ENCOUNTER SEVENTEEN: SEAN KEANEN, CHERYL JONES, JENNIFER GORMAN, AND BETH SHRAKE VERSUS CHRISTIE

ENCOUNTER SEVENTEEN: SEAN KEANEN, CHERYL JONES, JENNIFER GORMAN, AND BETH SHRAKE VERSUS CHRISTIE

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, COLBY'S MOVIELAND,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 10:20AM

Despite all of his religious rhetoric and other fanatical falderal, Sean Keanen was, deep down, (or in all honesty just beneath the surface), just like any other red-white-and-blue-blooded American heterosexual male. He wasn't really after salvation.

What he wanted was power.

What he wanted was glory.

But what he wanted more than any of that crap was…

…the ideal woman.

"And so that's all you've got to defend yourself?" asked Beth to Jennifer, a few feet away in that same theater, Number Four, occupied by all of the presently competing survivors. The older, almost ancient woman motioned towards the small, saturated package in the younger woman's hands.

"Yeah, well, if Keanen's plan works right," said Jennifer Gorman, holding up her little bag of baking ingredients, "this should be all I need. He's supposedly got my back on this."

"Well, I just hope he doesn't end up stabbing us there," Cheryl chimed in as she approached the other two girls. "And I hope he keeps his word about the Mega Buster Pegging."

In the near two-thirds of a century that he had been on some god's earth, Sean had

begged an authority on high to bestow upon him his proper helpmeet; the one to complement him, one who would follow him but also one whom he would worship in turn. The Adam to his Eve. (No, not that Adam.)

All those years, Sean had prayed…supplicated…

…beseeched.

But nothing, or no one, had ever come.

But now, as he prepared for another to come, as, specifically, he prepared for the Second Coming of this apparent "Christ" figure—this "Christie" of whom he had never heard or seen, to this very moment—he wondered if there was any time left for his search. If it truly were the end of the world that were upon him.

Said Beth nearby: "Yeah! I'm lookin' forward to grabbin' one of those phony Mega Busters in the theater store and beaning his ass into 2007."

Jennifer laughed in time with the lady's statement and Cheryl merely, evilly grinned. Indeed, how greatly she was looking forward to the pegging in question.

But she wouldn't be getting her Mega Buster from any theater store.

No, Cheryl saw another of a nicer, darker shade of blue—right in a far corner of the security area. Navy was much more her hue than cyan, anyhow.

As the bodacious blonde pondered the pending pegging, Sean looked over to her and the other girls as they stood by the braziers and his current besworded goddess (which he set back up after healing himself by some canned food (carrots, to be exact) from his favorite store—Seon's, naturally—carrots are good for the eyes, after all). The other survivors were thinking over his plan, he could see; thinking over whether to go along with what he proposed. Perhaps the crate diversion with Jennifer, the theater seat tie-up fake-out by Beth, and the ambush from the closet by spunky Miss Jones would work. That is, if Jennifer, Beth, and Cheryl were willing to assume their previous positions in cultist captivity, under the this-time-feigned threat of his ceremonial sword.

Of course, again being an American man, his own personal "sword" swayed his focus much more on Cheryl than the other two women.

Back when he was twenty-six instead of his present sixty-two, Cheryl might have represented a very possible female ideal. Blonde hair and a well-built figure, not unlike himself when he was around that age, as his now-silver hair was once gold as well. Others always teased him that he always sought after women who actually physically reminded him of himself; this narcissistic streak earned him the nickname "Keen-On Sean," a simple reversal of his first and last names, but how very true.

But now the sexagenarian—as sex-starved as he was—was a bit repelled by such yellow tresses. Blonde was baneful rather than beautiful to Sean now…although he admitted that he still lusted after a body such as hers.

He then looked to Beth, to her gray mane and gangly outline, and saw the other extreme. Here he loved the hair, as it was as…"mature" as his own. Yet he rejected the rest of her, desired something other than the spindliness of Old Lady Shrake.

If only there were a woman who had the aesthetic body of Cheryl, yet the geriatric hair of Beth. Curves that could condemn a man, yet curls of gray…or silver…

…or even white.

But no, that was just the stuff of fantasy.

Enough for now. The time of the Coming was almost nigh.

"Behold!" he shrieked, addressing Cheryl, Beth, and Jennifer. He held up a wristwatch given him by the hobo of a hero that was Frank West. "Our time is almost come. Let the plan bestowed upon me by the Almighty work its way unto our success and deliverance from this contest of abomination."

Jennifer and Beth nodded readily, the latter placing the painting she was given by Sean next to her theater seat.

"Whoa, there, Cult 45," said Cheryl, "or should I say '65'…don't go off mentioning 'Deliverance' to us now. You've already got us in a compromised position enough as it is."

"Fear not, my young blonde blessing…the resulting reckoning that will visit us upon the close of this base battle shall redeem all of our efforts…especially those of you three, much more than myself."

"Yeah, just don't forget about your promise with the pegging," chided Cheryl. "Your ass is literally ours after this."

With that, the vivacious vixen clambered into the theater closet, taking with her a mannequin that approached a fraction of the perfection of her inimitable figure. Beth settled into her seat and allowed the ropes that tied her down before to fall over her in seeming bondage. And Jennifer stepped back into the box in which she was nearly butchered—the crate out in Paradise that was now brought up close to the closet in which Cheryl now hid.

As he waited for the new "Christ" to come, Sean mulled over his plan…or, perhaps, His plan. The zany zealot was to pose with his sword pointed downward over Jennifer's crate, chanting as if ready to sacrifice Tomonobu Itakagi, creator of the Dead or Alive anathema. Sean didn't know Itagaki from Adam (again, not the goofy clown Adam), nor did he ever see the pulchritudinous prostitutes that populated the games. But from what he had heard, from the other survivors and from the Almighty, that Tecmo temple of titillation was evil unbridled—and it required proper purging.

Beneath his sword, Jennifer strained her ears, waiting for her cue. All she had to hear was Sean uttering some phrase or other about Christie "shedding" the "sole tribulation"—that of fighting the survivors—to achieve salvation. At the mention of those words, she was to spring out of the crate (by which point Sean would have put up his sword…hopefully) and toss her baking ingredients at her opponent, hopefully covering her with flour or whatever and blinding her. At that point, the others would continue with their respective parts. Jennifer clutched tightly at the bulging packet in his hands and waited.

In the closet, Cheryl also put her erotic ear to the wall, waiting for the word. Hers were to follow directly on the heels of Jennifer's; after Sean mentioned something about the "sole tribulation," he would then bark something along the lines of "I am deaf to the cries of those fallen into sin" or some garbage of that sort. All she knew was that she had to burst bust-first out of the closet, brandishing the full body of her mannequin, upon the "I am deaf" part; that was her triggering code phrase. After Jennifer hopefully blinded their enemy, Cheryl would move in and bash away with a silicone figure not unlike her own. As she held said body close, she hoped that the plan would go off without a snag; she was allergic to flour, after all, and feared Jennifer's "weapon" more than any sword.

On the theater seat, Beth watched and waited. Once Christie was blinded and bashed, she would "break free" of the ropes that were loosely draped around her, and bring the painting by her side down over her adversary's head. Hopefully, the portrait's sturdy frame would hold as it then encircled the opponent's waist, pinning the opponent's arms to his sides and rendering him immobile. For the last step, Sean would then move in with his ceremonial sword and destroy the foul abomination. Beth's breath caught in her throat as she thought, her mind wandering to the range of raincoats that once surrounded her former captor. She decided that she despised those yellow coated men, and that the next person she saw wearing a coat or jacket—cultist or not—she would rip the clothing right off that individual's back.

The heaviest thoughts in the theater once again became Sean's, his brain bending around the idea of killing this "Christ."

And then this "Christ" finally came.

Sean's eyes followed the up ramp to the double doors of his makeshift inner sanctum as he beheld what he believed would be the false god.

He saw no god…but a goddess.

His goddess.

The woman for which he had waited for all of his senior existence.

Cream-colored skin, revealing itself in many places, radiated out in many areas from this vision of feminine flawlessness. Where there was not flesh, there was flame—a blue flame pattern blazingly emblazoned across her garish yet gorgeous costume. Holy fire, not hellfire, he thought to himself.

And the scalp of this sorceress. How it housed nothing less than hair that was the pearly white of the gates of Heaven itself.

This, indeed, was the impossible woman whom Sean had imagined was only a fancy of fantasy.

His lust locked in a pitched battle with his instinct, Sean settled over Jennifer's crate with his sword hilt sweatily held in both hands, but his eyes transfixed on his alighting enemy. Nervously he began to chant Itagaki's first name…a chant which ended up sounding strangely like the one he did before fighting and dying against Frank West.

"TomonobuTomonobuTomonobuTomonobuTomonobuTomonobuTomonobu…"

WHEEEEEE BEAT BEAT

WHEEEEEE BEAT BEAT

WHEEEEEE BEAT BEAT

For some reason, this really obnoxious music with annoying whistle noises and fast drum beats always accompanied Sean's chants. Whether he did it at the movie theater, the True Eye's compound, or the local VFW post, this was always inexplicably the case.

"Well, what do we have here?" harumphed the "Christ" as she skulked down towards Sean. "I get to play with this cute skinny old man."

"TomonobuTomonobuTomonobu…"

WHEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIISSSHHH

As Christie got closer, Sean's "whistle" suddenly hardened and ceased its irritating issuance. He held fast with his sword over the box, yet he could not stop staring at his opponent's open coat, almost revealing her fully; could not stop staring at her cold, hard, yet alluring eyes and unrealistic porcelain face; could not stop staring at her ivory, Isosceles hairstyle.

"You…you must be p-…" he started throatily, his hands wavering a bit around the hilt. "You must be p-p-p…"

"I must be what now?" asked Christie incredulously, leaning in carefully to hear her enemy.

It was all Sean could do to get out that Sesame Street brought-to-you-by word of the day that he adored so much:

Purge.

But he couldn't pull through.

"You must p-p-p…

"You must PUR-RRR-RCH!" he finally spat out.

His appealing adversary crinkled her brow at the word. "I must perch? God, you know, I get away from that loser Zack and all the posing and pole dancing I was doing on his disgusting island, and now you want me to, as you say…perch? Forget it. I'm going to tear you apart, you gross old geezer."

"P-p-p-p-p-PURCH!"

"Your screams will echo throughout these chintzy, sound-proofed walls."

"P-p-p-p-p…" Sean was practically palpitating over the crate by this point.

"For I am death. I will shred your soul to ribbons."

At that point everything happened at once.

Thinking that she heard her cue upon hearing "I am death," muffled through the closet door, Cheryl banged out of her hiding place, her mannequin over her shoulder and ready to strike.

Almost simultaneously, Jennifer leapt out of the crate upon the belief that she heard her cue (which was actually Christie's utterance of "I will shred your soul to ribbons"); the thick wood of the box altered the words stated. Fortunately, Sean's hands were shaking such that the crate lid merely knocked his blade away, and did not impale Jennifer.

Unfortunately, though, no survivor had accounted for Christie's quick reflexes. The weaker Willamettans could not match the Tecmo thrasheress' speed as she dove out of the way just as Jennifer let fly with her baking ingredients, the contents splattering all over hapless, allergic Cheryl. As the latter gasped in surprise and apprehension at her predicament, her eggshell-haired enemy stepped up, grasped Jennifer's wrist, and quickly and violently torqued it, tossing the poor Gorman head over heels onto her ample haunches.

"Ahh-CHOO!" belted out Cheryl, her face covered with flour and her sinuses now out of control. "Ahh-CHOO! Ahh-CHISS!"

"Sword Mannequin Bless You," said Sean unthinkingly.

"Thank you," said Cheryl.

"AAAAAAGH!"

Christie next aimed to take out the sultry sneezer, but turned abruptly at the sound of an aging old coot's pathetic yell. She dodged just in time to avoid Beth's painting coming down over her head, and the canvas instead split across the scalp of the beleaguered blonde that was now Cheryl. She dropped her mannequin, focusing instead on the flour and the frame.

Which made her easy prey for Christie's intended assault. Taking advantage, the ivory-maned assassin leapt past the opened crate, splayed open her arms in the deadly she quan fighting formation, and let loose with five quick chops to her opponent's chest. It wasn't until the fifth chop that Christie finally broke through Cheryl's surgically enhanced built-in defenses, but the point was indeed driven home by the last blow and Cheryl was sent to the ground, still sneezing.

"Give me that JACKET!"

Before Christie could turn again, she found herself bound by Beth's brutal bear hug. The lady had snapped at last and would not stop till she snatched the coat she so obsessively sought. Christie writhed and wriggled as much as she could, but Beth held fast for several seconds.

"I'll…squeeze more than that…floozy over there sneezed," threatened the wrinkly warrior that was Beth Shrake. And she almost had Christie…almost.

In a flash, Christie lowered her beauteous body and raked open her arms, throwing off her opponent's balance and breaking her hug. Beth started to go flying…but not before snagging a sleeve of her adversary.

"What…get…get off!" Christie fought Beth's cloth-grip as hard as she could, but could not break it. Beth's clamp was solid, and could not be forced away.

Before she knew it, Christie was spun around and around…

…and a second later, only her legs were covered in blue flame.

As Beth went flying into a nearby wall and unconsciousness with the prize of Christie's jacket in her hands, Christie clasped her arms over her chest and Sean instantly converted to Christie-anity.

"My…God…Dess…" was all he could get out for the time being. (More or less hour or so being.)

"Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm…a-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! A-HA-HA-HA-HA!" chortled Christie in basically the most fake way imaginable. "I like you, codger," she said. She then extended a hand invitingly towards Sean, notwithstanding her eminent exposure. "Come to me, fart!"

Christie's sexy yet condescending tone suddenly made something click within the kooked-out Keanen, and he realized at that moment that he had been, for the past several seconds, a Lapsed Cultist. The fury of a infinity of insane angels erupted within him, overcoming the effects of the previous, erect eruption he had experienced minutes ago.

"I shall return your faux boobs to the foul pervs that hath spawned them…"

With quick reflexes that shocked even a superhuman, superhomeless photographer, Sean suddenly dashed forward.

"…and PURGE this mall of men…of your tantalizing temptations!"

Waking wearily from a woozy reverie, Cheryl looked up just in time to watch her former nemesis plunge his ceremonial sword most ceremoniously into Christie's glamorous yet now aghast form. Unlike Frank West, who oddly flipped over and fell onto his head upon meeting with Sean's sword, Christie just went straight down, apparently not only defeated but deceased.

"W-w-wow, Sean," was all Cheryl could stammer out, not even noticing her momentary savior as he wiped some of the baking ingredients from her shoulders.

"I, too, am baffled at this divine release," echoed the old man. As he continued to deflour Cheryl, he looked again upon the seeming carcass of his adversary (with his sword still inserted), then to the impaled mannequin.

"Corpus Christie, indeed. I had…plans for you, Cheryl, my blonde beatitude. But it appears, now, that through our white-haired-harlot, I have found a replacement to serve as the object of my future beseeching."

MALLGOERS: 10

EVILDOAERS: 7

ENCOUNTER EIGHTEEN: ADAM MACINTYRE, ALYSSA LAURENT, RONALD SHINER, AND BARBARA PATTERSON VERSUS AYANE

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, AL FRESCA PLAZA,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 10:40AM

Glancing ruefully at the dish in his weighty hand, Ronald thought of all the wonderful times the two of them had together. Parting would be so bittersweet now, after he and the plate experienced so many helpings of yogurt in the food court leading up to this battle. But, desperate times and desperate measures and all that.

"Pull!"

So long, my passionately beloved snackware…

"PULL, I SAID, RONALD!!"

Sighing, Ronald tossed the dish out as forcefully as he could, much to the satisfaction of the sassy, sexy-as-hell yeller nearby.

WHSSSSSS—CRACK

"YES!" cried Alyssa ecstatically, hopping up and down with glee as she scored a hit on the makeshift clay pigeon with her favorite pistol. Sure, her buddies Brett and Jonathan had longer guns, and their stamina made them well-endowed enough to last all day and night. But she had the most skills, from being around the block a few times, and through this she could please her partners just as much, if not moreso.

Said partners now approached Alyssa as she leaned back against a wall between stores in the outdoor Al Fresca arena and took in all the slaughter that just occurred. She had heard that her fellow survivor Adam MacIntyre could be very busy with his small blue chainsaws, but no one was prepared for what he could do with the large red ones. Such was the clown's aptitude at handling saws on a regular basis that he could wield even these bigger ones two at a time, and boy did he ever wield them as he cut a swath through the swarm of monsters that overpopulated the outside plaza. Tubby Ronald, Timid Barbara, and the Ten (Thousand) that was Alyssa stood in abject shock and awe as Adam sawed through so many decomposed heads, hands, and haunches in the blink of a painted entertainer's eye. This manly display might have almost made Alyssa want the motley thirtysomething…if it weren't for the wacky costume and the afro wig and the way all that made look a bit paunchy. And the nature of his job.

After all, Adam was "just" a mall clown. Just like Frank West was "just" a journalist. And probably a down and out one at that, judging from how he looked.

She didn't like most clowns per se, to boot, seeing them as parodies of the crimson-curled queens that were redheads generally. She remembered reading graffiti once that read, "I always smile when I see a clown/but when I meet a redhead I want to frown" or something like that. Like she and Adam were linked somehow. How disgusting, she thought.

"Are you sure that those are gonna help ya, Barbara?" asked Ronald to his chubby compadress, pointing to the parasol and fence that she scrounged up. "I heard our enemy's some kind of 'kumquatitchy' or something, like, a female ninja. It might not be enough."

Barbara placed most of her vast face in her hands as she started to sob, unaware of Ronald's misspeaking "I…I…I'm not inclined to fight…I just want to pr-protect myself…"

Before this cadaverous catastrophe had befallen Willamette, Barbara was renowned as a ruthless bond collector and enforceress in the area. "Bail Bonds Barbara" had always nabbed her man, or woman, as it were. She certainly had the brunt and the broadness of figure for it.

But now, after witnessing so many losing life and/or limb to this dead disaster, Bail Bonds suddenly softened, her iron resolve putrefying into pussyfooting pacifism. All Barbara wanted now was to shutter herself off from the sickening mockery of mankind that surrounded her. Quivering with fear, she cowered under the parasol she wrested from the grabbing hands of many undead with the last of her courage. In her hands she grabbed her portion of fence tightly, wishing the section of wood were much larger and longer than it was.

Ronald, meanwhile, regarded the woman with a smorgasbord of empathy and infatuation. He felt for her situation, as he himself was a bit afraid, and looked down on the woman who was once so fierce and fearsome in her work, so far fallen now. At the same time, however, he lusted after the survivor, wanting so badly to go from plowing the corpses to pushing the cushion that was Barbara Patterson. Dames like that Alyssa over there were hot per se, but way too wispy; not to toot his horn or anything, but Shiners could eat and enjoy at least three times much as normal folks, and Ronald needed someone who was so much more to satisfy his sexual appetite.

The survivor of superior size looked away from the cherub that made him a bit more chubby, wishing to find the others. He especially did not want that pistol-packing pantywaist to be messing with any more dishes of his than was needed. Ronald wished to salvage at least a couple of his dear wares after this battle, if possible. Squeezing the handle of his frying pan, he cursed and paced out across the plaza to look for the maroon-maned minx.

What he found, emerging from McHandy's, was a redhead indeed—but it wasn't Alyssa. Slapping out of the hardware store with his funny shoes was Adam MacIntrye, his garish light blue suit intact, his sharp light blue chainsaws in working order against a wall—and his bright red afro chopped down to a crew cut.

"What happened?!" blurted the biological boulder that was Ronald Shiner as Adam approached. Alyssa came up running from the other side of the fountain as the two men met up.

"I was…trying out some tricks with my new toys," explained the clown, thumbing behind him, "the big red tools they have at the Mickey H's back there, that I used to clear out the zombies. I did decently in throwing one up and down…but then I tried to juggle two—like I do with my baby blues—and I, uh…kinda cut myself a bit." He pointed to his new 'do. "Good thing the only red stuff that came out of my body was my hair."

"I'll say," said the stload of human tissue that was Ronald. "You think you're still up to this?"

"Yee-ha!...I mean, yeahh," said Adam, retrieving his aforementioned "baby blues" from a few feet away. "I'm ready to take on anything from killer clowns to nasty ass ninjas…or even…a bit of both."

"Bold words for an entertainer who abandoned his clown college!"

Four pairs of survivor eyes shot skyward as their anticipated opponent flipped out and towards them at not even a moment's notice. Barbara tucked most of herself under her parasol just in time as a purple rush of…something dropped onto, then immediately glanced off of, the top of her parasol. A split second later, the Willamettans were joined on the ground by their jumpy enemy.

She was a beautiful, bouncy lady ninja (just like any goddamn lady ninja), with follicles of the funkiest purple and eyes of the most robotic red.

She pointed defiantly towards Adam.

"You think you can just learn the ways of the Klownoichi and leave without serving us?!" she spat in her native tongue.

"I don't owe you shinobi sluts anything, Ayane," Adam shot back in Japanese, preparing his chainsaws in a battle stance. "I paid the fees to become what I've become. Go and leave us in peace."

The narcissistic assassin tossed her short hair a second and laughed scornfully. "Ha! For epochs and eons, the Japanese have worked to preserve the ancient art of female stealth clowning. It has been simultaneously held a deep secret in our society…yet has also influenced and trickled down into the furthest recesses of our culture. It is why all, from the geisha to the kabuki, wear white makeup.

"It is why I wear my purple weave!" Ayane then doffed her perpetual purple wig a second to expose her true Sinead O'Connor form to all, then replaced it. Alyssa, Ronald, and Barbara just scratched their heads, having no idea what the heck was going on as they didn't know Japanese.

Ayane then continued: "You know our secret, Adam: that all Japanese gals—as noble and humble as they act and carry themselves—secretly wish to be clowns. I, among the thousands of such women, have made myself an outcast from my civilization, so that I could live that dream…so I could laugh, goof, and wear purple. You cannot be in possession of such knowledge without either becoming one of us or otherwise being assassinated."

"Becoming one of you…and losing my two best balloons in the process!" Adam ran his hands down his costume, past the red/yellow/green/blue literal balloons, to his figurative…natural balloons down below. "I've given you girls cash…and now you want castration. Forget it."

Ayane stared the other clown down with the coldest of cerise eyes. "Then you have made your decision, Adam MacIntyre. Time for your punishment."

She rolled forward to meet Adam just as her mortal enemy did the same. In a flash they were toe-to-oversized-shoe.

"Just so you know," added Ayane as she settled back into some kind of Mugen Tenshin fighting stance or whatever, "The daughter we supposedly had in Hokkaido—Madamimadam.

"She's not yours."

Adam was as cool as a squash in Seon's up to this point…but this last revelation set him off. "Oooohhhhhwwwoooowwwww!" he screamed, raring to chop up the calamitous kunoichi.

Unfortunately, the chainsawing clown was given to epilepsy when upset, and before he could tear into the tough girl with his wily weapons, he started shaking, then curling up into a ball and rolling uncontrollably. Ayane watched with the most incredulous of expressions as she saw her sworn foe somersaulting into oblivion.

BANG, BANG…BANG, BANG

She would have to tend to him in another second, though; in the meantime, there were bullets to dodge.

Ayane started spinning the instant she heard Alyssa's projectiles pounce out from her pistol. Four shots sailed harmlessly past the ninjette as she continued her impossible rotations and worked her way towards her attacker.

SMACK

Before the redoubtable redhead could fire a fifth time, Ayane laid into her forehands with a vicious backhand, knocking the weapon several feet away. Before Alyssa could even register this, Ayane struck out at her again.

SMACK SMACK

First a rising smack while jumping into the air, then a falling smack as Ayane came back to earth. The target of her ignominious assault received the reports in full, and staggered with pain and humiliation to the ground.

However, just as Ayane eyed Ronald and Barbara as her next marks, Alyssa jumped back to her feet, determined to go from smackee to smacker. She tried to at least slap the back of the ninja assassin's head before she could turn once more.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK

"I'VE HAD IT!!" yelled Alyssa, catchphrasily, after her cheeks, now redder than her hair or dress, became mother to smack-quintuplets courtesy of Ayane.

The latter then grabbed the former in an attempt to do some kind of body throw…but Alyssa, with aggravation and anger releasing adrenalin within, resisted with arms outstretched, pressing back against Ayane like any garden-variety survivor wrestling against your typical zombie.

"Helllllp…Please, help me!" she pleaded to her portly partners as she fended off Ayane as much as she could. Alyssa's pleas fell upon deaf ears as far as both were concerned, however. Barbara, for one, was shielding herself from the cantankerous conflict by literally fencing herself off from the others—even though the fence was like one foot by one foot square.

Ronald, on the other hand, was fully attuned to the battle…but was as helpless as one under hypnosis. Well, it was sort of understandable; watching the two women tussle would make most men freeze with libido frothing.

For Ronald, however, it was a stimulation of another sort: the hungry, humongous human-plus could not look at the scarlet Alyssa and the violet Ayane without thinking of a bulk-size box of Strawberry/Grape Nerds.

And it was for this reason that the bodacious bloated boy could not move from his place in the plaza.

At last, though, the situation resolved itself as Ayane voluntary broke off from Alyssa, relinquishing a wish to throw her, and charged forward with an uppercutting smack—an "uppersmack," if you will—that sent the woman to the floor once more.

The redhead did not stay down, however, but rather rebounded off the ground, refusing to go down in such a shameful way. She looked over to the purple prowler, who was fixing to attack the other survivors…and chose to retreat for the time being.

Ayane, not far away, herself chose to whirl herself further into battle, spinning around for no random reason rather than running. She twirled toward Barbara next, hoping to flush the fatty out from her hiding place. "I'll try you on for size," she said as she spun on up towards the measly parasol-fence fort—then the ninja regarded her opponent's immense weight and reflected, "though I don't know if I'll succeed."

Ayane was answered with neither a whimper nor a quaver as Barbara burst out of her trappings with a sizeable red chainsaw in hand. The once-scared survivor was now through with her newfound anxiety. "It's time to collect, bitch."

The Al Fresca air filled with saw sparks all of a sudden as Ayane found herself dodging quicker and more ferocious blows from Barbara than she could have possibly faced from Adam. It was all she could do to avoid being slashed into sashimi as she spun backwards past Ronald, whose frying pan lifted upward in his hand as he watched his large love go to work.

Knowing full well that she could not evade the enormous Barbara forever, Ayane vaulted back into one of a myriad of ready ninja positions…then torpedoed forward, feet first, towards the barreling behemoth with all her might. To her delight, her legs plunged into the massive mass that was Barbara Patterson's prodigious stomach—and, four feet later, her feet reached the back end of the survivor's solar plexus, knocking the woman backward and out on the plaza cobblestones.

Ayane spun around randomly and gratuitously once more in victory for about fifteen seconds, overjoyed to take down someone so imposing. After this, she paused to wipe some sweat from her brow, proud of her feet's latest feat. Just as her wiping arm started to lower from her lovely, face, however…

"Let's see you handle this, Spinny!"

…the woman froze as she heard her arch enemy, who once made her back arch with copulative pleasure, begin a spin of his own. She turned just in time, her left arm still raised instinctively, as Adam rotated towards her with both blue saws extended.

She was too far and guarded from the man to experience a direct decapitation…

RRRRR—RRRRRAAASSSHHH

"YYYYYAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!"

…but not a disarmament.

Ayane looked down in horror as a portion of her purple personhood was forever disconnected. Before she could react any further…

SPPPPPANNNNNGGGGG—HSSSSSSSSSS

She reeled in pain once again as Ronald panned the ninja hard against her new wound with his fryer, which he heated up furiously after watching Ayane take down the gorilla of his dreams.

"Agh, agh, aaaaaaaaahhhhh!" Her knees almost buckled from the agony. She looked up again, anticipating another attack from Adam and Ronald.

But nothing came.

She watched as Adam held up a saw in Ronald's way, understanding the fat man's rage, yet also feeling his own deep-seated passion for the woman he left behind. As much as he thought he hated her, within Adam still harbored the most lust ever for the mauve Madame Butterfly he had abandoned.

Which was why he did naught but let her go as she struggled to her feet and hobbled away.

Ayane gurgled unintelligibly, clutching at her left stump, fortunately cauterized by Ronald's pan, as she worked her way along the plaza wall. This wasn't what life was supposed to be about! Churning chainsaws and flying frying pans! Life was supposed to be about punches, and kicks, and chops! And ninja clans, and betrayals by busty, harlot half-sisters! And finding a long lost lover who was Japanese, but somehow passed for German at one point! And volleyball vacations! And bikini collections!

And hordes of toolish fanboys from another dimension who helped her amass those bikini collections, by spending countless hours at the Zackasino.

It wasn't supposed to be this way!

Ayane did her best to steel herself as she stole further away, knowing that Adam's sentimentalist mercy may soon wane as his rage at finding his fatherhood lost would once again wax. She loved Madamimadam, she really did; but the girl was derived from the loins of Ein. The testes of Hayate.

Not the sac of MacIntyre.

The ninja huddled down behind the counter of the Colombian Roastmasters, wondering what to do next.

Then she saw a couple of orange juices and a "hunk of meat"—alias an abandoned arm—and knew what she had to do.

Imitating the scene in the 1999 film Affliction where Nick Nolte extracted a tooth with alcohol and pliers, Ayane sucked it up, gripped and chugged an OJ, then bit down a horrific holler as she shucked the limb onto her stump.

A moment later she emerged from the café, the flannelled, muscled, male limb looking totally out of place on her left side…but at least she was whole again.

Kind of.

She looked back towards the place from which Adam and Ronald were coming and waited for them.

"Let's see you smack me around now, Yanni!"

Ayane flicked her eyes in the other direction as she saw Alyssa mispronouncing her name and rushing toward her with sickle in hand and bicycle between legs. She basically looked like Lance Armstrong's worst nightmare.

The assassin tried to settle into a fighting mode…but her new arm would not respond. It didn't slip off, as the limb was firmly attached by the bonds created from the frying pan's heat…but it wasn't a part of her, wasn't an extension of her body. Just an imitation of such.

She reeled as Alyssa wheeled closer, trying to adjust and compensate for her lopsided weight.

Then, just as the cycling sickler bore down on her…

SSSSSCRASH

"NERDS!!"

…Alyssa toppled to the ground with a faceful of plate as Ronald's last dish dashed her from her metal mount. Unfortunately for her, the huge horse of a man had snapped, and he liked strawberry more than grape. So he made his decision accordingly.

As Ronald heavily hovered over the knocked out Alyssa, seeing not a wondrous woman but rather half a box of Willy Wonka candy, Adam bounded out to assail Ayane one last time. Before he could strike once more with his saws, however, his target put him down with an abrupt backward flip kick that made him join the ladies on his team in unconsciousness.

"Looks like you're the loser this time," she sniffed snobbily, her unaffected arm casually waving Adam off as she looked over at Ronald. He wasn't in his right mind to submit to Ayane, but a few more quick chops by her obviated the problem.

MALLGOERS: 10

EVILDOAERS: 8

ENCOUNTER NINETEEN: STEVEN CHAPMAN, ISABELA KEYES, JOSH MANNING, AND JAMES RAMSEY VERSUS ALPHA-152

(AND SPECIAL GUEST STARRING JADE RAYMOND)

(AS WELL AS ANOTHER SURPRISE APPEARANCE)

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, SEON'S FOOD AND STUFF,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 11:00AM

The meats, wines, and other chilled areas of the supermarket lay quiet for an extended spell, as if no one had reached the arena as of yet.

But nothing could be further from reality.

King salmons in the fish section were suddenly shuffled aside in their cold casing as the ice amongst them burst forth, then consolidated into a tall, standing block of frozen water.

Which, a second later, cracked, melting slightly—then shattered violently as its occupant…the force that brought it forth from the fish…took its true, humanoid form once again!

From the ashes of so much seafood on sale, Alpha-152 was resurrected!

The demon waved its aqueous, sensuous arms as it took in its rebirth. After reposing for so many years and tournaments in prisons of glass and steel, then being released by the evil DOATEC authorities to do battle with the female form from which she was based—the infatuating, yet also insincere, immodest, and downright irritating Kasumi—the clone was soundly defeated by her obnoxious original and reduced to so many atoms of dissociated H20.

However, La Colmilla—as now revealed to all by her true identity, Lei Fang—had utilized her hypnotic tai chi abilities to reassociate the many molecules that comprised Alpha…and, of course, subjected the synthetic seductress to her indomitable control. The mistressmind of the Willamette tournament took great pains to ensure that Alpha would keep composure—and so she set up the creature's fight to take place at Seon's Food and Stuff, where sufficient frigidity would be guaranteed. (Of course, the meat processing area underground might have been even better…but La Colmilla figured that, well, if Kasumi loved fish so much, as she did in her gay ass mermaid dream, maybe her clone would feel the same—and so she relegated the final boss of the fourth Dead or Alive tournament to the frozen fish section).

Alpha-152 leapt high into the air, surveying her supermarket surroundings…then floated slowly back down again. No survivors to be seen.

Was this going to be an easy forfeit for her?

BOOM

As if out of nowhere, Alpha was struck dead-center in her diaphanous chest by buckshot. She craned her neck in the direction where she felt it from—dead ahead, between the cash registers and the wines.

The shooter emerged from his crouching position behind the closest checkout to the end of the store.

"Lady, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to LEAVE MY STOOOOOORRRRRE!" yelled the hell of a man as he shucked another shell into his shotgun.

He stepped toward a cart full of all kinds of bladed implements as he did so.

"Ssssssssssssssssssssss," was all Alpha-152 could emit in response. She was not programmed to be able to talk…and being all made of water, she could probably only talk to and about fish, anyway.

But regardless, as the man aimed his weapon at the aquatic woman once again, he proclaimed, as if she had asked him, "Name's Steven…GROCERIEEEEEEES!"

Instantly Alpha started to approach, not even bothering to teleport, as she normally did, since she felt she could take this schlub down pretty quickly. Undaunted by the prospect of laying out a liquid lady, Steven, at the other end, pressed forward as well with shotgun and shopping cart, beginning to blast away as he bustled along.

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Alpha-152 continued forward, the shells stinging slightly as they passed through her, but hardly slowing her down. Soon enough she would reach her enemy and take him out…and she wouldn't even have to do her frequent, frustrating disappearing act.

But then, suddenly…

BLAM BLAM BLAM

The sounds of Steven's shots were combined with those of a crazy Cabezan chica, propelling forward on a motorcycle—then rumbling over an endcap to ride atop an aisle shelving—and firing her handgun all the way.

Even though Isabela Keyes's bullets passed through what passed for the brain area of Alpha, the moist monster still didn't show signs of slowing. However, the beautiful beast did exhibit a bit of confusion at being attacked by multiple sources.

"KEEP AT IT, STEVEN!" hollered Isa as she stopped her bike a second, apparently completely forgetting the fact that the store owner had held her hostage a couple of days back…or maybe just setting side that difference. "WE NEED TO PUT DOWN THIS BRUJA DE AGUA HIJA DE PUTA, PRONTO!"

Steven just shrugged, not knowing what the hell a "Brooma Day Aquafina Day Pootah" was, but at least he understood "pronto." As his pretty partner continued to empty the contents of her handgun into Alpha-152, the shopkeep gave his cart a hearty shove, then leapt onto the small basket just beyond the handles.

As the bladed conveyance continued to rattle along, Steven, balancing carefully atop it, then proceeded to unload a shebang of shells into the water demon as rapidly as he could, not unlike an ashen savior who just returned from a medieval melee against an army of darkness.

Consequently, many more blasts from both guns pelted into the fiend…but nothing was showing any sign of damage.

Not willing to give up for anything, Isabela pressed forward, riding farther down the aisle top toward Alpha-152.

And that was when the nonsolid devil decided to disappear.

Emerging directly in front of Isabela as the Hispanic hellion rocketed along, Alpha did not allow herself to be run down, but rather let loose with an abrupt reverse elbow that slammed the human woman off of her steel steed.

Barely blanching at the blow, however, Isabela resumed ratcheting his pistol into position, and fired away at Alpha, seemingly in slow motion, even as she flew backward through the air…

…and into the center of Steven's cart, not so much as scathed by the scythes and other knives within, much less impaled.

As soon as she hit the makeshift seat, Isabela, once again in the Seon's proprietor's clutches—but on better terms this time—began firing even more shots against the water woman.

And so the two survivors, synchronizing their attacks as best they could…kept at it against Alpha-152.

"Well, are we gonna go out there and help those two out at some point, or what?"

"Are you insane, James?" Josh Manning replied, holding his family's jewels close to his family jewels as he talked with his fellow survivor several aisles away. "I'm not gonna get my neck snapped by one of those briny biatch's kicks! You see how fast she moves?"

"But maybe there's something I can do with this—" James Ramsey said, holding up the excavator he gleaned from the cleaned-out Crislip's—"maybe if I got close enough to the thing, I could screw up whatever insides she has with it. I'd love to give it a shot."

"You know, you're the one who's crazy," Josh shot back. "I swear, first my family's business—Josh's Jewels, named after me, of course—goes to hell because of this whole zombie thing, and now I'm'a get slaughtered by some crazy demon douche after you make her water break!"

"What?!" asked James, furrowing his brow.

"No-nothing. Nevermind. Forget I said that last part. I'm just…a bit freaked out by all this"

"Mister…so are we all. So are we all. I swear, I know all about what you mean with 'one second it's like this' and then 'another second it's like that.' I was just on my way up to the Pac Northwest a couple of days ago, to go to a gaming convention at which Ubisoft—and the love of my young life—was supposed to appear…the jubilant, jocosity-inducing…"

"Aw, man, would you just cut it out with that 'Jade Raymond' crap?! My God, it's like she's the new Virgin Mary or something! Every time I turn around, it's like, everyone's so freaked and geeked out 'cause Jade Raymond made a statement about her upcoming project, or Jade Raymond made an appearance on G4…she is so overrated."

"Oh, come off it, Josh," retorted James, twisting his tool in his hands as his infatuatee invaded the back of his mind, "she's on her way to accomplishing a lot in her field…and I'm looking forward to Assassin's Creed when it comes out." (Note: Keep in mind that DR takes place in 2006—Quillon42)

"Assassin's Creed my ass. I tell you, if she were right here, just right here standing in the fruits section with us, I'd give her a piece of my mind…and have her live up to her name by taking some of these jades in my hands and…

"Whoa."

Josh stopped midsentence just after he splaying his hands open to show off some of his green gems…and just noticing the very same Jade Raymond walking right towards both men.

"Josh," said James, almost breathless, "hit me with that bag of pet food you got on the display over there—I think I'm seeing things. Things I kinda like actually…so on second thought, don't hit me."

Josh grumbled as he watched the successful producer get closer. He wasn't nearly as starstruck as his fellow Willamettan…but rather wrung his hands and addressed the alighting lady:

"Jade Raymond, you've got a lot of nerve showing your face around here again, you know?" he started.

"Again?" parroted James. "What…?"

"You knew I was trying to independently develop my own game and have it produced…how I had that concept about bumping off noble people during the Crusades…you took my idea!"

"I have no idea of what you're saying, with 'your idea,' Joshua," replied the jaunty Jade Raymond, crossing her arms as soon as she reached the other Js. "The game concept was my own thing all along."

"That's a load of corpsecrap!" Josh shouted back. "You knew that I came up with Murderer's Beliefs long, long ago. You just took it, changed a couple of things—no wait, just one thing: the title—and made it yours!"

"Ha," spat the object of Josh's odium, "as if I would steal any dumbass ideas like Murderer's Beliefs from a lowly…jeweler such as yourself."

Josh threw down all of his jewels in anger at this. "Now you listen to me…Jade Raymond," he said, once again saying both her first name and last name ritualistically, as if she were Charlie Brown, or any superstar in the WWF…excuse me, I mean WWE. (So anal.) "This is the most infuriating thing I have experienced since I came up with the idea of an epic thirteen-part RPG at the age of five, involving overwrought, melodramatic, androgynous characters—my beloved Anal Pansies project—and then SquareSoft stole that from me and made trillions off of it! I won't stand another minute of…AGH!"

Suddenly Josh yelped in horror as Jade Raymond came forward with a small, steel, phallic-looking thing that looked rather sharp and deadly. He screamed again as she nearly reached and penetrated him with the thing…

…then was shunted backward as several can drinks met with her slender frame.

"NO, JADE RAYMOND!!" cried James hoarsely as he cried man tears while flinging the sodas, "I CAN'T HAVE YOU HURTING MY BEST BUDDY AND CO-SURVIVOR!"

You cannot imagine how hard James was taking this—and how hard James was—at the moment.

"Ungh!" yelled Jade Raymond as she plopped backward, into a display of grapefruits. Several yellow spheres flew into the air as she collided with the setup.

After the dust cleared, James and Josh looked up from arms that covered their eyes and approached the downed demigoddess of game production.

"Now," said Josh, seething with indignation, "tell me what that was all about."

The woman's mouth was full of half-eaten grapefruit that James had started a little bit ago. Although said James was riding an emotional rollercoaster right now at seeing the woman of his dreams attack one of his best friends, he couldn't help but think, in some part of his psyche, I just shared a grapefruit with Jade Raymond!

The woman tried to work through the fruit as she uttered something:

"Ehh hemm ehh hashashim," she said.

"…Come again?" barked Josh, as he moved closer to his sworn enemy.

Jade Raymond managed to spit out a bit of grapefruit. "Ehh mmm a hashashim," she seemingly repeated.

"Wait a second." Josh walked over, swung his hand wide to move around the mole on her cheek, and plucked out the remainder of fruit in her mouth. "Let's try that one more time."

The lady on the display nodded as she breathed more freely. "I am a hashashim."

"Damn it, I thought I got all the grapefruit out…!"

"No, Joshua, hashashim! Hashashim!" shouted Jade Raymond. "It's ancient tongue for 'assassin!' I did a bit more research than you in creating my game, it seems!"

Josh and James could say nothing to this, continuing to fail to understand.

The woman before them took in a few more breaths, then continued herself: "I was sent here by Ubisoft to take out Inafune. I thought I could stop here along the way and take care of you on the same trip."

The survivors couldn't believe what they were hearing. Especially James. Here she was…the woman of his dreams…the woman whose name sort of sounded like his…the one with whom he so wanted to share the wedding invitation…James Ramsey and Jade Raymond cordially invite you…and here she was, talking about assassinating his creator.

Keiji "the Killa" Inafune.

Josh bent down to pick up as many jades as he could to use against the woman while James did his best to restrain him.

Steven had never beheld water so pure and unadulterated.

He had no choice but to shelve the shotgun in his sweating hands as the lady in the water—really lady made from water—came closer. She had just teleported in behind him, behind his cart, a second ago, and he was all ready to bust out with the buckshot again when she sidled up so slinkily and sexily.

The shopkeeper had spent his entire adult life minding the market…and the messes of others that were made within. So many spills…puddles…cleanups that he faced. It almost became a fetish after a while to see them lying around, day after day.

What he saw up close was not Alpha-152, the enemy made from aqua…but rather, one huge…entrancing…enticing…

….cleanup.

The Alpha-Female of all cleanups.

And Steven Chapman was in love.

"Come to me…RIGHT NOW!" he boomed manically, failing to heed Isabela's distant "NO!" as he collapsed in the coquettish cleanup's arms, enveloped in euphoric emotion.

In the ensuing seconds, Steven went from frenching to fornicating with the being built 100 of water. "YES! YES! YES! I WILL ALLOW PROCREATION IN MY STOOOOOOOORE!!

Alpha-152 allowed the poor, piddling man another instant or so of pleasure in her puddle of love…then abruptly disengaged, grabbed his head with her legs, and flipped him over, socking him on the scalp with enough blows to send him into a fantasy land where he could continue to copulate in his own deranged dreams.

"That's it, maricon del mar!"

Before the demon could turn and teleport once more, Isabela moved in quickly and slapped her full on the posterior with both hands. If the thing could think like a human, she might have thought Ugh, not more foreplay…but instead it reacted by twisting around…

…then falling down.

Sighing in relief heavily, Isabela staggered against a shelving and allowed herself to sit down. Thank God she was so good with impromptu cures and other measures…that zombie perfume she came up with…the idea she had for a temporary zombie retarding shot, using cold spray, film developing solution, and other sundry items…

…And now the Zombie Ben-Gay she just concocted, using just condiments, canned sauce, and a bit of acid from some camera batteries she borrowed from Frank back in the security area.

Fortunately, the cream she just invented didn't just incapacitate zombies…it worked on other monsters as well.

Including this water witch here.

Nonetheless, Isabela rose back to her feet a minute later, watching the prone figure of Alpha-152 intently. Ready to strike out again if the need arose, this time with a container of cooking oil.

Probably wouldn't mix so well with water.

"Isa! Honey!"

The woman turned her head to see who was calling.

"Frank!"

She didn't have to run far, as sure enough, the mendicant mall master himself—Frank West—emerged and rushed toward her. The two met in a passionate embrace…then a passionate kiss, much more impassioned than any mojo Steven could work with the cleanup of his life and libido.

"What are you doing here, Frank?" Isabela asked. "Your round in the tournament…"

"…Isn't for another forty minutes or so. I just wanted to swing by…I knew I couldn't help out here, or else I'd be disqualified. But I wanted to lend some moral support at least. If not, um…manly support."

The Santa Cabezan cocked an eyebrow at her love's brazen bravado. "Oh, Frank," she said finally after many more seconds, "I'm just glad to see you…"

WHISK

She then stopped all of sudden, knowing full well what she just heard. Isabela spun around to look at the place where Steven lay knocked out.

Alpha-152 was gone.

WHISK

She turned around…

…and found the foul adversary standing right behind Frank…

…ready to grab him and deliver her devastating laser move, which ordinarily consisted of her passing her hand over her opponent's chest, then blasting away…

…but for some reason, this time Alpha aimed lower.

Between the man's legs.

"NOOOOOO FRAAAAANK!"

In the space of the expiration of a second Isabela dove forward, pushing Frank West out of the way…

…and substituting her groin for his own.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—SHBLASSSSSSSTTTTT

Isabela just stood there for an instant, trying to register all the agony as Frank rebounded from the shove and looked back at her in shock.

Then she buckled, falling backward…

…knocking over her container of cooking oil as she fell.

Alpha-152 didn't teleport in time as first her feet, then her legs, then her entire body became engulfed in the Wesson of death. She shook, then vibrated, then thundered…

…then splashed all over Frank as she exploded, dying once more.

Frank took a second to realize all that was occurring. Watching a water woman self-destructing seemingly. Seeing the lady he adored getting shot in the crotch with a laser beam.

Then:

"Bleah, bleah…ISABELA!" he cried, as he spit out some of the oily mixture in his mouth, then rushed over to help his Latin lover. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry…"

"Nnh! Nnh!" was all the woman could manage at the moment. Blood bubbled from her mouth as she apparently lay in state.

"Isabela…you're gonna be okay…" Frank pleaded, rubbing her forehead tenderly. "Th-there's a first aid kit in the pharmacy nearby…just need to spread its contents over your…you know, and you should be just fine…"

"Frank!" whispered Isabela, somewhat audible…but not really. "You need to listen to me."

"Anything, Isa…please, tell me."

"You need to fight this…concha known as La Colmilla," gasped the terrific ex-terrorist, "and send her…back to the Hell that is Tecmo. For me."

"Of course, my darling, of course…"

"Urrhhherhherhhhherhheuhhh…"

"Isabela, I'm losing you! I'm losing you! Speak to me! Damn it!"

She was going somewhere between shock and delirium, and Frank West well knew it.

"Frank!" repeated Isabela, coming back for a miraculous second. She placed her hand on his face, her eyes rolling back a bit. "I love…

"I love…"

Then she passed out.

"EERRREEEEEEAAAAAARGH!"

Frank's anguished cry—which, in another reality, would have sounded from atop a tank after defeating an insane soldier—and which sounded equally unconvincing in both universes—reverberated through Seon's Food and Stuff for a pregnant moment.

The man sat there catatonically, convulsing with a vile mixture of dismay and rage, certain that his love was no longer alive…certain that she was about to tell him that she loved him…at last…

…then suddenly…

…a voice boomed over the public address system.

"FRANK WEST!"

The man looked up to the ceiling of Seon's.

"WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY WANT FROM ME RIGHT NOW, YOU PIXILATED PILE OF PONCE!!" he belted out.

"I AM HERE TO INFORM YOU, FIRST, THAT DESPITE YOUR LOVER'S DESTRUCTION OF ALPHA-152, THE VICTORY OF THIS MATCH STILL BELONGS TO US. ALPHA WAS THE FIRST TO STRIKE THE FINISHING BLOW, AND ISABELA'S COUNTERATTACK WAS MERELY INCIDENTAL AND CAME FAR TOO LATE."

"YOU INSIDIOUS, INVIDIOUS IMM…"

Frank was stuck a second, searching for another word to rhyme with "insidious" and "invidious."

"SILENCE! THE MATCH IS OURS!" shouted the voice from beyond.

"I AM ADDRESSING YOU ALSO TO REMIND YOU THAT WHEN—AND NOT IF—THE NEXT MATCH IS WON BY OUR SIDE AS WELL, YOU ARE TO MEET ME AT NO LATER THAN TWENTY MINUTES TO NOON, WITH YOUR TEAMMATES, TO SETTLE THIS MATTER ONCE AND FOR ALL. LA COLMILLA HAS SPOKEN."

CLICK

Frank continued sitting/kneeling in his broken formation, Isabela's limp form cradled in his arms. Thousands of yells of angst echoed through his mind, his heart, his soul. He could hear them all at once, and one at a time. Isabela…Isabela…

"JADE RAYMOND!"

Huh?

"I'LL GET YOU SOMEDAY!" cried a voice not far away, as Frank looked up from his self-pity a second to see a young white man walking off forcefully with a young black man in his arms. "JADE RAYMOND! JA…JADE RAYMOND! JADE RAYMOND!"

Unbeknownst to Frank, the bescreamed Jade Raymond was shackled to a raw meat display, rendered immobile by handcuffs that James had found on a prone police officer who was once zombified but then ground to the ground by Steven's weapon cart.

Josh was through with the woman, as far as James was concerned…but James himself was just getting started.

Unbeknownst to Frank also, his mami, his mistress…Isabela Keyes…was not indeed dead, but merely unconscious. The laser she sustained had cauterized and closed the wound as soon as it was opened, so she would not even suffer massive blood loss. Still, some medical attention might be necessary soon.

Unbeknownst to Frank in addition, the woman, in her delirious condition, was not about to say "I love you," but rather "I love empanadas"…but he at least didn't have to know that.

Regardless of it all, Frank gently set down his paragon of paramours and looked up to the smeared ceiling of Seon's. "La Colmilla…Lei Fang," he grumbled with the fiercest of conviction.

"I hope you're ready…

"for Le Frank."

MALLGOERS: 10

EVILDOAERS: 9

ENCOUNTER TWENTY: CLETUS SAMSON, JONATHAN PICARDSEN, BRETT STYLES, AND BROCK MASON VERSUS SPARTAN-458

(AND SPECIAL GUEST STARRING MIRANDA COSGROVE)

(AS WELL OTHER SURPRISE APPEARANCES)

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, DESERTED DRAINAGE AREA,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 11:20AM

The barren scape of wasteland that comprised the arena for the next battle came off to Nicole-458 as a bit lacking in inspiration. This didn't begin to approach the fantastical fairways and technological terrariums through which she regularly coursed and confronted contumacious covenanters.

Like the 457 Nicoles before her, Miss 458 was a brawler, a pugilist…but a princess within as well. Underneath all the emerald armors, she enjoyed being showered with generous gifts and lavish luxuries…when she wasn't fighting so many unfriendlies along with her fellow Spartans.

She'd been a visitor to the 'verse of Tecmo for only so long, when all of a sudden she found herself in the thrall of that ignoble Lei Fang—known as La Colmilla at present—who managed to hypnotize her and now make her a special character in the Capcom universe as well. Even Nicole's gold visor—which completely obscured her eyes, face…really anything that would make her appear more than humanoid—couldn't

keep her from falling victim to the tournament leader's wiles.

Oh, to be back with the other Spartans, she thought to herself, as she checked her suit and its capabilities for the coming battle. To be hanging again with Vinh-30, or maybe Grace-93…going shopping for matching boots, then shooting some Kig-yars to pass the time…but then also to gossip about that slut Holly-G003. Could you believe she did it: she went and got those catalytic thyroid implants! With that flat Mark IV ass she has, ain't gonna do her no good anyhow. But the way William-43 and Malcom-59 drooled! It was a sin.

And then the very thought of Isaac-39…he was quite the sweetheart, won over her alloy-protected heart right well, he did. Memories of them cavorting, fooling around…drowning in a whirlpool of intimacy. A lucky bystander might have gotten an eyeful to see two sets of green Mjolnirs rolling around and around, his gloved hands fondly fondling her carbide ceramic ossification, her fingers tensing at the sensation of his superconducting fibrification of neural dendrites.

But then she betrayed herself, at the peak of her pleasurable pique:

"KURT-51!"

She called out the wrong name…

…again.

Maybe it was better that Nicole were here, now, instead of back home.

She stood in place to make sure her energy was fully recovered, then peeked around the corner she used for cover to scope out her enemies.

Hmm…haven't seen humans so naked in…forever, actually, she thought. That bare fact (pun intended) might have even made her aroused if the four she focused upon weren't so…let's say…unphotogenic. A…caveman wearing loud, cheap duds from the Appalachians; a young, near skinhead-lookin' fella who's kinda cute, but comes off like he got his clothes from an ancient military surplus thrift store; a guy all in black who looks like a Caucasian version of that "Jibber Jabber" guy from the "A-Team" re-runs that have been on for millennia; and a more respectable soldier who sort of remotely resembles Tobin Bell from Saw 3,659,725…

BOOOOOM

"Agh!" cried Nicole-458 through her suit, as she tumbled out from her hiding place. She'd underestimated her quarry.

They'd sighted her!

"Switch to automatic control," Brock instructed his automated military monstrosity as he stood alongside its turret. He leapt off the vehicle as it rolled towards the border of the arena and parked itself quietly.

"Whar' ye doin, boy?" barked Cletus raucously as he chucked up his shotgun for the coming conflict. After belching for a spell, he continued: "We ain' got no idea what we up 'ginst, and yer all but puttin 'way our best guns n' brass thit we've got!"

"We've got enough firepower on our side for the time being," spoke up Jonathan, priming his own boomstick and aiming out to where the sexy Spartan lay. "We'll go back to the tank if it's necessary."

"J-Pic's right," said Brett, as he aimed his machinegun in time, "Let's give this green knight all we've got, with what we're packing!"

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

RATATATATATATATATATATATATATAT

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

So much for the martial arts that Bayman taught me in Tecmoland, Nicole said to herself as she flipped away from the projectiles punching into the ground where she once was a second ago. She pumped up against a steel support around a corner and tried to figure how she could best get the drop on her foes.

La Colmilla had ordered that those on the Tecmo side weren't to use weapons against the Capcom survivors…even if the odds were so stacked against the impossibly idealized invaders as they were at present.

But that didn't mean that Spartan-458 didn't bring any armaments with her…

The Mjolnired maiden reached into the back of her suit and whipped out the first futuristic firearm that came to mind.

"Miss Miranda, it is my dearest hope that you are feeling better as of now."

"Yes, Bell, I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking. Though I told you the same thing the last dozen times or so."

"Oh, Miss Miranda…"

And so it went on like this as the precocious, pretentious Miranda Cosgrove was eagerly escorted through the treacherous tank area by her new personal assistant, Drake Bell. Although it was 2006, and the sulky starlet wouldn't take the fore in her sickeningly saccharine series iCarly for another year, the shoe had most definitively gone onto the other foot regarding who was boss on the set of the Nickelodeon hit Drake and Josh. Miranda'd already used her irresistible influence on the Nick network to send costar Josh Peck on a diet wherein he'd lost 4673647365873658723678 pounds…and had now curbed the other man on the marquee to be her ever-serving, ever-obsequious lapdog.

Although only thirteen, Miranda was well on her way to having authored (or having arranged a ghostwriting) of her (first) autobiography and self-help book, iCares. When, and not if, iCarly was a raging success to teen sheep all across the various universes, she would supplement the show, and her infinitely-increasing income, with vast sales of a book that would chronicle her adventures through various alternate realities, and give new-age advice on how to deal with certain situations and predicaments in interdimensional travel. After all, she'd already had plans to make a show about a webcast she would host; why not take it several steps further by expanding into other worlds?

"Take my forays into the various plazas here, Bell, and make them as heroic as possible," she ordered her has-been-to-be assistant.

"Yes, Miss Miranda, ma'am," blubbered poor, career-destitute Drake. "I would humbly advise that you do be careful of those volleys of bullets and shells that are exploding all about us, for your sake, of course, and not mine. Oh…what of my writing of your most unfortunate bout of salmonella in the Food Court?"

"Take that and represent it as a…'tortured chapter in the course of my spiritual, interdimensional journey,' if you will," she replied. "Yes, all my fans will eat that up readily…it was so 'tortured'…such a tortured episode."

"Yes, of course, Miss…'tortured.'" Already a favorite adjective of so many self-absorbed bloggers and virtual tabloids like Time and Newsweek, Miranda knew just how to have her flock identify with and thus idolize her accordingly.

But what the seemingly omniscient Miranda Cosgrove did not know was that the supposed salmonella she experienced at her early lunch was not food poisoning at all…but rather consumption of a special sort of pizza. Not the uncooked kind, or the spoiled sort. No, this was one that a photojournalist steeped in poverty had placed in a microwave on his way through the Park View…and had forgotten to take out. This was the nastiest tomato pie of all…

…A gamma pizza.

And Miranda had scarfed it.

"I must continue with my heroics, if I am to become all the more adored by the populaces across the multiverse," she said to her assistant. "I must find something for which tales will be told across ages and eras…a person in distress, in grave danger…someone who needs me to reach out for them…someone in a time of great peril…"

Miranda scoured the scape with her eyes, searching for someone whom she could help amidst the shotgunfire and machinegun milling that was going on.

"…Someone like her."

The person to whom the saucy star was pointing was no Mjolnir-wearing maiden from millennia ahead…

…but rather, a young girl who was resting against the side of a station-wagon that had taken a wrong turn.

A young girl who was homesick, and sad, and wishing only to be home with her mommy, who was catching a nap inside of the vehicle.

A young girl who was about to become the unwitting target of a test blast by a sadistic, ruthless, ogre of a US Army general.

"Get that thing away from her, you effed-up bastard!" yelled Nicole-458 as she used the brunt of her armor to slam into the side of Brock's tank.

SSS-BOOOOOM

The Halo heroine had endured countless shots from Jonathan, Brett, and Cletus as she ran to deflect the army asswipe from firing upon the innocent humans in the jalopy across the arena. Thank God, the impact of her suit had ruined the artillery's aim, and had instead blasted into the ground near to the car, creating a crude trench.

SSS-CLUNNNK

"Uggh!" yelped Nicole as she was suddenly thrown off her metal feet by the swing of the neck of the tank's cannon.

"That oughta keep you out of my hair for a while," sneered Brock at the warrior woman from inside his vehicle. As he was bald, of course, he meant another kind of hair, on which we really don't need to dwell right now.

Anyway, Brock cocked up his nerve and resumed taking aim against the defenseless station wagon from far off.

"It's going to fire again, Bell!" shouted Miranda Cosgrove as she ran to get the little girl. "I've got to get my photo op! Got to get myself in the best light possible…"

Damn it! she thought to herself as she nearly reached the wagon, he didn't reload his camera at the last plaza, did he? I'll have to fire his ass when we get out of this…get Peck to replace him, chop-chop.

Unbeknownst to soon-to-be-Carly, someone had just snapped her heroic run to the wagon…and would be taking many more shots in the ensuing seconds, each of which earning him four-figure points and orange circles classified under "Drama."

"Fannnnn-tas-tic," said the shrouded, shabbily-dressed figure.

"You've got to get out of here…ma'am! Little girl!" screamed Miranda to the child and the woman inside the car. "I've got to get you to safety!"

"Wha…who…" the little girl started. "Miranda-Freakin-Cosgrove?"

"Yeah…there's no time!" shouted said Freakin'-Cosgrove, as adrenalin and an unquenchable thirst for recognition fueled her efforts to drag the girl by one arm and the woman by the other. "The ditch!"

With an abrupt heave, Miranda tossed the two into the groove in the ground made by the terrible tank.

She then tensed herself for her own haughty hop into the trench along with them, making sure she showed some serious stuff in the process…for the all the peds out there.

But then, in that critical second in which she was flexin' and flashin'…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

"AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!"

Caught in the blast of the overly dramatic explosion that was Brock's last salvo, Miranda Cosgrove became bombarded with all kinds of concussive energy and other…crap like that. Her frail, famous form fell into the ditch to accompany the graciously alive mother and child that she had just saved.

"Mawmmy," said the little girl as Miranda's body fell near them, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Dakota, dear," replied the woman, known to many fellow Willamettans as Connie. "You're not hurt, yourself, are you?"

"No, Mawmmy…but that's more than I can say for that lump'a chump change over there." She pointed over to her saccharine savior, who lay rumpled and unconscious.

For the moment.

"Your luck just ran out, boys," bluffed Nicole-458 as she leapt quickly all around the arena, praying that her enemies' ammo could "run out" at some point as well. How was she to take any of them down, if they could blast her (even considering her armor) at any range?

"I'm'a blow yer robot boxy ass to kingdom come, lady!" griped Cletus as he belted away with both barrels, missing all the time.

"You'll tire at some point, missy," chided and chimed in Jonathan, reloading his weapon. "And when y'do, we'll be there to take you down and end this tourney."

Brett said nothing, but just continued to fire away with his automatic. Nicole noted how primitive the machinegun was compared to her own weaponry…but she still held her own hand in terms of whipping out her own weapons at the moment, having sheathed the firearm she took out while in hiding. She would evade disqualification and take a bullet for La Colmilla, if it meant that the Tecmoers could get a shot at still winning this thing.

Brock said nothing as well, observing his enemy…admiring. Brock was a man whose senses and tastes had advanced, through the battlefield…had advanced far beyond those of modern man. He desired the Spartan for her prowess in avoiding the attacks of the other men…desired her nimbleness, as well as her resourcefulness in baiting them to fire again and again, in the hopes that they would deplete their munitions in vain. By then, he knew, the woman would have accomplished her quest to run.

Her quest to hide.

For the purpose of striking back, at a moment of her choosing.

But most of all, Brock desired her…physically, somehow.

In the centuries to come, man's taste for woman would further develop, as it had developed before…from the time of the Vikings, where the plump and portly female was the most wanted…to the time of today, where the Kate Mosses and other such sticks represented the feminine ideal…to the time of a sort of Norsemen different from the Vikings—the Mjolnir, where it wasn't a question of thin or thick, but rather the mark of the armor that was worn, and what enhancements were added.

Sitting in his tank, Brock lusted, as did so many number-suffixed-Spartans of tomorrow, after the curvilicious concoction that was Nicole-458. The voluptuous thrust of the sexless metal hips…the torquing of the neuter steel thighs as the goddess glided through the air…the brilliance of the lovely, golden, everyperson faceplate…

Brock didn't even think about what was inside the armor. He loved the Spartan just the way she was.

BUM BOM BUM BOM BUM BOM BUM BOM…

Brock was shocked out of his euphoric trance as he suddenly heard the thunder of inexplicable tympanis from the trench his tank created. He looked through his machine's visuals to see the source of the sound.

As a matter of fact, so did Nicole and all the schmoes that were futilely firing at her.

From the depths of the ditch emerged an enormous arm, colored somewhere between green and gray, as if its creator (or the author) couldn't decide between the two hues.

The arm was then followed by its owner, headed off by ragged black hair and vicious yellow eyes.

Before all who observed could take in any more, the seeming monster leapt high into the air, and nothing more of her ghastly form could be measured before she landed full force amongst all of the arena combatants, causing them to dive for abrupt cover.

"RRRRREEEAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!" bellowed the new, awful creature.

"Wh-what is that?!" yelped Connie from her hiding place, astounded at the frightening figure who was once the unconscious "chump change" just seconds ago.

"It's…it's some kind of…hulking…hulk…hulk…" Dakota was not dubbing the monster a "hulk" per se, but rather was trying to get out the same adjective over and over…so shocked was she at the sight.

And said monster, having heard the attempt at the adjectives, synthesized the words with her own conception of what she really was:

The manifestation of Miranda Cosgrove's own ugly ambition, borne out fully into the light.

"AAAAARRRRAAAAARRRRRGGGHHHH—RRAAAAAAAARRRGGH!" exclaimed the creature, scaring everyone into involuntary ululation and urination.

Then, as everyone lay down, with hands and/or arms over their eyes:

"hulCarly NOT KNOW WHERE hulCarly IS…BUT hulCarly WILL SMASH!"

"Yeep!" peeped Drake Bell from afar, tossing his clipboard over his shoulder and abandoning his mistress. Let Josh Peck have his job; to hell with it!

"YAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!" yelled the horrible hulCarly again as she stalked toward those who she felt had threatened her safety…and her stardom. "hulCarly WILL NOT LET WEAKLING SURVIVORS GET IN hulCarly's WAY! AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!"

"Screw this, I ain't gonna die cowerin' and cringin'!" gritted Jonathan, taking up his shotgun. "I'm gonna die takin' a shot at this thing!" With the utmost of his guts, the young survivalist ran to the monster, took aim, and fired point blank basically.

BOOM BOOM

The creature, thoroughly unaffected, just looked at Jonathan as if he were a pesky housefly. "hulCarly NOT HURT BY GUN OF ARMY NAVY SURPLUS GUY! BUT hulCarly WILL SMASH ARMY NAVY SURPLUS GUY FOR GETTING IN hulCarly's WAY TO FAME AND FORTUNE!"

Raising her fists above her head, the horrific hulCarly rared to bring all hell down on the possible pulpee that was Jonathan Picardsen.

"NO!"

"RRRRRAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!—UHH?"

Just as the hulCarly brought her fists down on the place where Jonathan was just standing, the seemingly doomed survivor was tackled out of doom's way by Spartan-458.

As the man shook out his cobwebs a second later and got to his feet, he started to thank her profusely. "Th-thank you, Miss, much obli—oof!"

Before the man could even deliver his gush of gratitude, however, the Spartan stamped on the man's foot, then kneed him hard in the midsection, sending him into unconsciousness rather quickly. "Hostile down," she said, to no one in particular.

Regardless of how fubared the situation had just become, Nicole-458 was determined to rack up her victory for Tecmo…she wouldn't even let this newfound monster do her dirty work for her.

Next up to bat was Brett Styles, as he shouldered his machinegun to fire at the lumbering thing approaching him.

RATATATATATATATATATATAT

"WHY DOES WHITE MISTER T FIRE AT hulCarly?! WHITE MISTER T DOES NOT UNDERSTAND HE CANNOT HURT hulCarly!! hulCarly HATES WHITE MISTER T AND HIS PASSE POSER MOHAWK!!"

And with that, the horrid hulCarly aimed a haymaker at the still-shooting Brett, who was oblivious in his bloodthirsty fever to the fact that his bullets weren't affecting the hulCarly any.

But again…

"RRRRRAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHH—AAAAARRRGGGHHH! WHITE MISTER T, WHO CRAMPS hulCarly's STYLE AND SENSE OF FASHION, IS PUSHED OUT OF hulCarly's WAY! AAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!"

And then, again, before Brett could fully recover, Spartan-458 attacked, generating some surge of energy from one fist that arced upward in an uppercut, knocking out the misnamed "Styles" rather quickly.

"This is getting kinda old," Nicole thought aloud to herself, "But any way I can get the point. I'll take it."

"So…Dakota," started Frank West, taking out his notepad for the first time in at least seventy-two hours, to actually conduct an interview of a survivor. All the so-called "scoops" he unearthed in the past few days were really just thinly-veiled rescues and nothing more. Not unlike Miranda Cosgrove, Frank himself wasn't honestly trying to save others…he just wanted to further his career.

And yet, frustratingly…there were so many opportunities, with all the survivors, and those "cases" involving the Santa Cabezans and all…that he didn't even get to take five minutes to question a single person.

But at least here he was, now.

"Yeah?" said the little girl, impatiently, in the depths of the ditch.

"How do you feel about being rescued by teen idol Miranda Cosgrove? Are you…grateful? Starstruck? Hoping to still get an autograph, despite her…change?"

Frank was scribbling away before the girl even responded.

"Who…me?" said Dakota, arching an incredulous eyebrow. "Hell no. What do I look like, a friggin moron?"

"Wh…whaddaya mean? All the kids're…crazy about Miranda. She's, like, the new…messiah, basically! Don't you think that your reply is a little…eh…extreme?"

"Extreme?! Look, Mr. West. Mawmmy and I have fended for ourselves these past few days on nothing but goddamn Hamburger Fiefdom takeout crud. We've lived on the tough streets of Willamette all our lives. I read the blogs and the news bites on that little jerk. She's gonna do a show next year where she shacks up in an ivory tower in Seattle…an ivory space needle, if you will…and that's supposed to reach someone like me? The fk am I supposed to relate to that?"

Frank just looked at Dakota. For once, he had nothing to say.

"She's off doing her masturbatory 'Megan' schtick right now on Drake and Josh, and then she'll have her own thing. And then she'll be in movies, and then she'll cut an album, and then she'll be as huge and hatable as that…Fanning twit, after whom I'm named…damn you, Mawmmy!"

Connie cringed from across the ditch.

"The bottom line is this: Miranda Cosgrove is an out-of-touch Hollywood ho, and I'm doing all I can in this literal craphole I'm in right now. That is all. Thank you for your time, sir. From what I hear, you'd better get your homeless ass to the last fight with that…'La Cornea' chick or whatever, 'cause it looks over there like Iron Balls Betty's getting the upper hand."

Indeed, said "Iron Balls"—Spartan-458—had downed three of her four intended foes…Jonathan, Brett, and now Cletus. The last she had saved from the hulCarly, of course, then shunted him to the ground quickly with a shoulder throw…but not before the man had thrown down his shotgun and tossed a weird-looking…wine bottle, of some sort, to the hulking starlet on steroids.

"Hit…hit 'er with the moonshine, I did," Cletus cackled triumphantly as he slipped into oblivion. "Th…the nutrient…booze…"

Unknown to Nicole, Brock, the hulCarly, and all others present, Cletus was not just any Samson, but had pertained to the famed Samson clan which had by now spanned many generations as well as multiple realities. The same family that included Doctor Leonard Samson, who had created the infamous "nutrient bath" that separated Bruce Banner and the Incredible Hulk into two separate beings.

As it turned out, the formula…or recipe, as it were…for the nutrient bath has been passed down through many a Samson in various worlds. Cletus's specialty was regular, plain old wines of yore…but he took the time to live up to the family name, and made a batch of special Samson moonshine in his own "nutrient bathtub." Just in case.

And that case came up right now, as the greatest threat to Willamette had shifted in the past several minutes from a monster named Carlito to another beast named Carly.

hulCarly.

"GURGLE GURGLE GURGLE GURGLE GURGLE AHHHHHH! hulCarly NOT KNOW WHAT DUKES OF HAZZARD REJECT GIVE TO hulCarly…BUT hulCarly LIKE CRAZY DRINK!! hulCarly FEEL A BIT DIZZY…AND GIDDY! hul…

"NOOOOO!" shouted the monster suddenly. "hulCarly CAN FEEL PRESENCE AND INFLUENCE OF PUNY COSGROVE INSIDE! hulCarly WILL NOT ALLOW PUNY COSGROVE TO TAKE OVER! PUNY COSGROVE IS CUTE AND SASSY, BUT hulCarly SASSIEST ONE THERE IS! AAARRRAAARRRGGGHHH!!

"GREEN ASTRONAUT BEEKEEPER, HELP hulCarly!" yelled the creature to Spartan-458, who was hiding behind another rock. "GREEN ASTRONAUT BEEKEEPER MUST HELP hulCarly, OR hulCarly WILL SMASH!!

"AAAAAARRRRRAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH…"

And then, the most incredible thing happened.

In a flash, a clap, and a seeming cosmic burp, the hulCarly convulsed…once…twice…thrice.

And then pitched forward, spitting the frail figure of Miranda Cosgrove out of its giant gullet.

Leaving the imposing, impossible creature a mindless shell…still out for glory and consumed with an insatiable egomania.

"AAAAARGH…MONEY! AAAAARGH…POWER! AAAAARGH…FAME! AAAAARGH…COSGROVELODEON! AAAAARGH…"

This left just everyone else, including Connie, Dakota, Spartan-458, a bevomited Miranda Cosgrove, three unconscious survivors…and one irate conscious survivor, who was bent on taking out…

…the rampaging hulCarly.

For some reason, the greatest prize to which a soldier could lay claim was a hulking gray/green behemoth. It worked for General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross in the Marvelverse…and so too did it do it for Brock Mason.

"I'll bring you down!" he shouted from his tank, as he gave chase out of the sandy arena. "You won't get away, hulCarly…you…you hulCarly!"

And, as Brock rolled out of the area, effectively disqualifying himself and giving Spartan-458 the decisive win, the armored woman approached the barfed-out Miranda to comfort her.

"It's alright," started Nicole, "you're okay now."

Miranda shuddered as she sobbed profusely. "No, it's not alright…is it?"

The mothering Mjolnir paused. "No. It isn't. I won't lie to you. You're finished."

It was true. Her stardom having left her, Miranda was now just an ordinary girl. Fortunately for her.

"But…what'll I do now?"

"I suppose, Miranda…you'll just have to…get a real job, like everyone else."

Miranda winced as Nicole continued, consoling her with words and a rub on the shoulder. "A teacher, or an accountant, or a…lawyer, or…"

It was interesting, too; Nicole-458 could feel her future home reality shifting, many threads of fate regarding the Covenant, the Flood, and all that other mumbo jumbo…just because Miranda Cosgrove now would not become famous.

Perhaps the evil would be cleansed and the United Nations Space Command would prevail at last. Spartan-458 had accomplished something after all.

"NOOOOO!" cried Miranda, as she broke from the futuristic soldier. "No way I'm becoming a lawyer! Gimme the shotgun that hick dropped!"

MALLGOERS: 10

EVILDOAERS: 10

ENCOUNTER TWENTY-ONE: FRANK WEST (AS LE FRANK), OTIS WASHINGTON, AND RUSSELL BARNABY VERSUS LEI FANG (AS LA COLMILLA)

(AS WELL AS OTHER SURPRISE APPEARANCES)

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, HELIPORT ACCESS,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 11:40AM

At the center of the zombified zone that was now Willamette, on the most altitudinous of roofs at the Park View Mall, tens of straggling survivors, and ones of ludicrously beautiful brawlers, congregated to bear witness to the combat event that would determine all of their futures in the multiverse.

The outcome of this last battle would set the course for things to come, not only in the Capcomverse, but also in the Tecmoverse, as well as our own real world as well.

Well, maybe at least two out of those three.

"Frank? Frank?!" yelled Otis, polishing his transceiver for the pending pounding he was hoping to give and not receive. "Russell, where did that crooked-nosed tramp get off to?"

"…Search me," replied the other old man curtly, as he cleaned his cane in anticipation for the fight as well. "…I didn't ask for any of this! I wish the government just…did its job and…got us out of here, damn it!"

"I hear ya, I know," said Otis wistfully, looking over the unconscious form of Tina Armstrong. La Colmilla tried to throw her weight around for the umpteenth time by having her enforcer rough up the old farts a bit before the scheduled match…but Otis and Russell would have none of it. So the overly fit, buxom blonde was now heaving in a heap at the geriatrics' feet.

Across the windy way that was the Park View Heliport, a crowd of locals and interdimensionals alike began to circle around the official arena: the very yellow Circle H that was the helicopter landing pad itself. It was so dramatic of a locale, so capital…

…And yet so cliché, basically ripping off the second lair from the first Virtual Fighter.

But anyway, the air was yet saturated with tension and anxiety as all occupants of this vista view waited for, waited on one of two redoubtable, disparate saviors.

The one, the tai chi contessa, the mistressmind of the entire tournament: the invading vixen known to all for long as La Colmilla. Better known to those throughout several universes as the lissome, lithe Lei Fang.

The other…

SPA-BANNNG

"Damn it, you bumbling fool!" crowed Dr. Barnaby as the fubar-faced Frank West spilled through the roof access door at the last possible moment, "you almost got us disqualified!"

"Hhh, hhh, I know, I know," gasped the flustered photojournalist as he staggered past, chugging a coffee creamer in an attempt to heal a spinal cord severed by a crush of creatures on the way over. "Ju…just give me a second."

"We shall not grant you more than that second, Frank West," declared his opponent, from the helipad. "You knew that this match was to occur within minutes of noontide today. It was your obligation to produce your own vagabond body at this location, at this hour. Do not presume to seek my indulgences now."

"I wasn't presuming to seek anything," spat Frank as his spine began to set properly, thank goodness.

"You shall address me as 'Lady La Colmilla' when speaking to me!!" shouted the far-gone femme, just as she finished a tai chi chuan form.

"I'll call you what I will, Fangface," Frank shot back, flexing and stretching to get ready. "And you, Lei Fang, will call me by my new name…

"LE FRANK."

"I will call you deceased in a second!" yelled Lei Fang, as Frank, Otis, and Russell jumped onto the helipad. Fighter and survivor alike mobbed the metal fringes of the makeshift match ground, screaming and writhing like a swarm of starved, bloodthirsty…well, you know.

"You know the consequences of this battle," Lei Fang began. "When I win…"

"If," Otis cut her off abruptly.

The warrior woman cleared her throat impatiently, then continued: "If I win, I will lay claim to this entire town, and thenceforth commence my plans of Capcomverse conquest from this point on."

"And if we win, you whippersnapping spitfire?!" barked Dr. Barnaby.

"In the unlikely event of that occurrence, my entourage and I shall take leave of your useless universe and return to our own." La Colmilla's fingers did not cross upon this statement, but in her mind she harbored no intention of leaving this world, this Capcomverse…

…this…arguable area of her origin.

"Well, let's just get on with it!" hollered Russell as he clambered over to where the lady stood, ready to administer the same caning he just handed down to her blossomed-bosomed bodyguard.

"Yah!" yelped Lei Fang in response, quickly dispatching the abusive elder by drawing him close with one hand, then thrusting deep into his midsection with the other.

All that emitted from Russell Barnaby at first was a sad "Uhh!" as he abruptly plopped to the concrete.

A rush of roars from the fighters overpopulating the area ensued when he hit.

Then, after the woman who whacked him had punted him from the arena with a steel-toed pump, he looked to the downed Tina and promptly disavowed responsibility for his role in her defeat, as well as his own: "That thrashing…was absolutely necessary! I haven't done…anything…wrong…"

"Existing was what you did wrong, you dirty more-than-twentysomething," muttered Lei Fang over her shoulder. Indeed, as she firmly believed, all men over the age of two decades were lewd, lascivious louts who deserved the beatings she bestowed unto them. Just ask the poor fellow who rode the train with her in her ending from her last tournament.

RRRRRING-RRRING

"Damn it," Lei Fang cursed, grabbing the transceiver from inside her comely peaches-and-cream cheongsam costume. "What is it?!"

"It's me, Otis, the janitor," said the voice on the other end of the line, as its owner approached from the other end of the helipad. "That sexy dress you're wearin' is hidin' nothin.'"

He ran towards Lei Fang, still speaking into the yellow communicator out of force of habit. "Call it an old fart's intuition, I can just tell…"

"Yee-ah!"

Before the masterful maintenance man could click his device off and strike with it, his target lashed out by grabbing him near the shoulders, then taking one arm and shoving it against his throat, throwing him backward. Otis tumbled end over end off of the pad without much bother or ceremony, again to the delight of the many battered fighters of Tecmoland.

"You better save our asses again, Fr…" was all the old man could say as his own transceiver struck him in the ear, ironically knocking him out.

"It is now down to you and me, Frank West," said La Colmilla, as she drew herself together with an intimidating tai chi stance. Meters away, the intrepid yet impoverished hero steeled himself and stood his ground.

The woman set her face with the angriest (yet still cutest little) look. "Before we continue, I wish to reveal to you…"

Ooh…this sounds fun, Frank thought for a second.

"…the reason as to why I decided to come to the Capcomverse…"

Damn it, inwardly cried the blue-balled photoprotagonist.

"…the reason, should I say, I decided to come back to the Capcomverse…

"…the reason I decided to come…home."

"What are you talking about?!" Frank piped incredulously. A collective shudder and gasp sounded across the crowd.

Lei Fang sighed slowly and softly before she spoke. "I shall explain.

"Back in the mid-to-late 1990s, as you already well know, the Dead or Alive tournaments commenced, exciting and arousing countless individuals across several universes. I was one of the first female fighters to be featured in what would become, arguably, the flagship franchise of the gaming enterprise.

"However, not only was I one of the original ladies of the tournaments…I was the definitive original woman to represent the savagery and sexuality of Dead or Alive."

Frank's brow crinkled as he checked his watch, hoping this would not take the remaining real-time hour that was his day.

"Here, Frank…look at this."

His eyes then shot upward, hoping for the exposition from Lei Fang that he was eagerly anticipating…

…but then he groaned upon seeing just a small computer rendering being thrown to his feet by La Colmilla.

Darn.

"See the cover of the presentation that was Dead or Alive 1! Discover that it was I who was the one, front and center, looking infinitely lovelier and more lustful than the other two flanking me on either side!!"

Indeed, as Frank could notice from the design, Lei Fang was in the middle, wearing a snazzy black getup with her hair tufted up and pretty, while a brunette and slightly heavier Tina was to her right, and a plainer, white-haired Kasumi was to her left.

"I was the fairest fighter! Not…chunky-ass Tina, or the inexplicably ivory-maned Kasumi! At least on that front cover!"

"Yeah, so…what happened?" Frank asked.

"Huh, well. As if I myself even fully know the whole story. It is part of the reason why I am returning to the place of my…origin. I shall continue.

"Let me take you back even further, before that savagery and sexuality that was DOA…back to a milestone that occurred, in your very own universe…and…mine, ultimately. A little happening called Super Street Fighter II.

"With the emergence of that project came four new fighters—only one of which, of course, had any staying power. Yea, although there were four to begin with, three were disregarded as minor leaguers, and basically not appealing enough as the pigtailed pugilist Cammy White…and those three were basically ousted from the Capcom radar screen.

"One of the three, you may know, possessed a name similar to my own."

Frank thought for a second, then shucked his mouth open in shock as a realization dawned on him. "You can't mean you're…actually…"

"Fei Long?" said Lei Fang quickly. "The answer to that would be…yes and no.

"After Fei Long fell out of sight back in the mid-nineties, he stealthily snuck into Capcom's headquarters and took advantage technology to be used for crossovers such as Marvel v. Capcom, or Capcom v. SNK…to reach any other world out there, any world that would take him. He ended up landing in the Tecmoverse—a world where its creators were desperate to find a new, most likely lewd angle to stay afloat in their competitive gaming galaxy.

"Fei Long approached one of Tecmo's gods…the so-called gentleman known to most simply as Itagaki. He begged Itagaki to involve him in an upcoming Tecmo project that would possibly bring him the Bruce-Lee-impersonative glory he had sought after for so many years."

Frank's foot tapped with intense irritation—as did that of fifty-plus other survivors—as this went on and on. The man didn't endure terrorism, cultism, and an asylum load of psychosis for three days just to listen to this lady blather away. "Alright, alright, so you're, like, Fei Long with a sex change or something, right? Let's just…come on and get this overwith."

"NO!" shouted Lei Fang, "I refuse to continue until you listen to the conclusion to my tale! I am almost there, so just…quiet your face.

"Itagaki laughed heartily at the request of a mighty, yet somewhat lowly, Capcommer to join his cause. So the god did what he felt was just.

"Imprisoning the uninspired warrior, Itagaki drew cell samples from Fei Long, and generated his first clones from them. Yes, before there was Kasumi and her own ho iteration, known as Alpha-152…there was Fei Long…and two carbon copies, of a sort. One was a male: the unfortunately injured Jann-Lee, as you can see here." She waved her arm over to where her mortal enemy Jann-Lee lay in abject agony, rubbing some sort of familiar substance on his betrumpeted behind.

That's…that's the Zombie Ben-Gay that Is…Isabela created! Frank's mind raced. Could it mean…that she's…

"The other…clone," choked La Colmilla as she spoke, "was the one you see in front of you.

"At any rate, I was trained intensely by Itagaki and rose through the nine-or-tenfold original DOA ranks to become the reigning queen of the title. It was my face, and mine alone, that sold millions of copies across the multiverse. Things progressed along rather optimally for a while, as I remained at least one of the main selling aspects of the fledgling franchise—if not the main aspect.

"But then…our god Itagaki began to experience a bit of…jailer's remorse.

"At least in part because the so-called 'man' or possibly 'god' didn't like the fact that his main asset—me—had been spawned from an individual of the Capcomverse, he began edging me…phasing me out of the title's limelight. In addition, he didn't like the fact that I, again an indirect by-product of Capcom, was beginning to approach him with ideas that could increase our already irresistible appeal. The name change I advised from Dead or Alive, which really makes no sense when it comes down to it, to Dead or Bust, to still makes no sense but at least it's more suggestive, was summarily shot down. Also aborted was my brainchild of DOA Titillating Tiddlywinks…which was eventually twisted by the Tecmo elders into DOA Xtreme Beach Volleyball. All the while, while I presented my ideas to the fore, Itagaki was never listening…always propositioning.

"Infuriated, I shrugged him off and let him do what he would with my character and my life. I watched as Dead or Alive 2 came along with the resurgence of the annoyance that was Ayane, as well as the appearance of hoity-toity Helena. Then Dead or Alive 3 with the grating Hitomi and the galling Christie…whom I'll come back to in a second. And lastly, of course, Dead or Alive 4, with Lisa, or La Mariposa, as I'll admit I sort of got the inspiration for my own name from…and that bobobo known as Kokoro.

Lei Fang threw out more cover designs to Frank. Among them were DOA3, DOA4, DOAX1, and DOAX2. "Notice also that my countenance does not grace that cover of any of these! Again, at least not the American versions. I'm not even in the family-portraitesque fourth tournament cover, which features, goddamn, Bass and Eliot for Christ's sake.

"And lastly, the DOA: Dead or Alive movie. Again, as in the DOA1 game cover, it is Kasumi on one side and Tina on the other…but who is in the center? Not me! Not me, but…Christie, the ungrateful, undeserving spit-haired sthead!

"And who was the only girl to be a minor character in the film, and not a sexy lead…who was the only woman who wasn't played by a recognizable, worldwide household name…who was the only lady who lost in the first round of that tournament…!"

"Lei Fang…" interrupted Frank, "like, other girls, like Hitomi, Lisa, and Kokoro were barely in the film also, or not at all…"

"SILENCE!" boomed La Colmilla. "Do NOT mention the name of that generic geisha…EVER AGAIN! Some dare to claim that Kokoro is an…upgrade of my own person, even though she is Japanese and I am Chinese. WELL, KOKO, BEWARE!!

"I am here now to lay claim to that which is rightfully mine, and mine alone. I…now no longer Lei Fang, but, 'The Fang' or 'La Colmilla'…yes, just like Rocky Maivia's metamorphosis into 'The Rock'…shall rule both the Tecmoverse which disgraced me, as well as the Capcomverse from which I technically originated!

"I will commence with your defeat in a few more moments, photojournalist: let me state my terms more explicitly. You know what happens if, or when, I will win. Should you somehow manage to prevail…I may be gracious enough to return Fei Long to your homeland. Let that much be clear."

Frank looked to the surrounding survivors, and shared their aggregate shrug. "Ah, he's not really worth much to us. I'll tell ya what would really be nice, though…"

Lei Fang's eyebrow arched at this.

"If you gave us the rights to Even Newer Zack Island upon our victory…with all the chicks in tow…"

"Out of the question!" barked the tourney leader. "You cannot have access to our greatest asset…besides me, of course…under any circumstances."

"Well, then, at least give us the pole!" shouted a voice from the crowd. Predictably, it was that of Nathan Crabbe's…the salacious survivor who got off rather thoroughly to Cheryl's "request" of Frank the night before. The others in the rabble sputtered amongst themselves uneasily for a moment, at the prospect of receiving the basest component of the entire Xtreme experience: the pole dancing pole, grosser to any decent person than any gravure…but then, after many moments, male and female Willamettan alike started to roil, then roar aloud in unison with the request. From Rich to Ray, Mindy to Michelle, the survivors shouted:

"GIVE US THE POLE! GIVE US THE POLE! GIVE US THE POLE!"

Lei Fang's face scrunched in disgust at this. "You people want a pole in place of your beloved Fei Long?!"

"GIVE US THE POLE! GIVE US THE POLE! GIVE US THE POLE!"

The woman warlord shook her head, gravely disappointed that her genetic heritage was held in such low esteem. She then sighed again. "Very well, then. The pole shall be yours…but then, it shall not be…as I shall most assuredly win this battle, and the tournament." She turned to her main enemy, settling into another fighting stance. "You now know my origin, as well as my motives for initiating this entire event, Frank West. I now ask you firmly: Are. You. Ready. To. …Lose."

"I don't think so," said the hero, stepping toward the edge of the arena. He then asked his foe something similar to that which he would ask Isabela, in another reality, before leaving the mall through the partially destroyed clock tower: "Are you ready to…get the hell outta here?"

Lei Fang bit down on contempt and loathing as she watched her opponent reach over the edge of the helipad to retrieve a weapon from one of the survivors. "Going with your usual mini chainsaws, coward?" she asked. "Or how about your cheap Real Mega Buster?"

"Nah," replied the jaunty journalist. "I'm gonna try something I've never used much of…though the cover of my game suggests that I would." He threw a copy of the cover design for the American version of Dead Rising over his shoulder. La Colmilla looked down and saw that, there, Frank was wielding a television set against the undead hordes.

She then looked up a second before an actual television set hit her full in the face.

"Uggh!" she cried, falling down sharply. Over her stood Frank—now Le Frank, in full force—with TV in hand, aiming to dish out more destruction. Roughly he brought the set over his head…yes, just like on his cover…and prepared to crush the Chinese mistress with it.

"NO!"

At the last second, Lei Fang rolled out of the way as Le Frank brought down the device, missing her by just inches. She struck out at him with fists and feet, but he managed to jump out of the way to safety like only a maxed-out Level 50 civilian could.

"," he said, inaudibly from feet away as he continued to hold the television set.

"What?" yelled Lei Fang, gathering herself to attack again.

"."

"I can't…I can't hear you, Le Frank West."

Suddenly a High Definition Television, from either Entrance or Wonderland or someplace, was thrown into the arena. Le Frank put down his Standard TV and hefted the HD one.

"Sorry," said the man, "my words are better understood with a high-def usually. I said I'm gonna come over and kick your cheongsamed cheeks back to China…in whatever universe!!"

"You come on and just try, imbecile."

And try Le Frank did as he leapt across the screen…er, helipad…and swung out at Lei Fang again. Despite all of her training, the martial arts maiden was not prepared for the brunt of the brute strength of the formidable (Le) Frank West. Again she went down, at the pressure of the HDTV against her beautiful face.

However, again she evaded complete defeat by diving away just as Le Frank attempted to trounce her with the large screen. And this time, he did not successfully vault away as Lei Fang lashed out with a leg, a simple low kick that knocked the man over and the television out of his hands.

She then rushed in an effort to dominate him quickly and finally…but met with the business end of his camera.

"I'll use…whatever…I…can to…do you proud!" the man yelped in between thrusts of his favorite tool.

As Le Frank continued to pry into Lei Fang with his camera, he noticed that she was wearing some sort of protection underneath her creamy cheongsam.

"What's this?" he asked, unable to believe what he saw as his adversary shook him off. He put his camera down at the moment, as god forbid he should have that be broken. "You can't do that! Wearing extra padding under your clothing!"

"Don't all the DOA girls do that?!" asked Burt sarcastically from afar.

"He isn't referring to that, you dunderheaded oaf," said La Colmilla as she ripped off the rest of her tattered dress, revealing one of the costumes she used to wear in the first tournament: that very same snazzy, cute black getup from the front cover of DOA1.

She even did her hair up into the charming little tuft as she spoke: "I understand that I haughtily set the rules in this tournament so that no individual from my side could use weapons or enhancements of any kind. I consider this extra costume not additional armor…but rather, a throwback backup, so to speak, a concession to which I am entitled for devising this whole event. Besides, it has made no difference: the cheongsam is off, so we are now equal. And you've been hitting me in the face the whole time anyway."

Le Frank nodded sheepishly; it was true.

"And now we are truly equal, as you have been bereaved of all of your weaponry…and we can now face one another in real, mano-a-femano hand to hand combat. Come now." Lei Fang laughed a second, then reclined into the open, arms-slowly-splaying combat stance that she used in every tournament to date. "Give me some excitement, OK?"

"I'll 'excite' you, kid…" said Frank, "but not as my latest incarnation. No, I will change, as you have…and now be known as TEH FRANK!!"

He divested himself of his homeless clothes, leaving only his blue undershorts which showed when captured by Special Forces. He then charged at her.

At the end of his run, he attempted a fast jump kick, which she rapidly dodged. She then moved in an executed a nasty triple-jump-kick of her own that knocked Le Frank to the concrete quickly. Lei Fang then attempted to follow up with a rising, full-thighed high kick (God, but Lei Fang has the best legs in DOA…at least that can't be disputed)…but this was avoided by Teh Frank's flying dodge, which saved yet disoriented him for a second. He started to move in towards her, then rattled off a few karate chops…but his lack of real martial arts training made him easy prey for the lusty Lei Fang, who blocked all of them, then engaged the man in a debilitating shoulder tackle of sorts. Teh Frank popped out of this somehow, then started moving backward as his enemy pulled off a high kick, then a midlevel spin kick, both of which missed him by inches.

"Come on," he taunted from that far away as he continued to avoid more moves by his opponent, "Don't be a lousy Lei! Be a good Lei!"

"AAARRRRAAAAGH!" yelled the girl goddess as she herself charged in to strike…only to meet Teh Frank's feet as he laid into her face yet again with a somersault kick. She then approached, hit The Frank upside the head with a rising thrusting chop, then a pair of medium level double hand thrusts that nearly knocked him for a loop.

Arrogantly Lei Fang walked up to her adversary, innocently locked her hands behind her back, and spoke again. "Did you enjoy that full course of techniques?" she asked.

Teh Frank said nothing, but only grabbed the woman's ankles, shunting her to the ground. He then spun and spun, executing a giant swing that landed Lei Fang on the opposite end of the helipad. He then rushed her again, and before she could react, pulled off a face crusher that made her meditative experiences on the concrete that much more complete. When she arose yet again, he tried a disembowel maneuver…

…but she caught his hands, drew him in, then away again with a kick then an elbow to the midsection.

As Teh Frank did all he could to recover his breath and his wits, Lei Fang did likewise, then rose up once more. She struck a martial arts pose for the googolplexeth time. "Everything in the world exists within the tai chi, Teh Frank West," she declared. "And the tai chi exists most purely within me. This is my world, Teh Frank West. You've only been living and breathing in it because I have allowed it to be so. And now…I shall disallow it!!"

With that, Lei Fang pumped with pumps blazing towards Teh Frank with every intention of destroying him totally…

…only to meet with a lariat that numbered higher than any score that any game reviewer ever automatically gave a game with "Mario," "Metroid," "Zelda," "Final Fantasy," "Grand Theft Auto," or " of War" in the title. (And probably without even reviewing it, either.)

Lei Fang fell to the ground once more, on the verge of defeat, the sound of her collapse drowned out by one huge thing…

…the deafening drone of the approach of that which Frank/Le Frank/Teh Frank had anticipated for seventy-two hours.

"ED!!" he cried, as he watched the "junker" helicopter come closer (and with no stowaway zombies in tow, mind you…this isn't that ending). Hopefully he could get the survivors out before the Tecmo freaks could do them any more damage.

As Frank and Lei Fang watched, however, Ed DeLuca did not lower his chopper close to the helipad…

…but rather, as a chickenhearted pilot had done in the original undead nightmare in the Capcomverse, and as Frank himself did by accident just before coming to the Park View Mall…

…Ed chucked out a small object onto the concrete, between the combatants.

As with the chickenheart, Ed cried, "Use it to destroy the monster!"

But as with Frank's own experience, what fell from the volant vehicle was not a rocket launcher, or any weapon at all really…

…it was the mysterious, small silver case.

"I went out of my way to find that thing after you dropped it, Fred!" yelled the pilot. "After I saw what was in there, I figured, it was worth the risk!"

Not even bothering to correct Ed as to his name—yet again—Frank just thumbs-upped him in gratitude and starting booking for the case.

"Wha…What's in there, Teh Frank West?!" protested Lei Fang as she watched the man run to it. "You…you cannot utilize outside assistance for purposes of this tournament...!"

"This tournament's over, babe," Frank said as he grabbed the case, making sure it was set facing his enemy and most of the fighters before he opened it.

"No…NO! It cannot be this!" Lei Fang cried as she saw what was within.

"Oh yes it can, you yammering, yipping yahoo! It's the…"

"Oh my God oh my God!" exclaimed Kelly Carpenter from aside the arena as she saw the thing inside the case. "That Barney's whippin' out that spiffy thing I used to see when playing Vulgus back in the day! It was like the mass flange! Get me a chonger…"

Indeed, the one object that was inside the silver case was worth an infinity of such eighties accolades, as it was the greatest source of Capcom's strength, and a weakness to those of all other universes…

…it was ability unbridled…

…it was…

…the Yashichi.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" cried Lei Fang in horror at the sight of the multi-bladed disc, which began to spin slow to very fast upon the case's opening. "AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!"

And, as the sacred item commenced to turn and turn, it started doing something else, a word that usually does not appear in the same sentence as "Yashichi."

It started to suck.

It sucked and sucked, sucking towards it all of the characters who did not belong into the Capcomverse to begin with. Ryu Hayabusa, Bass Armstrong, Hitomi, and Leon all took an initial leave as they were inextricably drawn into the almighty symbol, vanishing without a trace. No survivor was affected at all as, seconds later, Eliot (with a huge bandage around his head…from that pesky missile), Gen-Fu, Kokoro, Zack, Niki, and Hayate followed.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!"

Lei Fang herself was drawn to it…

But then used the last of her tai chi talents to flip up and over the case, hanging onto the edges of its wide-opened lid by both hands, her legs dangling helplessly as she floated horizontally. With all of her depleting might, she resisted being absorbed into the Yashichi…

…but unfortunately, not even her original snazzy black costume could withstand such resistance.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRIP

And with that, the Capcomverse and the remaining members of the Tecmoverse alike witnessed the birth of…

…Zero Swimsuit Lei Fang.

Yes, like its inspiration, "Zero Suit Samus," this involved a familiar heroine wearing less than fans were accustomed to seeing.

But this made the DOAX "Venus" outfit look like Mjolnir Mark VIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII armor, in terms of what was there and what wasn't. The latter of which was, basically, everything.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAGH TEHHHHHHHHH FRANNNNNNNKKKKK WESSSSSSSSSTTTTTT…" bellowed Zero Swimsuit Lei Fang in agony as she continued to hang from the case.

chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff.

"OHHHHH…MY BROTHER…JANN-LEE…HELP ME! HELLLLLLLP MEEEEEEE!" cried the former tournament mistress, noticing the Bruce Lee knockoff as she clung for dear life and no clothes.

But Jann-Lee wasn't approaching the case for her sake, as he continued along with the bell of his trumpet still showing out his rear end, puffing out a flat C note with each step.

chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff.

And he certainly wasn't losing his shirt, or more than that, as the case was with Lei Fang, as his horn-ed ass limped up and painfully dove through the Yashichi.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Then came Brad Wong. And then Lisa—or sorry, "La Mariposa." Then Tina, being hefted by the new couple that was Christie and Bayman. They shared more than a moment treating each other's mortal wounds, and managed to get back on the road to recovery. One day a British/Russian fighter, borne by both, would grace Dead or Alive 63466576736576437647.

Then Ayane vaulted into the case, no longer with her macho man arm but rather with both original limbs intact…it was amazing what a "snack" bag of chips lying around in Entrance Plaza could do for an amputee.

Then Spartan-458 overed and outted through the symbol.

Then…

"My love for you…is deeper than sea…let's cherish our lives…eternally…"

Frank looked down at the next Tecmoer going towards the Yashichi portal. One of the most attractive yet sirenic sights he had ever seen was at his feet: a fully mermaidified Kasumi, sliding past him on the concrete and looking up with pleading eyes. For a second, her irresistible singing made him want to hold her back.

"Oh, give it up, Bazoomy!" shouted Janet Star from afar. "Just get in the case!"

"FRANK!"

The photojournalist then looked up at the sound of his lover's voice. There, looking a bit worse for wear but still alive, thank the gods, was Isabela, yelling for him.

He then looked down at Kasumi again. God, it was so hard…

"FRANNNNNNK?!" cried Isabela again.

"Oh…alright," he decided, placing his foot over the schmaltzy mermaid's features in preparation for an old-fashioned, OG Playstation 1 Resident Evil 1 zombie facestomp.

"Sharing the joy…laughSCRACK"

Frank shook his head and pushed the remains of Mermaid Kasumi into the case.

Then the last two besides Lei Fang, who were also yet more insanely idealized women, ran to the case…

…with each one's lover sprinting closely behind.

"Helena, love, don't do this to us! Please!" squeaked Thomas as he rushed along.

"Alpha, I won't allow this!" screamed Steven alongside him. "NOT ON MY WAAAAAATCH!"

And then, to everyone's amazement, not only did Helena and Alpha-152 go through the Yashichi…

…but so did Thomas and Steven.

What no one knew was that the symbol, which functioned merely as a "power-up" for Capcomites, and as an interdimensional portal for all others, served as the latter for these two survivors because of their…intimate relations with the Tecmo women…which made them that much less of Capcom men.

At last, this left only Lei Fang, still hanging onto the edge of the case.

"Looks as if you need some help there, 'La Colmilla,'" Frank said, pun intended, as he kneed her down, executing a knee drop that drove first her head, then the rest of her, into the case.

And with that, Frank closed the special container and hefted it under his arm.

"Well, it looks like that's that," he said, as Isabela rushed up to hug and make out with him.

"You're my hero…and hero to all of us, Frank West," Isabela said as she embraced him tightly.

"It was nothing," he said in reply. "I've covered whores before, you know."

RRRRRING RRRRRING

Frank looked to the place where he thought Otis lay…and found the area empty. Apparently he, and all the other survivors, were already downstairs celebrating. He walked over to a place where he could hear as Ed DeLuca finally lowered his helicopter onto the helipad.

"Yep," he said into his transceiver.

"Frank, we've got another situation down here," said the irrepressible Otis on the other end.

"What is it this time?!"

"It's…it's not what you think. There's a…pole that materialized in the middle of the security area…and a lot of the survivors are fighting over it! Most of all…Jessie and Cheryl are tangled up around the thing…"

"I'm on my way," Frank said abruptly as he jogged to the opened door, the existence of Isabela Keyes momentarily lapsing from his mind.

MALLGOERS: 11

EVILDOAERS: 10

EPILOGUE

"WHADDAYA MEAN SHE'S NOT HEEEEEEEEERE?!" shrieked a soaking wet Steven Chapman, looking all around his new, overly idyllic surroundings for his lost love.

"I mean she's not here, okay?" said Niki, Zack's girlfriend and co-operator of Even Newer Zack Island, in response. Somehow the trip back to Tecmoland cured her of the ailment that ensavaged her before. "She's like made of water. She wouldn't be on this tiny bit of land, surrounded by ocean."

Looking more forlorn than ever, Steven whimpered into the gorgeous sunrising horizon. "Oh…Alpha-152…"

He then turned back to Niki. "Are you sure SHE'S NOT HERE?!"

The silver-haired hostess covered her hand over her face, then shrugged in frustration. She then looked over her shoulder…and knew what to do.

"There!" she said, pointing to a bathing suit floating in a pool nearby. "There she is. Go get her, champ."

"Ohhh….THANK YOU! THANK YOU AND HAVE A NICE DAAAAAAAY!" roared the shopkeeper as he bolted for the pool, then belly flopped in. He didn't even register the pain of the flop as he reached for what he thought was his beloved Kasumi clone.

Niki snickered a second, then turned her head as she noticed Christie coming, with a towel wrapped around her. "Anyone around here seen my iolite thong? I must have left it somewhere after skinny-dipping, but I can't remember."

Niki restrained her amusement a moment as she pointed towards the same pool he indicated a second ago.

A few minutes later, the hostess looked up from her busy schedule of marine race and butt-battle events to frown at Thomas Hall, who was trying to get in yet again.

"Look, Thomas, I told you enough times already: This island is off-limits to folks like you!"

"But…but I've at least got the eyes for it!" the young man protested, batting the freakish pair of peepers he received from relations with Helena.

"Yeah, and you'll need a lot more than that to get in here. Now off with you!"

"Aww, but come on…Helena's in there waiting for me…"

"She's back with Weatherby. Now move!"

Dejected, Thomas sighed and started back towards the shore of the island, wondering what the heck to do now. Not in terms of getting back home, so much…as what to do about his insatiable desires.

WHOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHH

"AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHH—OOOOOOOFFFFFFF!"

Then Zero Swimsuit Lei Fang came toppling in from the Capcomverse, directly above him, and resolved the matter.