stiff to counter when Sephiroth retracts his first thrust and cuts to your flank. Manly blood spurts from your side and stains Sephiroth's cascading robes. He flings you hard to dislodge you from the unparalleled length of the sword's jaws. You smash into the mud and sink in a foot and a half.
"Nice coup de poing," chuckles Sephiroth. "Let me show you mine."
His sword ravages you, seeks you mercilessly in the most curious combination of slicing and poking. Breaking free of the mud with difficulty, you are nearly powerless beneath its persecuting point. All of your attention shoots to the diversion of it - a duck, a shove, a roll...
BANG! A bullet whizzes from behind Sephiroth. It stirs the warrior's supremely feminine hair. The firer is and sees the headless body of Solid Snake, still poised to fight. The simplistic side diversion works; Sephiroth becomes angry and attacks the body. The body, in turn, runs as fast as it can. Sephiroth follows, a fallen angel slaying a headless snake.
(A) Whip out the Coconut Gun and own yourself some Sephiroth ass. No one escapes mother****ing Donkey Kong.
(B) Take a look at what's going on with Alucard. That Italian looks huge from here.
(C) Take a nap. It's never hurt before; why should it hurt now?
(D) Bust out the bongos and start playing One Winged Angel. Complete with remastered lyrics.
---
One Winged Angel it is. You produce the long-hidden bongos and solemnly begin to tap out the eerie bassline to the tune. Full orchestration accompanies your playing, and a chorus begins to chant in the background. The swirling music draws Sephiroth, cloaked in flames, inexorably back at you.
"You called?"
A minor explosion launches the blond chick with the Buster Blade at you. You grip the sword in your hands. The girl grunts and whines a little, trying to push you back. His force is actually considerable, and it is almost enough to keep him from being crushed, bug-like. But you are mother****ing Donkey Kong. Waxing disdain, you bend the blade, starting from the tip, all the way to the handle. With your release, the girl falls flat on her face. The weapon in her hands is now, for all intents and purposes, a Mobius Strip: a scientific curiosity but of no practical application.
"Nice work, Donkey!" Alucard yells, from his precarious position. You direct your eyes over. The Elf, of unnatural height, now wears the painted face and silver hair of a God. The Italian. of ten times his normal mass, pounds the ground with his considerable rump. Alucard counters the drastic sweeps of the Elf's sword, impaired by the quakes that arise from the Italians buttstomps.
You return to your music. Sephiroth burns furiously in front of you. His bright eyes radiate the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. You, in turn, strike out One Winged Angel as a furious sort of justice. The flames surrounding grow in intensity, following the rising lead of your song. The chorus rejoins, but no longer is it in the familiar language of Latin.
Donkey Kong
Get yo gun
Someone gonna die
Someone gonna die
Everyone else too
The connection between these English lyrics and the plight of you and Alucard is not readily apparent, but it's not like you need everything as explicit as the Bible to give it a serious interpretation.
Swords sparkle and blood flows like whiskey. Alucard's silence indicates success. Time slows down dramatically for you. Alucard raises both hands in triumph before two slain enemies, a process that takes hours. Sephiroth swings his sword, but in the ten seconds that his blade takes to reach you, you draw your Coconut Gun and fire it into Sephiroth mouth. The first round break his face. Flawless, feminine facial features contort and rip apart. The second shell hits the first, transferring to it all of its energy. Sephiroth's skull expands, but it is not enough. The head implods from its front. Blood explodes from the impact and rains down upon you. Sephiroth's entire body twitches; his long arms launch the sexual curve of the Masamune in a parabola, impaling the girl with the folded blade.
Sephiroth emits no final plea of despair, no drama. The remains of his skull hang limply from a broken neck. The lifeless body collapses, and the mess of red-stained silver hair flops apart. Brains leak out, the brains of a demi-God. Even in their deceased oozing, they remain more vital than the typical American high school student. The sight is gruesome. An unbelievable volume of blood pours from the gaping head wounds and spreads across the ground, flooding it. You glance casually at Alucard.
"No problems here," he asserts, wading through what is becoming a rising pool of blood. You follow him through Sephiroth's filling. It is now at waist-level and has evidently flooded the ocean, as well. Even your feet now barely touch the ground.
Within a few minutes, you are swimming aimlessly. Sephiroth's corpse has pumped enough blood to the multitudinous seas incarnadine, turning the green one red. The blood submerges the entirety of the island, and you swim through it, unsure of your goal.
Alucard is yet in human form, swimming awkwardly through the red wash that you believe is the Pacific Ocean. A poor swimmer, some of Sephiroth's blood gets in your eyes, and you are unable to see clearly. "Over there!" Alucard tells you, gesturing. You can only squint. Reddish tint covers you. Your only indication of response is general waving of your arms.
Desperate hope for contact... alleviation. Your fingers close around something thin, wooden, rod-shaped. With your left hand, you hoist Alucard up by the scruff of the neck and extend your grip: You ensnare another wooden rod, horizontal, parallel to the first. They are undoubtedly the rungs of a later.
Dripping, coughing, excreting blood from every imaginable bodily cavity, you deposit Alucard on a ship. You flop a little to drain your drenched fur of the liquid, though nothing ensures total cleanliness.
"I am quite tired."
Alucard, somehow perfectly clean, strolls over to a black coffin and climbs inside. "It was good working with you, Donkey. You were an integral part of The Plan."
And he shuts the lid. Powerful longing and nostalgia overwhelm you. Alas, poor Alucard. You knew him...
There is a coffin next to Alucard's, considerably larger and surprisingly comfortable-looking. Compelled by the forces of evolution, tiredness, and the pursuit of Christian imagery and metaphors, you move toward it, slowly lift the lid, and lower your body into the bed of humus. It's time for a long, long nap. Slowly, powerfully, your eyes close.
You're mother****ing Donkey Kong. You deserve it.
Fin
---
And there you have it: My Magnum Opus. I hope you enjoyed it.
SD
Nov. 22, '06
Home.