The Mondo Ruction Infinity Minus One - ROUND 1 - The Crystal Rose Hotel & Resort

On an endless plane, divorced from both time and space The Oddball continued its ceaseless repetitions of empty gestures and empty patterns. The Oddball was perhaps the least of all of the Hosts. It was a matter of some contention whether it was sentient or whether it was a broken simulacrum of consciousness. It had once described itself as "a conglomeration of self and not-self looping, stringing, through the planes; an empty plurality made manifest". But nobody had been around to hear it describe itself as thus.

Physically it was an enormous orange billiard ball with a large number 5, a fez and a multicoloured scarf wrapped tightly around itself. This shape was perhaps the only constant reliable aspect of itself, and even that seemed entirely arbitrary; worn only due to the fact that to exist in physical space you must have a physical form.

There was no time here in this pocket of unreality, but it would not be entirely inaccurate to say that it had been doing its current activity forever. Step one: Hear about the existence of other Big Fights. Step two: Find eight entities. Step three: Bring them here and tell them they are now in a fight to the death. Step four: Throw them off into a universe somewhere. Step five: Go back to step one. Each cycle a discrete Mondo Ruction occurring somewhere out in the infinite probability space of the universe, and yet as it repeated and repeated, somehow even the infinite began to become full. Reality itself was beginning to twist and buckle under the strain. Time passed inconsistently. A creeping sense of artificiality seeped across dimensions, souring even worlds that managed to avoid The Oddball's attention.

It was beginning to be a problem.

It is impossible to say whether The Oddball understood the consequences of its actions. It did not seem to perceive the perpetually expanding sour possibility space it sat at the centre of. It certainly was not keeping abreast of its many purposeless conflicts it had initiated. If it had such a thing as a self it seemed only interested in creating hollow instantly discardable simulacra of the works of those more purposeful than itself. There was no acknowledgement of how the strings of existence strained and broke by its ceaseless hand.

As always a selection of eight entities snatched up from throughout the whole of probability space stood in a rough circle looking at one another. They were held in place by the most powerful force in the known universe: narrative obligation. They stared at the billiard ball, perhaps one of nature's most incongruous shapes.

"We have taken you for a battle to the death." It said, though it might be more accurate to say that all the sounds that made up that sentence had just coincidentally have happened (causeless) in a coincidental sequence that made it almost sound like a sentence. It was unnervingly both intentional and unintentional and it made the contestants' skin crawl (such as those of them that had skin).

In lieu of any actual introduction, the contestants find information shunted scattershot into their minds, random haphazard facts about those who stood around them.

The Ovipath, the creature from the vibeplane, the squirming constantly reforming mass that crystallizes and reshapes itself in response to perception from sentient beings. It is a perception fish seated on a separate layer of reality that would normally only perceive the standard dimensions of human experience as a footprint beneath its actual self. To have its perceptions squashed down to inhabit only those human dimensions is as disorientating as it is insulting.

Its true form (the self that exists on that higher level) is perhaps impossible to describe in terms that map to the human understanding of physicality but let's say all of its limbs are worms and allow ourselves to stop thinking of the Ovipath for now.

Grey, the living supreme paragon of motorcycability. The shining ideal that all motorbikes were built to try to capture. She is the platonic ideal of the Motorcycle. She is freedom. She is wonder. She is all glistening cylinders of metal and the wind in your hair. To see her is to fall in love with the horizon. Humans have tried again and again to build her in effigy and every motorcycle that exists is a pale imitation to her glossy curves and perfect angles. She is beautiful and if it would be so easy to dedicate your life to her, just one slip and you're hers forever.

PROC13372, a procedure rod. A strange shimmering skyfish, propelled by undulating fins. They shine in a whole rainbow of greys. Procedure rods are a common sight in the heart of the plane of order, where they exist as living conduits for Law itself. This strict adherence to the universal force of order flows through them; a living thrumming heritage passed down through the generations from a time when Law was a physical entity that walked among them.

PROC13372 is what would be considered a heretic, one who would use the otherworldly force of Obligation to twist the force of Law into a tool that can be used to control others. Obligation trails from their body like rotting red algae.

The Sparxle Chicks - Mariposa, Melinda, Magenta, Marissa and Magnolia. A girl band from downtown New Town.

New Sparxle Adventures S05E01 - A Pet Shop To Remember - Saturday 5PM only on Veepo. The Sparxle Chicks return for a new season of New Sparxle Adventures. Following the destruction of their used record store at the end of the last season, how will the girls support themselves, and each other, in this time of crisis, and will they ever get that recording deal with Megaplex Records?

New Sparxle Adventures S05E02 - The Manor, The Meet-Cute and the Monarch  - Sunday 5PM only on Veepo. Magenta and Melinda stay overnight at Aunt Mildred's so called haunted mansion. Mariposa meets a cute new girl when she volunteers at the local hospital. Marissa and Magnolia recover the Emperor's Blade with Magnolia's ex Michaela, but will the allure of the blade tear the girls apart?

Stringbox - Dragon Of The Strands. She is not a traditional dragon in shape or form, resembling much more a frankly gargantuan heap of knotted string and rope, at least a mile high and several miles wide. She slithers, her body too big to move entirely in unison. Entire bunches of strands gyrate and pulse out of sync with the enormous mass of bounded twine. She entangles all that she comes into contact with and binds it within her bulk, making it a part of her living treasure horde.

The Saint of Ideas. They were born as the physical manifestation of the Last Angel's Final Thoughts, and that is a heavy mantle to bear. They are a sort of de facto messiah, a being whose duty is to be present and be the living spark of inspiration for a doomed society to help save themselves from their inevitable end. They appear as a glowing dark green humanoid silhouette with the distinctive shape of a twin tube light bulb instead of a head. Somehow, right now, despite the immobilisation The Oddball has enforced upon them, they cheerily preach to the other contestants about the virtues of mindfulness.

Gobbie is a Gabbo, a little brown fuzzy ball of hair with enormous eyes. She is a descendant of Gobrick, one of the original companions of Cruc; their species mythic hero. When their world collided with the Idworld the Gabbos were captured and put to work by the evil capitalistic Glikkons. For years the Gabbos hoped for the return of their hero to rescue them from this new enemy and yet he did not appear. While others maintained their faith Gobbie took matters into her own hands, shaping herself to become the hero the Gabbos needed. Gobbie may only be a small brown ball of fur, but she is remarkably strong and unnervingly fast. And she bites.

Faraxetty Strigantonio is an artificial man. He is a straw man in an old black suit embodying a kind of unsettling emptiness. On the old burlap sack that is his head is drawn a simple friendly face, but even this friendly approachable visage cannot mask his unsettling nature. He moves with a stiffness and a hollowness. It is important to know that he is a referent yet to be coupled with a signifier, his true nature yet to be solidified. He can be whatever you need him to be, so long as you don't necessarily need to trust him.

They are shown each other to each other and they are given the boilerplate speech of why they are here. Seven rounds, seven locations, killing one another until there is only one left. It falls out of The Oddball's mouth as though it means something, as though it isn't a creeping rot out-populating thought.

Reality ripples around them and Round One begins. They are in the Love Hotel. A tourist destination situated within the thoughtrealm of Love, a physical plane of intoxicating, overwhelming love. It is a sickening sensation, like being submerged in emotional treacle, one that can with time warp and twist the very fabric of a person in unexpected ways.