Super Otaku Brawl - Round One: Traverse Town

Anger Crabman woke up from his nap much as you'd expect: with a explosion of hoarse expletives about how he was missing boners for this shit., standing in the middle of the street. It felt like he'd been asleep for months.
The first thing the Deathless One did upon awakening was wander aimlessly around the town square in a circle, shouting at passers-by.
Waddling through the city streets was getting to crabman. The whole place seemed to be like one of those postmodern art projects, or something. All surreal and crazy. Crabman loathed it. It offended his sensibilities- as someone who spent his whole life on the pursuit of the tedious, it was simply too interesting for him.
"Stop loiterin', ya nasty fukin cartoon animals, don't you have nothin better ta do?", said crabman to whichever goofy cartoon animals were listening. He didn't care. "Back in Trol Miami, none of you hecked up slime was all gettin in my way loiterin, they weren't there at all, because Trol Miami's my private resort, n' only i live there. It's just golf courses and cabana jazz bars all the way ya know? Nonea you whippersnappers hangin about. Just atmosphere." He said that last word with the kind of bitter satisfaction only a mean old man can muster.

...

Nancy nodded hesitantly at the man's assurance as she crept from below the table. Disorienting was one way to put it. Still, there must be some way out of this mess that didn't involve a duel to the death... She shuddered. It wasn't an option. There must be some way out of this...
She hefted her typewriter onto the table. As unbelievable as this was, perhaps keeping a diary or log of sorts would help to clear things up. Jake cocked his head between mouthfuls of crackers as she began to type, quick fingers clicking across the black keyboard.

Foreward:
This is a diary. That much, I'm sure you have guessed. What you probab-
ly have not is the circumstances from which it was born. They are not
exactly the standard conditions which one starts a diary. Neither are
they exactly the circumstances which are normally conducive to diary
writing, but I shall endure.

I am writing this from the tearoom of a man with an inordinate number of
dogs, located within a village apparently called Traverse Town, having
been drafted into what I'm told is

Nancy paused a little. Trying to think of a less melodramatic way to put this.
She couldn't think of one.

a fight to the death.

With that, she was startled by a sound like an old grey man bashing a pane of glass with a cane made of bricks and the face of James Purefoy as Solomon Kane.
She nearly jumped out of her seat, glanced to the window.
Sure enough, there was an old grey man bashing the window with cane made of bricks and the face of James Purefoy as Solomon Kane.
"Ey whassap", he inarticulately emoted, gesturing wildly at her typewriter. "Dozzat thingamajig get cable? I'll buy it fromya."