Monster Bash, Tier 3: Final Match

  “G’day everyone, how are you all goin’? Good? I hope so . . . We have had some god-damned amazing fights in this arena, now. Battles have been waged; blood has been spilled and champions have risen from the ashes! . . . and now we come to the pointy end of this competition.” I say, adjusting my headphones as I walk towards a whiteboard with a contest bracket drawn on it, which looked like this:

 Tier 1   Tier 2  *Tier 3*  WINNER

WEREWOLF┐                        |

        ├WEREWOLF┐               |

GHOST───┘        │               |

                 ├─DEMON──┐      |

ZOMBIE──┐        │        │      |

        ├─DEMON──┘        │      |

DEMON───┘                 │      |

                          ├─ ??? |

VAMPIRE─┐                 │      |

        ├─HUMAN──┐        │      |

HUMAN───┘        │        │      |

                 ├─WITCH──┘      |

TROLL───┐        │               |

        ├─WITCH──┘               |

WITCH───┘                        |

  “Now this . . . uh this . . .” I stammer and start laughing. “The hell is this? What am I meant to do with this? What?” I stop as someone is talking into my ear. “Yes, I know it’s live, doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know what to do with this . . . okay, look, ladies and gentlemen if you’ve missed the previous fights, they’re in the blog archives, you should check them out.”
I pause for a moment as my headphones keep talking at me.
  “Pfft, no fuck off, I am not recapping the whole lot of matches, that would defeat the . . . you know what?” I take my headphones off and throw them over the fence. “We'll do it live, fuck it. Ladies and gentlemen, this evening, I am proud to announce that I am once again joined by the stunning Miss Jayalaw. Are you excited to be here?”
“Maybe not excited, but I am curious to see who will win. Both the contenders have fought through quite a bit and given their hundred and ten percent, but it’s going to be hard to go back to trick or treating and candy after this.”
  “Especially for our losers,” I say, sitting down on an Esky behind the desk. “But we have one hell of a fight this evening. So, I have to ask, which of our two monsters are you backing this evening? Will you make a call on the final fight?”
“Technically witches aren’t monsters, but I see what you mean. I do hope Melissa wins because she has been through a lot at this point.”
  “But not Carver? She did rip off her fucking hand, come on . . .”
“Ah good point,” Jayalaw admitted. “At this point I’m going to sit back and watch . . . are you drunk?”
  “Psh . . . barely. But I am looking forward to celebrating later," I say, tapping my 'seat'. "And y’know what? You're right. It’s all come down to this, I don't want to spoil the surprise by trying to analyse this to pieces. Let's just wait and see what happens. Oh, and here come our contestants now!”
On the left side near trees, On the other side of the field, three stagehands entered with summoning materials. They set up the pentagram as one of them chanted. As the ritual was complete, the candles each became a fireball that merged in the centre of the symbol to become Carver, the red-skinned, yellow-eyed woman with horns and a tail. Her right hand was replaced with a hook, and she wore a burnt bikini.
  “In this corner, Rkk’lugh O’ash’sh kss-Ra, a demon also known as ‘Carver’. In her first round, she lost her hand, only to smash her opponent’s brain, and in her second round she tore her opponent up and shoved her hook through his face! She’s a devilish beast, give it up for The Demon!”
On the right side near the church, a short woman was lead through the gate by two stage hands, one holding each arm. She was wearing a black, draping dress and a wide-brimmed hat, and had a pair of handcuffs on her wrists. One of the stagehands unlocked the cuffs and they both left to leave her standing, solemnly, with her head bowed.
  "And in this corner, Melissa Maitland. In her first match, she faced off against a powerful troll, and despite being outclassed in size, she used her ingenuity and ripped off his head. And in her second match, although there was a close call near the end, but she managed to snap his neck. She’s one Magical Mistress, give it up for The Witch!"
I jump up and scream. “Without further ado, Tonight is our final match! it’s Sorceress versus Succubus, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

Carver began by walking down the path towards her prey. with a flick of her left hand, her talons sparked and ignited, and flames crawled up her fingers to rest in her palm.
Meanwhile, Melissa just began dancing. She started by humming and slowly stamping her feet. She lowered her hands and stamped faster, singing wordlessly as she spun in a circle, and the demon watched this, smirking. As Melissa spun, the sky grew dark and the stars disappeared behind clouds. She stamped faster and faster, clapped her hands, then jumped forward held up her hands and whistled long and low. Instantly, there was a rumble of thunder, and rain began falling down, and the demon’s smile dropped.
The flames in her hand fizzled and spat as rain fell. Before it could douse it entirely, the demon growled, and the flame burst much larger and brighter. The rain fell and sizzled, but it was hot enough to stay lit. She thrusts her hand forward and sends a bolt of fire at the witch. Melissa throws her hands in front of her face, as she does, raindrops around her collect into a wobbling blanket of water. The fire extinguished as it hit the water. Then Melissa dropped her hands and the water splashed to the ground.
  “You pathetic maggot!” screamed the demon as she ran forward. She threw a fireball, and Melissa countered it with another swipe of water, which turned into steam. But Carver closed the distance between them and swung her leg. She kicked Melissa in the face, making her double back. Melissa grabs more water and smacks it into the demon, but Carver grabs her by the front of the shirt, lifts her from the ground and raises her hook to swipe.
Melissa slaps her in the face and throws out both arms. A sudden and quick gust of wind grabs the witch and she flies up into the air.
  “Don’t flee from me, human!” yells the Demon, and she throws up both hands, sending a spurt of flame high up into the air. The fire encompasses the witch’s body and she screams. As she swipes at her burning clothes, she drops out of the sky, smoking.
She hits the ground heavily, and collapses onto her back. She cries out in pain. The rain extinguishes the last of the fire, but she grabs her leg. It wasn’t broken, but she winced as she kneeled to stand up again.
  “You are weak and pathetic,” said the demon. “I tore off my own hand, and I am still standing. you twist your ankle, and you look ready to cry.”
Through gritted teeth, Melissa pointed towards the demon with her hand, and spoke in a strange tongue. In a flash, lightning cracked loudly. striking just behind her. Carver jumped and hissed. Melissa continued to speak, and swirled her hand as though casting a whip. Again, lightning struck, Carver dove aside, and the lightning struck where she had just been standing.
  “You can keep casting your magic at me all you like,” said Carver. “But you know, the moment I get my hands on you, I’ll rip your pretty tongue out.”
Melissa held her hand forward and clenched the air in front of her, then pulled down. As she did, Carver stumbled, but soon regained her footing. Melissa tried to magically grapple her again, by throwing her hand to the side. She managed to pull Carver over, but she quickly got back on her feet.
  “I think you’re growing weak, mage,” said the demon. She flicked her talons and they burst into a flame, which she quickly flared brighter as the raindrops sizzled around it, so that it wouldn’t be extinguished. “and I am growing impatient . . .” She reared her arm back so she could shoot the fire, when Melissa swung both arms around her and with a rushing sound, the ground in front of her was scooped up and she threw the dirt and mud at the demon.
The mud splattered her from head to toe, and she stood there for a moment, looking bewildered. Her hand had been extinguished, and she stood there, spitting dirt out of her mouth as Melissa gestured around her, gathering water with her hands, and she collected it all into the ditch she’d carved into the ground in front of her, until there was an oddly-shaped puddle.
The rain washed the dirt off of the demon’s face, and she looked at the witch, who was breathing heavily, exhausted. The demon looked at the puddle, and began to laugh.
  “Give up, human,” said the demon, smiling cruelly. “You might as well come here and let me kill you. Do you honestly think this little moat is going to stop me?”
The demon stepped into the shallow puddle and marched towards her pray. Melissa took a breath and spoke, which surprised the demon.
  “It’s not a moat, it’s a ‘fossa’.” said Melissa. “Also known as a murder-hole . . . or drowning-pit.”
Melissa once more held up her hand to grapple the demon, then she plunged her hand down, and the demon was thrown face-first into the puddle.
Melissa crouched there, catching her breath as the demon struggled. The water around her splashed as she thrashed with her hands and tail. She even tried to throw fire, causing the water to burble and let off bursts of steam. Melissa stayed there, holding her down with her magic. She didn’t even flinch as lightning struck in the distance.
Carver continued to fight and thrash for her life, digging at the mud with her hook, kicking her feet, but after the first minute, bubbles floated around her head, then her movements slowed considerably. The thrashes turned into light slaps at the surface, then she fell limp. Even after she stopped moving, Melissa kept holding her down.

A bell rang and I jumped up.
  “We have a winner!” I scream, running over, my suit soaking in the falling rain. “And not just any winner, the winner. The ultimate champion! This is incredible. Melissa Maitland, how does it feel?”
  “Is she dead?” asked Melissa.
  “I think so,” I say, kneeling down. “Either way, we’d call that a T.K.O . . . woo! That was pretty intense. But you’ve won! You’re Monster Supreme 2015. You are the ultimate monster. How does it feel?”
  “I think I need to lie down,” says Melissa. “I twisted my ankle.”
  “Oh yes, of course, of course. we’ll get the medic over here soon. But, ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Witch!”
Everyone claps as we hear the ambulance driving up, in the distance.
  “Yes, you saw it here first. We put eight monsters in the ring, and in the end, only one was left. And that answers our question: Who is the ultimate monster? I’m proud to say, without a doubt, that the Monster Supreme for 2015 is the witch.”
  “I want to give a shout-out to the folks who own Horton-Meier Cemetery, for lending us their grounds for this arena - don’t worry Glen, we’ll clean this up soon. I want to thank the Tsukiyama family for their generosity. I want to give a great, big thank you to all of our contenders who participated. And finally, I want to thank you all for joining us, it’s been a pleasure. Goodnight, everybody!”
With a sigh, I throw the microphone into the puddle, and walk off the page.

Monster Bash, Tier 2: Semi-Final #2

“Welcome back, once again, were we are at the last match before the final showdown,” I say, as I walk down the steps of the church, heading for the commentator’s desk. “We’ve seen a lot of fights here at the Horton-Meier Cemetery and Church, and it’s been brought to my attention that this is a concern for a lot of parents. So, I feel it is my duty to remind everyone watching that this is, first of all, not suitable for children. But more importantly, these are monsters. In the real world, fighting is wrong.”
I walk up to the commentators desk, where a gorgeous, young woman is waiting.
  “As is tradition now, here at Monster Bash, I am joined by Jayalaw to comment on the night’s proceedings. Jayalaw, last night, you expressed some concern at seeing a human fighting against a witch. Can I ask what prompted that?”
“Well, it’s that under ordinary circumstances something like this would appear in The Hunger Games, which was against violence performed for the sake of fun. I feel a bit queasy at the thought of two humans fighting to the death, since witches technically are human and the stigma against them is high.”
  “Yes, some stories make witches into inhuman creatures, but as is the case in history, and in tonight’s show, she’s just a regular person. Although most of those Salem witches were just spinsters or crazy cat ladies; and our witch is quite talented.”
  “On that note, if you have a black cat, keep them safe on Halloween because people are crazy and might kill them! This is a public service announcement for cat lovers out there.”
  “Indeed. I’ve seen some crazies that think they’re Satanic. But what do you think of tonight’s match?”
  “Reminds me of the American political debates going on, where a man tries to cut down an extraordinary woman. I may need a drink to watch this. Is there an open bar for the commentators?”
  “No, but I’ve got an Esky in the back of my car. Perhaps we’ll celebrate our finalists after tonight’s match-up . . . Oh, and speak of the devil, Here come our contestants now!”
Near the copse of trees, a concerned-looking black man with long daggy hair, wearing an open shirt with a singlet and a pair of jeans walks towards the field, with two stagehands holding each arm. They walk him inside the graveyard, stand him a few metres away from the fence, then they left and shut the gate behind them.
  “In this corner, Jerome Ratray. This mighty stud, shrugged off that life-sucking slug, but will this budding thug stand tall, or shed more blood? give it up for our Human!”
On the right side near the church, a short woman wearing a large hat was lead through the gate with a stagehands on each arm. She was wearing a black, draping dress and a wide-brimmed hat, and wasn't very muscular. She nodded grimly as the stagehands walked away, closing the gate behind them.
  "And in this corner, Melissa Maitland. This doll stole the gold from a fearsome troll, so, can she maintain control, or will her head roll? Give it up for the Witch!"
I jump up and scream. “Without further ado, it’s Man versus Mage, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

Immediately, Jerome ran off to the side and into the small thicket of trees.
  “Come get me!” he screamed, running into the dark of the trees.
Melissa sighed and arched her hands above her head, like a ballet dancer. She spoke quietly, her lips moving almost soundlessly as she closed her eyes, when a wind picked up around her and, her black dress and hat whipping around her wildly, she was lifted from the ground. She flew up over the trees then, in the air, began to turn. She spun one revolution, then another and another, faster and faster, As she did, the trees began to sway. Loose leaves  and twigs began twisting around in the swirling wind, then dust and dirt, then branches. The whirlwind was building and building into a small tornado.
Within the trees, Jerome was bracing himself against a tree as dirt and branches whipped around him. But when he gained a firm enough footing, he burst from the edge of the trees and ran towards the church. As she was still spinning, it took Melissa a while to notice that Jerome had fled, and when she finally did, he had run inside the church.
Melissa stopped spinning and the gust dissipated, shaking her head a little, she drifted down to the ground and landed deftly on the grass below. she knelt down and circled her arms around her in what looked like a yoga exercise. Then she thrust both hands towards the church. The whole house shuddered with a sudden concussive shockwave, and all of the windows shattered. Melissa then began walking towards the church, and as she did, she gestured her hands in the air, and simultaneously the shattered glass all lifted up off of the ground.
She chanted under her breath, and summoned the shards quickly towards her, they collected in a large, floating sphere above her open, left palm. With her right hand, she began to make a flicking gesture, and with each gesticulation, one shard of glass shot at the church, whistling through the air and either penetrating the wood like a knife, or shattering explosively on impact.
After a few moments, Jerome ran out of the church, but he stopped just outside the doorway. He grabbed the wooden door with both hands and pulled, ripping it off its hinges. Then, he ran down the steps and towards Melissa, holding up the door as a shield.
She was confused at first, but as he gained ground on her, she thrust both hands forward and sent every shard at him, pointiest edge first.
A few stray shards hit his hands, or the edges of his legs, making Jerome swear loudly, but he kept running towards her.  Melissa curled her fingers, and grabbed the door with her magic. She raised her hands, ripping the door up out of Jerome’s grasp, but then he just sprinted forward. Before she could react, he punched her in the face.
Melissa screamed as knuckles and glass crunched into her cheekbone. She was knocked onto her side, landing awkwardly on her forearm. She attempted to regain her bearings and stop her ears from ringing, but two powerful hands grasped her throat. And Jerome groaned loudly, his teeth clenched, muscles flexing and eyes wide with determination.
Melissa couldn’t breathe, she twisted but couldn’t move under his weight.
  “All your little tricks,” Jerome groaned through clenched teeth. “All your power . . . but when I get my hands on you, you’re just a little girl . . .”
Melissa’s eyes were turning red as she tried to breathe. She reached out a hand and grabbed one of his arms, then struggled to speak. She spat and frothed at the mouth as she spoke in an unknown language.
There was a sudden flash of light and lightning pierced the sky. It struck Jerome on the head, making him scream. He leapt off, his head steaming as sweat evaporated from his forehead. Melissa turned over, coughing and spluttering. She couldn’t stand, so she knelt back, wheezing. Jerome looked shaken, but still standing, and he looked furious. He yelled out and began to run towards her, but Melissa swept her arm.
The door suddenly swung up from the ground and collided with Jerome, glass-first, crashing into him like a speeding truck. He rolled and struck a headstone with his shoulder as he hit the dirt.
Before he could get up, Melissa held out a shaking hand, clenched her fist and quickly spun her hand around. There was an unsettling crack as Jerome’s head twisted around.

  “We have a winner!” I cry, running over. “That was amazing! Using a shield? I didn’t see that coming. But looks like manpower can’t quite overcome a witch’s willpower!”
As I got to Melissa I knelt down and held out the microphone to the crouching girl.
  “You did very well at the end, there. We were all on the edge of our seats, but you’re okay now, you’ve won! How does it feel?”
She was breathing heavily, and she looked up, sadly, and all she said, in a hoarse, croaky voice was.
  “. . . he tried to kill me.”
  “Well, you tried to kill each other, can’t blame him for that, I guess. Although my co-host admits that ‘little girl’ remark was uncalled for.” She nodded slowly, then stared off into space, catching her breath. “Uh . . . okay. Medic? Uh, I think we should get a medic to make sure she doesn’t have any brain damage. But either way, that was amazing. We have both of our semi-finalists! Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Witch!”
The stagehands all looked on, with concerned expressions on their faces.
  “That was that, but it’s not over until the last man’s left standing. Although, in this case, seems we have two ladies vying for the final spot of Monster Supreme. We’ve had a good time so far, but we still have ONE! . . . FINAL! . . . FIGHT! Come back soon, where we will finally face off our last two contenders to discover which is the master monster. Until then, stay safe, everybody!”

Monster Bash, Tier 2: Semi-Final #1

Good evening, and welcome back to Monster Bash 2015! For those of you who missed out on the first four matches, well, we had an epic clash so far, we saw match-ups of:
Werewolf versus Ghost; Zombie versus Demon; Vampire versus Human & finally, Troll versus Witch.
They were a fascinating set of matches, some with more interesting results than others. But, right now, we will continue the fight, shaving down the numbers until we're left with just one champion. Who will it be? Let's head down the arena to see!

- - -

  "Thank you, Matt, and welcome back to Horton-Meier Churchyard, where we've done a little bit of reconstruction, renovation and lawn care, so that we could have a clean slate for our next round of fighting," I say, walking alongside the Church to head towards the commentator's desk, where there were those same two unimportant characters alongside a gorgeous, young woman. "Yet again, I am joined by the inimitable Jayalaw, to comment on tonight's match-up. You're looking radiant as ever, my dear."
“Thank you so much,” she responded. “The first tier was quite brutal, and some victories were unexpected. How will the second tier be organized?”
  “I’m glad you asked. Purely and simply, we’re matching up the winners of Round One and Two to fight in our first semi-final match, and tomorrow night, we match up the winners of Round Three and Four-”
“-Rounds Three and Four?” she repeated. “You mean the human will be facing the witch? That’s going to be a bit messy. They technically are both human and have suffered a few injuries already.”
  “Don’t worry, they know what they signed up for. But, it does mean that tonight we’ll be seeing our first champions face off, the Werewolf and the Demon. They too have their fair share of bruises, but they’re ready to go at it. Do you have any thoughts on tonight’s pairing?”
  “As for tonight’s pairing, my money’s on the demon Carver because she is crafty. She’ll also have more years of experience under her belt.”
  “Ah, true. y’know most of them - supernaturally or otherwise - look around the same age, it’s easy to forget that the vampire is . . . well, was over a hundred.”
“But undercut by arrogance.”
  “Indeed. But, now that you mention it, I think that too could be a point in Gareth’s favour tonight. More often than not, demons can be shown to possess that self-satisfied hubris. Even in her fight against the zombie, her self-confidence got her badly scarred. If she hasn’t learned from that mistake, then the Werewolf’s superior strength could be the upperhand that decides this match. But I have to admit, I’m with you on this one, demon all the way. What can I say, fire plus fur? Equals toast. Oh, and here come our contestants now!”
The gates on the left side, next to the trees, were opened by two stagehands just in time for a large truck to reverse into the yard. The stagehands opened up the doors and Gareth jumped out, his wrists tied up with heavy chains that lead back into the truck. He was wearing ripped jeans, shredded from his earlier fight, and a singlet.
  “Come on, let’s go!” he said, hopping up and down impatiently.
  “In this corner, Gareth Donahue. He’s proves his might against a ghastly wight, but will the wolf-man win the fight? Give it up for the Werewolf!”
The commentators all clapped as three stagehands walked into the arena with their ritual supplies. They drew the bloody symbol, lit the candles and recited the incantation, just as they had before. The chanter threw up his hands as the candles exploded in a firey tornado that filled the pentagram with flame, then extinguished to reveal Carver, the red-skinned, yellow-eyed demon. On her right arm, her hand was missing, but in its place she had been given a metal hook.
  “And facing up against him in this corner, the demon named ‘Carver’. She easily disposed of her decomposed woes, but suppose, will this devil overcome her latest foe? Give it up for the Demon!”
I stand up and announce. “It’s Fido versus Fiend, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

Gareth and Carver together made towards the middle of the arena. Garth walked with a confident swagger, but the demon was more careful as she made her way towards her opponent. After a moment, Gareth stopped.
  "Wait a minute . . ." he said, and he scanned the ground before picking up a small rock. He aimed and pegged the rock. Carver easily deflected it by swiping at it with her hook hand, making a sharp, metallic ringing.
  "Have you already resorted to throwing stones?" asked Carver.
 "No, love," said Gareth, flexing his muscles and straining his veins. "I just wanted to know you were solid this time . . ."
Gareth's singlet ripped to expose his bandaged ribs underneath, then fur and muscles grew and tore through the gauze. Bones cracked and snapped into place as Gareth became the Werewolf, and growled, hungrily, as it stared down the demon. Then, the werewolf ran forward on its hind legs.
The werewolf stood tall to swipe its claw. As it did, Carver swiftly kicked him in the ribs. The werewolf winced, but was otherwise unaffected. He swiped his claw and sent the demon flying. She hit the front of the church, and collapsed onto the steps like a ragdoll. But, the demon was more durable than she looked. She climbed to her feet and crouched in an aggressive stance with claws held out in front of her, eyes glowing orange. The werewolf began to advance, but fire burst forth from the demon's hands, Catching the Werewolf's stomach with the flame, the creature yelped and jumped back, cradling the singed hair with a paw. The demon ran forward and leapt over the werewolf's head, twisting in the air. She landed by gouging her hook into the werewolf's shoulderblade. The werewolf twisted to try to grab at her, but couldn't reach its arms around its back. Instead, the werewolf tucked and rolled, slamming its back into the dirt. Then the werewolf quickly rolled and twisted to stand up, but as it did so Carver's hook-hand shredded through the muscle of his back, gouging an inch-deep cut down to his waist.
All of the werewolf's hair stood on end as it yelped in pain.
  "You stupid animal," said Carver, looking a little bruised as she got to her feet. "You did that to yourself!"
Mouth slavering and ears flat against its head, the werewolf snarled viciously.
Carver just gritted her teeth and threw another ball of fire at the werewolf. This time, the werewolf jumped high over her head. It landed on the roof of the church and hid from the fire.
  "Pathetic, snivelling little dog-man," said Carver, as she backed away from the church until she could see the werewolf. It was standing on the roof, holding the cross on top to steady itself as it patted at the still-sizzling embers of its fur. "Escape is not available to us, beast. Fight, or die."
The werewolf was breathing heavily, blood dripping down its arm. It pumped up its chest, arched its head back and howled at the sky. Then, looking more confident, it took a running jump and leapt off the roof towards the demon, fangs bared, headfirst.
As the werewolf hit the demon, sinking its teeth into her, Carver swung her right arm upwards and the two tumbled heavily along the ground. When they stopped, the werewolf was on top of the demon, but he had fallen limp. The furry beast lifted off the ground, but not under his own power. The demon was lifting him up by his head as she got to her feet. Standing up, it became clear that her right arm, with the prosthetic hook, had been shoved into the werewolf's mouth. And, judging by both the angle, and the werewolf's limp body, the hook had penetrated his brain. As the demon glared, disgusted, at the corpse attached to her hook, the werewolf began to shrink. Deflating, like a slowly shrinking balloon, or an uncontracting muscle, the werewolf shrank back down into the natural form of the human it truly was.
As the wolf once more became the man, Gareth, Carver grabbed his jaw with her left hand, dislodged her hook from his skull and dropped the body, lifelessly, to the ground.

A bell sounded and the commentators all cheered.
  "We have a winner!" I cry, running forward. "That was an outstanding clash, my dear. A real . . . oh, wow."  I stop, wiping my eyes for a second as I catch the scent of burning hair. "That is what I call a pungent pong, ugh . . . well, uh, Carver, how are you doing this evening?"
  "I think this new hook was quite useful."
  "Yeah, they're pretty handy, aren't they?" I asked.
The demon just glared at me for the pun.
  "Okay . . . well, congratulations! I think the werewolf made a fatal mistake there, by using just his size and muscles, he forgot that he had the mind of a beast. I think that what turned the tides of this match was relying on animal instinct rather than tactics."
  "Of course," said the demon.
  ". . . yeah. Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, give it up for our first Finalist, the Demon!" The stagehands clap as the demon nods, then walks away.
"But, that was just the first semi-final, tomorrow, come back for our penultimate match, where we will see which of our remaining champions will survive for the final round. Thank you, you've been watching Monster Bash, 2015!"

Monster Bash, Tier 1: Troll vs. Witch

  “Goooood evening, faithful fans, and welcome back to Monster Bash! Last night we saw another exciting fight, but there’s one more Round for Tier One of this competition, before we move onto Semi-Finals next week,” I say, and I quickly start heading over to the commentator’s table. The two unimportant characters are still adjusting papers uselessly, but I walk up to a beautiful young woman waiting with her own microphone.
  “Thank you for joining me again, Jayalaw. We’ve had an exciting few fights, but now we’re at the last fight of Round One, and I think this one is going to be a little unusual. Troll versus Witch, what are your thoughts?”
“My bets are on the witch,” Jaya said. “Because one thing about magic is that it is variable; you can do so many things with it. A troll can rely on his or her brute force and durability, but those can only carry you so far. A witch has more options at her disposal; the only thing that might stop her is a conscience, or an oath to do no harm. In some traditions like Wicca, the actions a Wiccan takes comes back to them threefold.”
  “Luckily for tonight’s contender, this witch is no mere pagan. A sorceress and student in sorcery and witchcraft, she will give out troll a run for his money. However, trolls are not without their own brand of magic, and they are known for being tricky. So, while I think the witch is more powerful, I think our troll may have a trick or two up his sleeve. And witchcraft isn’t compatible with trolleri, so I can’t even offer an opinion either way. There are too many variables for me to decide. Crafty witch plus devious troll equals I have no idea what will happen tonight.”
“As long as he isn’t an Internet troll, I think she’ll be fine,” Jaya snarks.
  “Haha, yes,” I say, chuckling. “Those internet fiends can spit acid, and since they’re spineless and gutless they’re pretty flexible. They can shapeshift into the ugliest thing they can imagine, and don’t even get me started on the flame wars. Luckily for us, this troll is a nature guardian with botanical magic, and not a loner with an inferiority complex. Oh, and speak of the devil, here are our competitors!”
On the left side, near the trees, a flat-panel truck backed towards the gate as two stagehands opened the gate, the suspension straining with the weight of its cargo. Standing on the back of the truck was a two-storey tall, forest-green monster. Its legs were brown and covered with bark, and it wore a loin cloth fashioned from some unidentifiable animal skin. Its back was covered in twigs, leaves and moss. The trolls face and hands were oversized, and he had a large, beak-like nose, an underbite filled with sharp, little teeth and small, yellow, beady eyes. He stepped off the back of the truck, making the ground shake as he did. Then the truck drove off and they shut the gate.
  "In this corner, from the Taynish National Nature Reserve, a young troll guardian known only as Gremby. Standing seven-point-sixteen metres tall, and a skilled master of trolleri, he is our heaviest competitor, weighing in at over two tonnes!"
On the right side near the church, a short woman wearing handcuffes was lead through the gate by two stage hands, one holding each arm.
She was wearing a black, draping dress and a wide-brimmed hat, and wasn't very muscular. One of the stagehands unlocked the cuffs and the two of them left and locked the gate behind them.
  "And in this corner, Melissa Maitland, at just nineteen years old, she is our youngest competitor. By day, an art student with an interest in history; by night, a self-trained sorceress and mistress of the dark arts. Now, let's get started!"
I jump up and scream. “It’s Beauty versus Beast, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

The troll makes his way down the path, but immediately, Melissa holds out both hands, chanting quickly under her breath and lifts her hands. The closest six headstones lift from the ground and come to float around her. The organizes them to float beside her like an enormous, morbid, stone deck of cards.
She starts throwing them at the troll's head as she moves forward, advancing. Gremby raises an arm and the headstones crack, against him. He grimaces from the pain, but keeps heading forward. When Melissa throws her sixth headstone, Gremby lowers his arm, weeping some kind of sap.
  "You're nae the only one that can use magic, witch," says the troll in a deep, crackling voice with a slight Scottish accent. He holds out his injured arm, and branches burst out of and from his skin, they grow at amazing speed, closing the four-metre distance between them and wrapping around her. The crooked limb bends and twists to bring the girl in front of his face, then the branch tightens and Melissa groans with pain. Clenching her teeth she looks up at the sky and speaks in a strange tongue. There's a rumble of thunder, then a flash of light as lightning strikes. It connects with the troll's shoulder, boils the sap in an instant and the whole limb explodes. Melissa falls safely to the ground as twigs fell around her.
With a roar, the troll smacks at the ground with his remaining arm, slamming his fist to crush the witch. But Melissa rolls to the side, then deftly runs up his arm and onto his shoulder. She grabs both sides of his head and pulls.
  "Oi!" growls the troll. he swipes around his head, and the witch goes flying. She lands awkwardly on the grass, and cries out in pain. "Tryin' to rip mah head off?! You despicable sack of meat . . ."
The troll places his hand on the ground, sending a pulse of energy into the ground. The grass surrounding Melissa flutters, then grows from blades of grass into fern-like fronds which curl around her arms and legs, then knot together. The troll makes his way towards her, menacingly. Melissa was quite rattled, but shaking herself off, she uses her magic to pull herself out of the ground, the monster blades of grass falling limp the instant they are separated from their roots. She takes three steps back, a deep breath, then thrusts both hands in the direction of the advancing troll. The troll stumbles back a fraction, then presses onwards, gritting his teeth. Melissa closes her eyes to concentrate, trying to push and lift, but the troll was too heavy. She dropped her arms and opened her eyes, glancing around desperately. Then, she turned and ran towards the gate.
  "Where are yeh goin'?" asked Gremby, and as he spoke, green vines began to grow from his left shoulder to replace his missing arm. "I'm not done with yer yet . . ."
The witch grabbed the fence, and began fiddling with the padlock on the chain that held the gate shut.
  "You can't run, lass. I'm comin' fer you."
She muttered something which unclasped the padlock, but she didn't open the gate, instead, she grabbed the loose chain, turned around and threw it at the troll. It landed on his arm, but gesturing with her hands, she manipulated the metre-and-a-half long chain to snake along his shoulder and wrap around his neck. The troll grabbed at the chain, but as soon as Melissa clapped her hands together, the chain pulled tight. Then, she twisted both clasped hands, and the two ends twisted, and there was a creaking, cracking sound as the loop of the chain knotted tighter. Breathing heavily, Melissa gestured three more times, as though miming tightening a socket wrench. Each time the chain twisted again, tightening the loop even further, cracking and cracking. The troll collapsed to its knees, his beady eyes bulging, he couldn't speak.
Then, with a cheeky grin, Melissa spun a pirouette like a ballerina. As she did, the trolls neck twisted, and she dislocated his head with a wet crunch.
The head fell to the ground with a thud, and the body slumped backwards.

  "Oh my GOD! We have a winner!" I screamed, running up to the gate. "That was absolutely excellent. A real twist at the end, I thought you were really fleeing for your life . . . but you were really just getting your hands on that chain, there. How does it feel to have won?"
  ". . . good," says Melissa, nodding, still catching her breath.
  "You're a girl of very few words. Is there anything else you'd like to add?"
  "Couldn't talk . . . I was concentrating," she says, nodding.
  "Well, folks, there you have it. When I saw the size of that troll, I thought he had it. But lo and behold, the little girl did it. Ladies and Gentleman, put your hands together for tonight's winner, the Witch!"
A few people applauded as a few stagehands approached the troll's corpse, trying to figure out how to move the two-tonne mass.
  "Well, there you have it. That is the end of Tier One of Monster Bash, out of Eight we have four champions. We'll return after a short break to clean up this mess, but don't go away. We will not be done until we find our Monster Supreme. Our remaining winners will face off, one by one, until only one is left standing Who will survive this morbid clash, who will survive this creature clash? Come back next time to find out. Until then, goodnight everybody."

Monster Bash, Tier 1: Vampire vs. Human

  "Wow, that looks atrocious . . . no really, I can't draw humans for shit, can't we get a professional artist or something to do these match cards?" I ask, frowning as I talk into my headset and glance up at the illustration. "Too late? I mean, can't we . . . wait now? We're live right now . . . ? HELLO! and good evening, monster fans!"
I quickly compose myself and smile.
"Welcome back to Tier one of Monster Bash. Last night, we saw a quick and dirty match, but there’s more to come. Who will win tonight’s fight? Stick around to find out,” I say, adjusting my suit as I lean against the fence. “Now, it has come to my attention that some viewers are a little upset that we are being disrespectful to these grounds, but let me assure you, first of all, that Horton-Meier was made fully aware of the content and extent of what Monster Bash entails, and willingly offered the grounds, fully informed. Second of all, know that we here at Monster Bash Conglomerated are not heartless, and part of our contract included a restoration of these grounds, not only of any damage we inflict, but also a renovation of the pre-existing site. When we leave here, it will be as peaceful and pristine as the day they first opened their gates”
I stand up and adjust my headphones as I once more approach the commentator’s desk.
 “Yet again, I am joined by the lovely Miss Jayalaw, to help us comment on this evening’s proceedings. Now, Jaya, with media these days portraying vampires as sparkling juggernauts, it may seem like vampire is the obvious choice. But I am going against type this evening, and I think I’m backing mankind. What do you think of tonight’s competition?”
 “Human beings can be quite nasty,” Jaya replied. “Though I do hope that he knows what he’s getting into. Vampires can be killed in numerous ways, but the favored choice is a wooden stake through the heart. Wood does happen to be everywhere, even in the pencils we use. So theoretically, the human would just have to get close enough to the vampire to destroy them, unless he’s allowed to use a bow and arrow.”
 “Well, none of the contestants are allowed to bring a weapon onto the field, but there’s a reason we picked a graveyard instead of a boxing ring,” I say, looking out upon the churchyard. “If it’s a case of a one, two, punch, then it’s not much of a fair fight, because it’s not a realistic setting for any of these creatures to occupy. And vampires, although fast, they’re really fragile, so I think that if our human plays smart until he can fashion himself a club or a stake, then it’s game over. Of course, that’s a really big ‘if’.”
“It’s a shame that people weren’t buried with sharp sticks, although a human digging for one would be desecrating remains. Would garlic be considered a weapon? In theory, could the human bide his time until dawn hits? If so, then the vampire would either have to forfeit or burst into flames.”
 “I sense a little trepidation on your part. I don’t think it will be that hard for our man. With trees, crumbling gravestones, the vestments in the church, I think there’s plenty he could use to defend himself. Vampire’s greatest defense is that we can’t tell them apart from humans. But walking into this arena, our guy is ready to fight. And hey, Hitler, Napalm, Clowns. . . I think mankind really is the greatest monster in this fight. Oh, and here come our contestants!”
Over at the fence by the tree line, was a tall, pale-skinned man in a straight jacket and a muzzle, but he walked calmly, and casually, glancing around and standing tall, his slicked, black hair shining greasily in the moonlight. He was being lead from behind, a stagehand holding the buckles on the spine of the jacket. After entering the field, the stagehand unbuckled the straight jacket and the muzzle and the two of them ran back and closed the gate behind them.
In one swift motion, the vampire threw his arms back, and the straight jacket slipped off of his body onto the ground in front of him to reveal a white shirt and matching pinstripe vest and trousers. He casually removed the muzzle the way a rockstar would remove their sunglasses.
 “In this corner, we have Samuel Bergstein, originally a bank teller, he was bitten by a vampire at the age of twenty-nine, and is our oldest and wisest competitor having walked this earth for one hundred and fourteen years.”
On the other side near the church, a black man with long daggy hair, wearing an open shirt with a singlet and a pair of jeans walks towards the field, with two stagehands holding each arm. They walk him inside the graveyard, stand him a few metres away from the fence and shut the gate behind them. The man looked a little anxious, but hopped on the spot and flexed his muscles, which were well-toned and athletic.
 “And against him, we have Jerome Ratray, he is thirty-six years old and standing at six feet - or one-point-eight metres - and weighing in at one hundred and ninety pounds - or ninety kilos - he is an electrician and in his spare time an amateur kick-boxer. Alrighty then!”
I stand up and scream “It’s Predator versus Prey, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

Jerome starts jogging down the centre path, and the vampire, Samuel, chuckles as he begins to swagger towards his opponent.
 “How old are you?” asked Samuel. Jerome doesn’t answer, instead he stops in the middle of the path and puts up his fists, waiting for the vampire to meet him half way.
“That’s right, thirty-six . . . so young. I hope you’ve lived a good life, because it’s going to end, tonight.”
Jerome didn’t respond, he was focussed, breathing steadily, fists clenched.
 “Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed in my lifetime?” asked Samuel, but again, Jerome doesn’t answer. “I’m talking to you, son. Do you know how to speak?”
 “I ain’t here to talk,” said Jerome coldly.
 “So he does have a tongue,” says Samuel with a chuckle. “Why so stoic? I want to enjoy this, savour the moment, because it won’t last too long otherwise.”
 “You tryin’ to scare me, sucker?” asked Jerome. “I didn’t come here for compellin’ conversation, I came here to kick yer ass. Vampires are only dangerous because they look like us, we don’t see ‘em comin’. Well, I see you sucker . . . you ready to dance?”
Jerome took two steps forward and threw his fist. The vampire dodged left with amazing speed, but it was a fake-out, Jerome swung a right hook and got him in the neck. Samuel stumbled back, but Jerome advanced quickly, almost hopping forward, since he was so light on his feet. He swung three more powerful punches, left-left-right, twice in the kidney, once in the forehead. Samuel fell onto his back, and scrambled backwards.
 “No, come on, keep on talkin’!” taunted Jerome. “Weren’t you sayin’ somethin’ about how very old you are?”
Samuel clambered to his feet, then leapt through the air. Jerome stepped aside and watched as he flew overhead, landing in front of the church.
 “You want to play rough, do you?” asked the vampire.
 “I ain’t playin’, sucker,” said Jerome. “I’m gonna kill you.”
Samuel lept up and grabbed onto the edge of the roof, placing his feet flat on the wall as he hung from the church, then using all the force in his legs, he dove at his prey. He tackled him around the waist, and the force sent them both sprawling back. The vampire quickly got to his feet and kicked Jerome in the head. Jerome grabbed his ankle to stop him doing it again, but he jumped away, with a speed that whipped his foot out of Jerome’s grip. Samuel landed on top of the church, and sat on his haunches, looking down at Jerome as he got back up.
 “There, isn’t that better? Doesn’t it feel more natural, to have you at my feet, and me standing above you.”
 “Sounds to me like you’re hiding, because you know if you were standin’ down here, I’d rip yer head off.”
 “Such a savage beast . . . how do you manage to even tie your shoes?”
 “Seriously, how are you plannin’ on winnin’ from all the way up there?” asked Jerome, sounding frustrated. “What are you waitin’ for, old age? Stop hidin’ like a scared, little mouse and fight me!”
Samuel sighed, then leapt off the roof. He landed a metre in front of Jerome, but immediately tucked into a somersault, rolled forward and kicked with both feet into his chest.
He jumped up as Jerome stumbled back, and ran forward with inhuman speed. He crouched low and jabbed with a suckerpunch at full speed, that knocked the air out of Jerome, causing him to lose more ground, stumbling back. Then Samuel jumped to his feet with an uppercut, he was moving fast, to keep ahead of his opponent. Jerome managed to batter it away, with both hands, and tried to regain his composure; so instead Samuel changed the uppercut into a powerful slap that echoed like a thunderclap. He swung his other hand to try to slap him again, trying to knock him silly, but Jerome grabbed his fingers, squeezing the spindly fingers tight, and through clenched, bloody teeth he growled and gave Samuel a headbutt. The vampire was knocked back, but Jerome had a tight grip on his hand, he pulled him back and repaid the favour with a suckerpunch of his own, straight to the stomach. Samuel doubled over, and Jerome kneed him in the face, then swung a punch at his face, then another. Samuel let out a pained cry, as blood started dripping from his nose and mouth. But Jerome kept advancing. He swung an uppercut at his opponent’s chin that made a heavy sound, and knocked him onto his back.
Jerome stood there for a moment, sweating and breathing heavily. He was exhausted and he stopped to catch his breath, but then he looked over at the church and walked past Samuel. The vampire was a bloody mess, and he tried to look around, he groaned as he sat up. he cradled his face with a shaking hand and he rolled onto his feet.
Behind him, the human grabbed the wooden railing of the steps leading into the church and yelled out as he ripped it off, and brandished the makeshift club in his hand.
One end had two nails sticking out, which he elected as the business end, and he walked back towards his opponent to finish him off. Taking a running swing at the hunched figure, he knocked Samuel over again, the nails ripping two wounds into his side.
 “No, stop!” yelled out the vampire, but Jerome swung downwards, and Samuel wailed in pain. As he lifted the bludgeon to swing again, Samuel got to his feet. Mid-arch, Samuel swiped at the piece of wood at astounding speed, and snapped it in half. Then he grabbed Jerome’s fist and dove forward, sinking his fangs into Jerome’s shoulder, to drink the blood.
 “Argh! Get off me!” screamed Jerome. He used his free hand to punch the vampire in the head, throwing him off and in the process gouging deep cuts where the teeth ripped through. Seeing the snapped splinter in his hand, he angrily shoved it into the vampire’s chest. Immediately Samuel went limp. He fell onto his knees and looked up at Jerome, then at the makeshift stake in his chest. He was bleeding heavily, cold blood pooling on the ground around him.
 “You got me,” he said, looking back up, “I think . . . I think I’m finally dying.”
 “Mate . . .” said Jerome, shaking his head. “You talk too much.”
After a few seconds, the vampire slumped to the side, then finally Jerome sat on the ground, breathing heavily.

 “Ladies and gentlemen, that was amazing, I think we have a winner!” I yell, running forward. “I knew it! Mankind, all the way! I think . . . what?”
I stop and put a hand to my headphones as the operators talk to me.
“Okay, I’ll check. Jerome? How are you feelin’, man?” I say walking closer. “Can we get a medic, here?!”
 “That sucked,” said Jerome, wiping the sweat from his brow.
 “We’re not done yet, man. There may be a technical knock-out here.”
 “What?” said Jerome, he looked a little woozy as he looked up.
 “You’ve been bitten. If you turn, that’s T.K.O., Vampire wins.”
 “Vam . . . what? Vampire’s dead,” said Jerome. Once more, an ambulance comes flying through the gate and stops short, and two nurses come out of the back.
 “Yes, the vampire’s dead. You will come back next tier. But if you turn, then you come back to fight as a Vampire,” I say. “Can we get some help here, please?”
A nurse straps his arm with a blood pressure bracelet and the other other checks his temperature, then puts a stethoscope to his chest. After a tense few seconds, the nurse shakes her head.
 “No, he’s gonna be fine,” she says. “Don’t worry, you’re still human.”
 “All-RIGHTY then!” I yell out. “That was touch and go for a second there, scary stuff, but it’s official! We have tonight’s champion! Please everyone, congratulate, the Human!”
The nurses both clap as I walk back towards the desk.
 “That was pretty exciting, but there’s one more round for tier one. Come back tomorrow night, for some more, amazing action!”

Monster Bash, Tier 1: Zombie vs. Demon

“Good evening, sports fans, and welcome back to tier one of Monster Bash. Last night’s round saw some incredible action, but who will win tonight’s conflict? Stick around to find out,” I say, as I walk towards the commentator’s desk. “We have a beautiful arena here at Horton-Meier Churchyard, which has been graciously offered to us for these fights. They have a magnificently maintained churchyard, and an Anzac Memorial for those who died during their service, I have to say, my heart goes out to those poor souls . . . ‘lest we forget’.”
I approach the desk where two unimportant characters are looking busy alongside a gorgeous, young woman.
“Once more, I’m joined by Jayalaw at the sidelines to comment on tonight’s fight. Jaya, tonight we see a zombie facing off against a demon . . . I’ve got to say, this one seems like a Curb Stomp battle, does the walking dead stand a chance against this hellspawn?”
“Depends on the type of walking dead,” she responded. “As well as the malevolence and strength of the demon. Most people characterize zombies as walking carnivores or brainwashed slaves for Caribbean magicians, but some in pop culture know how to think. Not all demons are necessarily evil, per se, and quite a few can be benevolent. It’s a real toss up because the interpretations vary widely.”
 “Well, that seems as good a time as any to check our profiles. Let me see here . . .” I reach down and snatch a few papers from one of the two-dimensional side-characters. The nameless cutout doesn’t even speak. “Hmm . . . well, there’s good news and bad news for our zombie contender. Apparently he’s classed as a ‘Romero’, which is to say, he’s a bit of a shambler. Aggressive, nonetheless, but speed will not be in his favour. However, our demon is looking like she’s on a lesser rung of demon hierarchy. A bit of a lesser, barely above an imp, with only a few lashings of dark magic. Ooh, wait . . . hellfire. I dunno, I’m still leaning towards the demon.”
 “Shamblers seem to be resistant to pain, and can only be killed with beheading or a direct shot to the skull. So our demon can’t play with her opponent based on that sort of immunity.”
 “Y’know, you have a fair point. Perhaps I’m being unfair. But y’know, I think the real decider here is whether or not the zombie bite is going to work in his favour. This demon is flesh and blood, So, if she can get turned by the zombie, that’s a T.K.O., that’s out. I guess we’ll just have to find out. Oh, and here come our competitors now!”
On the left side, near the trees, two stage hands were walking a zombie towards the gate. He had green saggy skin and a metal bucket on his head, as well as a wire lasso, much like a dog-catcher would use, tied his neck which they were using to lead him into the churchyard. As they closed the gate behind them, one of the stagehands approached and quickly removed the bucket. The zombie immediately snarled and dove for him, but the stagehand sprinted and the one holding the lasso pole held firm.
 “Ooh, he’s a vicious one! In this corner, we have Donald Vanderbilt, says he used to be a shop assistant, but was bitten and infected over ten years ago. Died at the age of thirty-three, and since then has managed to infect seventeen more people. So watch out, we’ve got a biter.”
On the other side of the field, three stagehands entered with a book, and a small tray. One used a medical bag filled with donated blood to draw a symbol, while another chanted from a book. The third arranged and lit candles as well as several bones, herbs and other small items. The chanting stagehand cried out and the candles seemed to explode with flame and became a firewhirl. In the centre, a red-skinned woman with horns and a spear-tipped tail appeared, with yellow eyes, black hair and nails, and cloaked in what looked like a black and charred bikini.
 “And, showing that she knows how to make an entrance, in this corner, we have . . . uh, Rkk’lugh O’ash’sh kss-Ra? But, she also goes by the name ‘Carver’. Hellspawn of the Fifth Circle for eighty-six years, Sla’ankin underling and a practitioner of infernal arts. I don’t think I understood half of that, and I wrote it. But okay . . .” I stand up and scream “It’s Creep versus Corpse, who will win? Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

The zombie began shuffling forwards, and Carver chuckled.
 “What folly is this?” she said, looking at the commentators. Then, shaking her head, she strolled along the path towards the zombie. “Alright, let’s bring this to an end . . .”
Carver moved within five metres of the zombie, then stopped. The zombie kept shuffling forwards, and after three seconds it was one metre closer.
 “This is a farce,” said Carver, she took one step back and raised a clawed hand. Her eyes flashed orange as fire ignited from her nails and spread into her palm. Then she punched forward, and a stream of fire burst forth from her hand, and hit the zombie’s feet. She motioned her hand up and down, covering the zombie with flames and smoke. It screamed hoarsely as the flames hit its face. Then Carver dropped her hand and shrugged, looking away from the black smoke.
 “Does this make me champion?” she asked.
Suddenly, a burning zombie leapt out of the smoke and, still smouldering, grabbed her right wrist with both hands, and dug its teeth into her fingers. The demon screamed in pain, her inhuman voice shredding eardrums, a sound like angry nails on a chalkboard.
Swiftly, she punched the zombie in the face and threw him off her, sending him flying into the fence.
 “You festering MAGGOT!” she shrieked, looking at her hand. Rich, red and black blood spilled from her knuckles, “What have you done to me?! Corrupted blood . . .”
Her hand seemed to twitch and rot as she looked at it. Carver frowned angrily as she held her infected hand in front of her face and grabbed her own wrist with her other hand. She took three deep breaths, then clenching her teeth she twisted sharply, crack! The bone snapped. Then, digging her claws into the flesh, the demon ripped the loose, rotten hand off of her arm and dropped it in the dirt beside her. Tears of blood fell from her eyes as she looked at the bleeding, rendered stump of her wrist, then looked through the smoke at the smoking zombie, staggering to its feet. She leapt over the fire and marched towards the shambling corpse.
“Come on, try it one more time!” she roared. “Show me those teeth, I want to see your HUNGER!”
As she came within three metres, the zombie lashed again, but this time, she was ready, she stepped back, and kicked high at the side of his head. A bone cracked, and the zombie fell onto the ground once more. Then, seething with rage, the demon took two steps towards its face, raised a leg high, and slammed it into the zombies head. The decayed head split like a meat watermelon, the zombie’s body  twitched a few times before falling still.

A bell sounded, and I came running forward.
  "Ladies and gentlemen, we have tonight's champion," I cry as I step around the rotting hand and over to the dead zombie. "That was a lot closer than I was expecting. My stomach dropped when he bit your hand there, Carver, but you pulled through in the end. I mean . . . ripping off your own hand? Wow. How does it feel to have won tonight?"
  "That was revolting," said Carver. "But I am proven victorious. What can you offer me for my hand?"
  "If you need medical help, there's an ambulance on standby. And before your next fight, I'm sure the stagehands can patch you up, and we'll need to check the rulebook about finding you a prosthetic or something so you're not handicapped next fight."
Carver started to look a little woozy as more blood spilled from her wrist.
  "Okay, let's double-time that ambulance, guys!" I say, stepping away. "She's been a real trooper this evening, ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the Demon!"
Everyone applauds, but the clapping is drowned out by the sound of the ambulance as it crashes through the gate.
  "Come back tomorrow for Round Three! It's going to be a good one, trust me!"

Monster Bash, Tier 1: Werewolf vs. Ghost

Good evening, sports fans, and welcome to the inaugural Monster Bash!
For the longest time, for Halloween, Mankind has celebrated those twisted creatures of sinister might and dark magic for the fear they can incite. But, I don’t think it’s enough to include an entire barrage of beasts every single time we want to celebrate one day. After all, how can we decide which of these nightmarish freaks is truly Monster Supreme?
Well, pure and simple, why not drop them in an arena and see who is left alive? Well, standing at least . . . or floating. Whatever, we want to know which one can outlast the others in a standoff.
So, for this Halloween Countdown, we’re doing to throw down in the ring, and see which of eight classic monsters will defeat the rest, and be 2015’s Monster Supreme. I’ve selected eight monsters to play within an elimination contest bracket, paired them up randomly and we’ll see who wins.
So, without further ado, let’s go to the arena!

- - -

  “Thank you, Matt,” I say to myself, as I am somehow now standing in the middle of a twilit graveyard and wearing a tuxedo and heavy set of headphones while holding a microphone. “I’m standing here, in the Horton-Meier Churchyard, a scene which has been graciously provided to us for this year’s Monster Bash. Just a small property, but it has a lot of character and useful sites for these fights.”
I start walking to the far side, where there is a table set up with two secondary characters and a pretty young woman wearing a glitzy formal dress. Her skin was brown, and her curly hair draped around her shoulders.
 “This year, I’m joined by Jayalaw, who will be helping us to comment on tonight’s entertainment. How do you feel about tonight’s fight?”
“I think that there’s more to the contestants than meets the eye,” the woman said. “For some reason people don’t like werewolves, but most of the time they are normal human beings. We’ll have to see if the were-part of the wolf will be able to apply human smarts.”
 “Indeed, especially up against a ghost. You can give a geist a good whack, but if you want to take them down, you’ve got to find that haunt, or exorcise them somehow. So, the werewolf will have staying power, but that won’t count for anything if he doesn’t fight smart this evening.”
“The ghost also shouldn’t take things for granted. They may be dead with an immortal soul, but souls are only human, and humans make mistakes. Both contestants need to be on their toes his evening.”
 “So you think the human factor will be the deciding factor in this fight?”
“Oh definitely. There aren’t many monster stories where the monster uses his brains to get out of a bad situation. But to be honest I don’t watch many reality shows, so I don’t know how to predict winners. I merely plan to observe, to see who avoids wiping out.”
 “Well, someone will have to wipe out tonight, I’m afraid. Oh, and they’re bringing in the contestants now . . .” I say. Off to the left side of the churchyard, near a copse of trees, the gates were opened by two stagehands and a large truck backed into the yard and the helpers opened the doors. A man wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, with salt-pepper hair and a five-o’clock shadow jumped down out of the truck. On both of his wrists, heavy chains were tied.
 “In this corner, tonight we’ll be seeing Gareth Donahue, a thirty-four-year old car mechanic from Darwin, who also happens to be a ravenous werewolf,” I say. On the other side of the field the gates are opened and two stage hands step in carrying what looks like a jar with a candle inside.
They place it on the ground and open the lid, and instantly the glass shatters, and a small girl flickers into existence, a woman wearing a business suit that looked rumpled and wet, and her dark hair was hanging around her face. Her whole body seemed to flicker slightly and glow a sickly shade of blue.
 “And in this corner, he’ll be facing off against Sasaki Tsukiyami, a Brisbane girl migrant from Japan who was murdered by a jilted lover at the age of just twenty, and returned as a vengeful spirit . . . whose possessions have been donated to us by the Tsukiyami family for the sake of this evening’s entertainment.” I stand up and scream. “It’s Hound versus Haunt, who will win?  Let’s get ready to RUMBLE! Three . . . two . . . one, FIGHT!”

Gareth begins by jogging across the graveyard towards the ghost. She watched, creepily, tilting her head awkwardly, her black hair hung over her face so that only one of her eyes could be seen. As he came within three metres, she suddenly shrieked.
 “Don’t you dare . . .” Sasaki hissed.
 “What, are you scared?!” said Gareth with a smirk. “Or are you just trying to scare me?”
He swung a right hook at her head, but his fist passed right through. He just sighed.
“I should have figured as much . . . so does this mea-”
The ghost shoved him with both hands, and Gareth went flying backwards. Head over heels, he landed awkwardly on his shoulder and rolled backwards, landing on his front.
 “You can’t hurt me . . .” Sasaki hissed, as she lifted off the ground and floated towards him. He didn’t move at first, and it seemed like maybe he’d been knocked out, but after four seconds, he suddenly pushed himself up and shook himself off.
 “I’m starting to really hate you,” said Gareth, his voice deep, almost hoarse, “I’m gonna have to lose it . . . faster than I expected.”
There was a sickly cracking sound as his bones began shifting and growing. There was a swift ripping as his muscles expanded through his shirt and became covered with wiry, brown fur. His face became elongated, his teeth grew. As he transformed, he got to his feet in time for claws to shred through his shoes. The werewolf snarled and as the clothing fell from him and the last of his form snapped into place, he took a step forward and roared.
The force of the sound made the ghost’s clothing and hair move as though in a sudden, strong gust of wind. The werewolf snarled and leapt, face-first with jaws open wide. He dove straight through the ghost, but as his enormous form flew through hers, her body dissipated like smoke.
The werewolf looked confused, as it sniffed around, pawing at the ground. Sasaki reappeared, looking a little dazed as it stumbled to its feet, but before the ghost could regain her composure, the werewolf ran forward and slammed a great claw through her, and into the ground. Breathing heavily, the wolf sniffed left and right. After another ten seconds, Sasaki reappeared, this time behind him. Before he could turn around she floated off the ground and grabbed him by the hair on his back. The werewolf barked sharply, as she drifted upwards, and pulled him off the ground. The werewolf twisted and swiped, grunting and snarling but couldn’t reach the fur on its back. The ghost drifted a good five storeys above the ground, and sideways so they were floating above the gravestones. Then, she dropped him. A headstone crumbled as he landed on top of it with his chest, and the werewolf made a high-pitched yelp.
It crawled away from the headstone, limping, and looked up at the ghost in the air, frothing at the mouth with rage. After a few deep breaths, the werewolf stood on its hind legs and pounced up. It leapt almost twice his height, claws outstretched, but it wasn’t high enough. It tried again, but couldn’t get any higher, and the ghost floated overhead, looking down at the wolf from above.
The werewolf let out a mournful howl, then seemed to tense and flex its muscles. The beast started to shrink, muscles shivering and bones snapping as he returned to a man-like form. But the transformation did not complete, rather than Gareth’s human form, he reduced to a wolf-man, with muscular arms and a wiry mane, but smaller and with more exposed skin.
 “Gotta fight smart . . .” growled Gareth, holding his bruised side as he wandered towards the path in front of the church. Gareth saw the shattered remains of the glass jar near the fence, he sniffed at the pieces before scraping it into a pile, scooping it with the dirt so he wouldn’t cut himself, then he looked up at the sky. “You’ll never win if you fly around up there!”
Sasaki flickered for a moment, then held out her arms, as though on an invisible crucifix and screamed as she began to plummet down towards the ground. Gareth scooped up the dirt and glass quickly into both hands, and as Sasaki landed on the ground, he threw it.
She shrieked in pain as her ghostly form dissipated again, like smoke.
 “Salt and iron,” said Gareth, smiling. “You can’t just slip through salt and iron, can you, bitch!”
Sniffing around, Gareth caught a scent and ran towards the church. It was only a small, wooden thing, barely twenty-five square metres. Inside, the lights were lit, and Gareth was looking around until something caught his eye. Sitting atop the lectern, and very much out of place, was a little, china doll. He approached it, but as he got half-way, Sasaki appeared behind him.
 “You can’t hide from me . . .” she warned. Not wasting a second, Gareth leapt towards the lectern, and grabbed the doll, landing awkwardly and rolling into the wall. But he managed to get to his feet.
 “Does this look familiar?” he said, breathing heavily.
 “No . . . wait, don’t!” shrieked Sasaki, as she recognized the doll.
With a cruel grin, Gareth held the doll above his head.
 “NOOO!” screamed Sasaki, but the doll’s head collided with the corner of the lectern, and shattered. Sasaki screamed an otherworldly scream and her form was encompassed by blinding light, then exploded into particles of smoke.

A bell sounded, and I stepped out from behind the commentators desk.
 “We have a winner!” I yelled, running towards the church. “That was way more exciting than I imagined . . . ghostly apparition has its benefits, but being linked to an inanimate object seems to be one killer weakness. Gareth, come out here!”
Gareth stumbled out the door, still holding his side, but smiling.
 “Gareth, you’ve survived round one. How do you feel?”
 “I feel like crap,” he said, breathing heavily. “But I’m glad I got rid of that shrieking banshee . . . that was fun, but it hurt like hell when she dropped me.”
 “Yeah, I think you’ve got a broken rib. We’re gonna get you patched up before your next match. But, ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Werewolf!”
The other three commentators clap, and Gareth stumbles off towards the churchyard gate.
 “Alright, but that was just round one. To find out the Monster Supreme, you’ll need to stick around. Come back tomorrow for Round Two, where two more monsters will face off in our Monster Bash!”

Hypothesis: Old-Timer

Hypothetical: What would you do if you woke up, and were 81 years old?

- submitted by M.R. Pritchard

My neck hurts. A stiff, sharp pain in my neck. I open my eyes to the dark grey dimness of my room. But I can barely see it, I'm staring up at the my ceiling fan. From this distance it looks like a pasty, grey mass of blur. I groan and reach towards my desk for my glasses. As I reach across from the bed, my arm aches, I must have been sleeping on it. I gasp and let out an animal sound of pain as I stretch my arm out to grab onto my glasses. But when I do, I struggle to close my hand. I figure the blood is having trouble creeping through my arm, since I slept on it, so I pull my arm back and cross my arms, rubbing them together to warm up. When my arm starts to feel normal again, I  push against the bed to sit myself up.
  "Ah, FUCK!" I cry out, as I feel a stabbing pain in my neck. My voice sounds deep and croaky. I must have slept with my mouth open. I instinctively reach a hand up and rub the back of my neck to try to soothe the pain. It must be stiff from sleep or something. I try to tilt my head to crack my neck.
 "AARGH! God-DAMN it!" I cry. My neck feels like it's got red hot needles stabbing into it whenever I try to move it. I open my eyes, only just noticing that I squinted them shut from the pain, and attempt to fetch my glasses again. My hand lands lazily on top of my glasses, and I clench my fingers around them. I sit them on my lap, with both hands unfold them, then bring them up to my face. As I do my hands shake slightly, and it takes me longer than usual to put my glasses on my face. But when I do, I can't see.
What the hell? I think to myself. I pull my glasses down my nose slightly and peer over the top of them. I still can't see, but it's even blurrier. My vision's gotten worse? But I could see yesterday!
I hold up my hand to see how bad my short-sightedness is. I bring my hand closer and closer to my face until I can make out the detail. Then I stop. I freeze as best I can until I am staring at my hand, floating unsteadily in front of my face. There are wrinkles on my hand, defined, deep and unmistakeable. I turn my hand over and look at my arm. My arms too are wrinkly, and covered in spots. And the hair on the back of my arm is all white, long and bristly. It's an old man's arm.
 "What the hell?" I say. But when I do I hear it. I hear it properly for the first time. My voice, it's not dry or sick from sleep. It's aged and tired. It's an old man's voice, but it's mine. I stare at my hands, trying to understand. But I recognise the short fingers and wide palm. That's my hand!
I throw the blanket off of me, as best I can, and push my desk chair out of the way so I can stand up. As I do, my neck whines with pain every time I try to move it; my back crinks and groans as I straighten it out; my legs bend under the sudden weight and I exhale heavily like a deflating balloon.
I want to run, but the attempt only results in a stumble, and I can only manage a slow shuffle as I head towards the bathroom. I lean on the bed, my loungechair, the dining room table, the hallway walls and the bathroom door as I creep along on my unsteady old legs; all the while, my neck still aching from how I slept on it wrong as I curse my bad vision, struggling to squint through the blur to see where I'm going. I head into the bathroom and, leaning on the sink for support, I lean towards the mirror until I can see my face.
The first thing I see are my eyes. Staring directly back at me, I see my eyes, framed by my glasses which have flecks of dust and dirt on the glass. Those eyes are mine. As bad as the vision has gotten, I know they're mine, though my brow looks a deal more wrinkled and my crow's feet are more defined. Then I see my nose. It looks larger, and less smooth than I'm used to. Then I see my mouth. I can barely make out my lips anymore with the colour faded, It's just a thin, grim, uneven line. All around that is my beard. It's a salt-and-pepper grey, with my unshaved whiskers growing wild over my neck and age-hollowed cheeks. I see the hair atop my head. I have a full head of hair, but it too is a mix of grey and shocking white. It's also quite thin, meaning I can see the shiny dome of the top of my head through it. It's still wild and unkempt, but now looks more like a petrified forest than a bird's nest. I also notice that my ears are much bigger. And all together, I notice that my head is tilting slightly to the left, but I dare not straighten it to avoid the sharp neck pain.

I'm older. Much older. At least fifty years older! But why? How?
I rub my hand over my face. The curly wisps of my unshaven face, and the weathered skin all feels rough under my fingers. I stare into those eyes again. At first I wonder if I have cataracts, but realize that's foolish. I can still see, but obviously my astigmatism has gotten much worse with age.
My legs, arms and back, they are all weak. Perhaps my muscles are getting tired, but I heavily suspect I have arthritis, like my Nanna. I don't know what's wrong with my neck, but I suspect it has something to do with my three head-pillows.
  "What happened to me?" I ask, still touching my newly aged face with a hand and listening to my deeper, harsher voice. After a minute or so, I turn away from the mirror and stumble back towards my bedroom. The struggle doesn't take long, but the amount of effort just to walk ten metres annoys me to no end. I head through my bedroom door and pull the sheet off my bed. I throw the doona aside and yank the bottom sheet off, looking through the piece of furniture, looking for my youth. I try to lift the mattress, but quickly give that up.
"What Happened To Me!" I yell. Then I think. Time. Is it a different time?
I head over to my desk, and leaning down close to see, I push aside the keyboard and mouse, the paper and books looking for my books. Nothing. But as I push the computer mouse, the screen comes to life. I left it on last night! I drag the mouse down to the toolbar and hove it over the clock it says:
  16 May 2013 Thursday
What? It's today? Then why! WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?!! I let out a wordless cry of pain and frustration. What's happened to me? What can I do about this? Can I ever be young again? I slowly step back and ease myself into my loungechair, ignoring the bag that I left on top of it and sitting down to stare into dark, empty space.
What can I do with myself? I don't know how I did this or if I can ever change back. I'll do whatever I can to fix this . . . but what do I do if I can't? I can't live here with my parents for the rest of my life, but what can I do? I don't have the money for a house! Will I move into a nursing home? My mother runs a nursing home, maybe I can stay there. But what can I do with my life?
I look at my hands again. I just stare at them, I can't stop staring at them.
I'm an old man. I'm nearly dead. What have I done with my life?
Do I have enough time to write that novel? To learn how to drive a car on my own? To buy a house? To teach in a classroom? Is there time for any of that?
What about the little things?
Is there even time to finish reading Sherlock Holmes? To learn how to drive a car on my own? To have my own garden? To have a kid? Hell, will I even live long enough to kiss a girl for the first time?

I don't know. I have a whole life that I wanted to live. There just isn't enough . . . time.

Hypothesis: Undeadly

Hypothetical: What would you do if there was a zombie apocalypse?

I couldn't think, could barely get my brain to work. So I'd gone for a walk. I just wanted to clear my head. I wanted to think straight. I didn't know that it was the end of the world.
I watch as green hands reach into a hollow where her stomach should have been, and pry inside the viscera. The monster grabs what looks unnervingly like unravelling deli-sausages, and brings it to its face with both hands. Blood and undigested food squirt between it's teeth, spilling over its long, unkempt hair as at it bites down. I feel like I'm gonna be sick.
I'd seen enough Google Images and Wikipedia pages to know that the poor girl lying in the middle of the road being eaten was not a dummy or a movie prop. But it wasn't a zombie. Come on, it couldn't be. But what I know is that I was watching some crazy, emaciated psychopath chew on someone's organs. Surely, this was an emergency for which I could call the police.
I slowly back away as I get my mobile phone and dial 000. It doesn't take long before I hear a recorded message:
  "You have dialled emergency Triple Zero. Your call is being connected." says a kind voice. I wait as the call is being connected. But it doesn't. Another recorded message starts up, apologizing for delays. The network is clogged? What the hell is going on?
Impatient with the police, and starting to freak out, I hang up the phone and start walking the other way. It would be quicker to walk past the scene. But I don't think I'd casually pass by a sight like that, even if I was in an armoured van. Once I'm considerably out of earshot, I start to run. I don't know what's wrong with that maniac, but I'll feel a million times safer behind a locked door. The run home was uneventful, except that I get a glance of a helicopter, flying low enough for me to hear the blades chop through the air. My poor eyesight meant that even with glasses I couldn't tell if it was the police or the media. A million thoughts are going through my head, half of which were just different ways of asking What the fuck is going on?!
I get home, closing the front gate behind me, and locking the sliding door as I head inside. I grab the home phone and dial:
  "You have dialled emergency Triple Zero. Your call is being connected." says that same voice again, with little to no understanding how drastic the situation is. Again, the Telstra network tells me the lines are busy. I hang up the phone and start pacing back and forth. I'm not exactly good with this kind of thing. I don't function well without information.
Why are all the lines down?
I walk around the house, peeking out all the windows to check for that cannibal maniac, locking all the doors & even closing the curtains and blinds. Finally, I turn on the loungeroom television. If there's some kind of lock down, the news will let me know. I turn to ABC 24 News. The image of the smartly dressed anchorman comes in a second before the sound.
  " . . . has died in a fatal car crash. Another woman, aged seventy-nine also died in the crash that involved three cars. A Mercedes Benz was-" I flip through channels, hoping to find something relevant to my suburb, when I hear something from outside. I turn off the TV and peek out the window.
The curtains were made of lace, and through them I could see the image of a thin, stumbling figure with unkempt hair. Their feet shuffled unevenly as they walked. My throat seemed to get caught on itself as I drop the remote on the couch and head into the dining room. Did I lock the front door? Yes. Sure, I did.
I hide away in the dining room, heart beating like a galloping racehorse.
Stay the hell away from me, damn it! I was silently screaming to the monster on the street out front of my house. Oh god! Did I lock the front gate?
I hestitate a moment before deciding that I was safe to head into the outside area. My home has an enclosed porch thing attached to it with two ways in through wooden gates to the side yard and verandah. If someone got in there, they could probably break through a window to get inside. I don't want to risk it. I quickly unlock the sliding door, head outside, and lock the latch on the front gate, then I quickly head over to the side gate. God DAMN it!
We usually leave it locked, but I opened it the other week to let a tradesman get through. Looking past the side of the house and through the open gate, I can see the monster, stumbling along the street. For the first time, I can see the side of its face. It's smeared with blood, and doesn't even look human it's so gaunt and discoloured. I pull the gate to close it, but the latch is keeping it open. Feeling panic rise in me, I unlock the door, getting a spiderweb in my face as I bend down, then close the gate and push it so that I can line up the latch. I lock the gate and look up. The monster hasn't seen me.
I creep back inside and lock the sliding door behind me. Then I turn on the dining room television, careful to turn the volume down low. The image pans across an outback highway before the shot changes, and the anchorman looks into a different camera.
  "The Royal Women's Hospital has declared a quarantine after an outbreak of mad cow disease throughout the facility. Doctors and staff are trying to contain the outbreak, while officials are moving unaffected patients to other hospitals." the shot changes to a woman in a pants suit standing outside a hospital.
  "The Royal Brisbane Women's and Children's Hospital, is under investigation after an outbreak of Bovine spongiform encephalopathy or 'Mad Cow Disease'. Officials believe the outbreak started with an infection in the Intensive Care Unit through improperly cleaned medical equipment. Details are still unclear at this stage, but the hospital, which has more than 1,000 beds has-"
suddenly, the scene changes back to the anchor desk.
  "We apologize for the interruption, but we take you now to breaking news of a lockdown in the Southern Brisbane Area . . ."
The scene changes to a shot from a helicopter. The scene pans around a view of suburban streets and houses, near a small business district. The reporter's voice comes through on a voice over, talking about police and lockdown and telling people to stay in their homes. But I'm not listening. I'm looking at the image of people. Panning over the streets, it looks like a normal shot of suburbia, except for the number of people on the street. Each street in the shot seems to have two or three people slowly walking along the road. that alone would look like people going home after a concert or fireworks, it's not shocking. What is shocking is the number of other people in each shot. Lying in the middle of the road, fallen down by the curb. From the height of the helicopter, I can't see details. But none of the people lying down are moving, and many are in awkward angles, seem to be lying on top of dark puddles or even seem to be spread out over the road. Just like the poor girl I saw less than fifteen minutes ago.
The scene changes to a journalist standing beside a police car, making claims of a cult or a terrorist attack, but that niggling thought in the back of my mind suddenly springs right back to the front: zombie.
I know it's stupid, and I know that I am being a paranoid nerd. But the thought comes right back. I get up and head back to the living room. But as I get close I start to creep around slowly as I get up close to the window, leaning against the wall next to it, and I peek out through the curtains. The long-haired zombie has is almost half the way up the street now, and a long way away from the house. But I see, down near the bottom of the street, now there's a woman smeared with blood. A woman without a stomach, who looks familiar. I immediately get away from the window and start searching through the house, careful to avoid windows. I don't care what's happening, I need to board up those windows. Or at least, block them with something better than lacy curtains. I head to the guest bedroom. There's a mostly empty bookshelf and a nicely made bed. I take the few items in the bookshelf out, and start to drag it out of the room. I bump into walls and nearly crush my toes a few times, but eventually, I drag it into the living room, and use it to cover one of the windows.
Then I run back to the room. I want to get the bed out and use the frame, but after a minute, I give up, and instead grab the mattress. I flip it on its side and slide it through the hall, then I lean it against the other front window with the lacy curtain. Then, just to be overly cautious, I head back to the guest room, stand the bedframe up on its 'head', and push it as close to the window as I can. Then I close the door to the bedroom, and the study, and again start pacing back and forth with nervous energy and sore arms.
I check the time. Still only 5:30. Shouldn't my parents be home by now?
No, not really. Stop panicking. Calm down . . .
No screw it. I grab the phone and ring my Dad's mobile number. It doesn't work the first time, so I call again. I get voicemail.
  "Uh . . . just call me back, alright? This is Matt, by the way." I hang up. Then I immediately call my mother's mobile. Again, voicemail. I give her a similar message and throw my phone onto the couch.
My parents are usually busy around now, it makes sense they wouldn't answer. But it doesn't make me feel any better. Is it paranoid to get a weapon?
Yes, yes it is. But I decide to do it anyway. I grab the shed key and head into the backyard, which is safely locked (as my dad is paranoid about criminals), and head into the shed. Since it looks big and nasty, I grab the axe. I once cleft through a felled paw-paw tree with one good swing, so this ought to do me well. I head inside, locking the door behind me, hide the axe behind the television so that my family doesn't think I'm crazy when they get home (if they get home) and I sit there watching the news.
As I sit there, I hear another noise outside. I jump up and grab the axe, alert. I don't know what's about to happen. I hope my family is secure, or on their way home. Especially my mother, who works in a nursing home, and is probably at greater risk of infection.
But I have faith that my close family is safe. It's a small grace, but it takes a while for a zombie apocalypse to take hold. I hope others have taken advantage of that fact.
I don't know what started it. I don't need to. I don't like the idea of hurting anything, even a zombie. But I value my life enough to do whatever it takes to survive. As I walk around the house again, checking the windows and doors with an axe in my hand, I am confident that I've made the message clear:

Dear Zombies,
  I'm ready for you.
Yours Sincerely,
  Guy with an Axe