The Story of Chief Aggro: Showdown.

As the sun strolled over the earthen crust and the mountain peaks shone brightly, a strange air permeated the Awesome Valley. The town was bustling with the usual business. The trade post clerk was sweeping the wooden slats that made up the porch. Horses were hitched to fencings around the main strip, swiping the flies away with their tails and the occasional shake of their heads. Women strode along with their baskets carrying goods as children ran past screaming and snapping their pop guns at each other. Men sat at the saloon bar with their glasses of whiskey wetting the countertop with perspiration as the pianist swaggered about his craft with a stirring rendition of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy." The sheriff sat at the end of the bar. His guns were hostlered but loomed outward to warn the patrons that their shift wasn't over for the day. A thud echoed through the room and the sheriff looked to see Bob Stallion slumped against the wall, giggling like a schoolgirl with the saloon's premiere marm, Lusty One-Eyed Pearlie. Stallion noticed the sheriff giving him a wary look.

"Sheriff." he tipped his hat as he stood up.

The sheriff nodded. "You keep your poontanging to a hush, Stallion, it's still daylight."

"Yessir." Stallion took his cyclops prostitute by the arm and hustled upstairs to negotiate some land trade.

The pianist was about to emulate Montell Jordan, breaking into "This is how we doooo ehhhht...!" when the saloon doors swung open. The deputy stumbled through with sweat and dirt sticking to his shocked face. "Sheriff! Sheriff! He's here! He's in town!"

"Gulldammit fuck, Brucie, what's all this mamma jamma?" the sheriff exclaimed.

"It's HIM, sheriff," Deputy Brucie bellowed, "it's CHIEF AGGRO!" A record somewhere in town scratched to a halt.

The noise and banter froze at the mere mention of that name. One patron pulled out his pistol and shot himself in the head out of desperation, yet everyone else stared down the sheriff for an answer. He hopped off the barstool with his glass still in his hand.

"Well, I guess we better get this over with."

As the sheriff, deputy, and other patrons walked outside, they saw that hell itself made a housecall to this small community. The clouds covered up the sun to protect it from shining down on damnation, and most of the townsfolk had sought shelter in their homes or peered through the shop windows like scared rabbits. A lone tumbleweed rustled down the main road, moving along to stop at the feet of what had caused all this ruckus. Chief Aggro looked down at the spherical foliage and with one swift movement crescent moon kicked it into splinters and a fine red mist. Only Chief Aggro could make a tumbleweed bleed to death.

"Blue blazes!" Deputy Brucie choked. "D'joo see...?"

The sheriff held his hand up to silence his partner. He sat his empty glass on the porch railing and walked down onto the dirt path. His eyes met Chief Aggro's, but not wanting to let his cool down, he unlodged a cigarette from its pack and lit it. Only the sound of a muffled Stallion negotiating his terms with his lady friend could be heard as the upstairs curtains shifted about. The sheriff scoffed. "What's your business here, Chief?"

Chief Aggro spat a gob of chewing tobacco onto the street. "I'm in the business of doing business, Sheriff Fuckface." He enunciated his reason by smacking his fist into his cupped palm.

The sheriff took a drag off his cigarette. "Sheriff Fuckface was my father. Now I'll only ask you one more time; what are you doing in this town? These folks have done nothing..."

"I want my rematch!" Chief Aggro stomped on the ground. "I want the rematch against Pancho Enchilada el Bacala! That motherfucker still owes me fifteen dollars!"

"Pacho's dead, Chief." the sheriff replied, "'Fraid your punch upset his colon a little too much. Done shit himself to death."

"FAAAHHH! HYAAHHH!" Chief Aggro sent a Siamese Diamondback Fisticuff soaring through the air, sending a waft of sand and dirt across the road. "Then send me your second greatest warrior, that man from the Africas, Mbootie Akimbo."

"'Fraid he skipped town, Chief. Right after Pancho took his last poo."

"He is scared of me?" Chief Aggro folded his arms in protest.

"Nope. Jury duty." The sheriff finished his cigarette and flipped it to the ground. "Look, you've made your point time and time again. All of our best, well, you've beaten them in one way or another. There just aren't any more challengers left in this dusty town."

"Did Manuel McKinley's head ever return to his body after I destroyed his chance at the Best of the West Championship?" Chief Aggro asked.

"We could never find it after you done socked it off. I think the buzzards stole it by now." the sheriff replied.

"Then I shall fight that buzzard!" Chief Aggro shot his fist into the air. "I shall fight any and all buzzards who lay claim as the best fighter of this, this tired, ratty village!"

"They flew away."

Chief Aggro's face contorted into disappointment. He shot a glare at the sheriff, still standing calmly with a look of pity across his weathered face. Chief Aggro pointed at him. "Then I will fight you, Officer Asshat Pissypants."

"Well, if that's how it's gotta go." The sheriff unbuttoned his shirt and removed it along with his jeans to reveal a pair of regulation UFC fighting trunks, sponsered by Subway. He walked down the main road toward Chief Aggro as a beautiful blonde woman in a bikini strutted between them holding a "Round 1" sign. Chief Aggro looked smugly at the sheriff with his arms still folded. Stallion could still be heard fucking the whore.

The two squared off in the middle of the street. Horses began to whinny and some of the onlookers circled around them, cheering and whooping. As the fight was about to commence, and Deputy Brucie was about to ring the bell, a look of concern wiped across Chief Aggro's face. He stopped and stood up from his Brazilian Tai-Jitsu Detroit City stance.

"Wait. Hey, wait." He held his hand up. "What the protocol for having the sniffles?" Another record scratched to a halt in the distance.

"What in the name of fucking shit are you babbling about?" Deputy Brucie exclaimed. "The sniffles?"

"I have a temperature now." Chief Aggro wiped his brow. "I refuse to fight with any advantage given to my opponent." The crowd gasped in dumbfounded confusion.

"What's going on?"

"Is he actually serious?"

"He's not going to fight?"

"Fuck your common cold!"

Chief Aggro shot back, "Hey, fuck your own ass." He pulled out an ocarina and played it. Over the horizon, a Tyrannosaurus Megazord lumbered across the desert toward the town. The townsfolk shrieked and ran around as the mecha lurched to a halt right behind Chief Aggro. With one mighty bound, he lept into the fictitious beast and drove off into the sunset.

The sheriff won. Or so it seemed.

"Sheriff, you won!" Deputy Brucie slapped him on the back. "He was about a pussy lip away from digging your grave, too."

The sheriff shrugged and pulled out another cigarette. "He'll be back. He always comes back."

Suddenly, a loud crash came from inside the saloon. Something heavy stumbled down the stairs and rolled out the swinging doors. It was Stallion, dazed and crumpled with a pair of pantaloons on his head. He looked up at the sheriff and his deputy, grinning ear to ear.

"Boy, but if that wasn't the second-best birthday I done ever had!" he cheered as his bowtie spun in circles.

Everybody laughed, and the sheriff and Deputy Brucie high-fived.

The Story of Chief Aggro: Beginnings.

The lands to the west hold many tales yet to be told. Fierce warriors trode upon the grasslands, searching for meaning to life, or perhaps a bit of skirt that needed the taming of a man's battle-weathered hands. Such stories can be heard, if not faintly, as the wind whips across the ancient lands of the Awesome Valley. Of course, now the valley is nothing more than some plain desert fields scattered with rock and the occasional bird of prey soaring overhead. Yet years ago, it was the home of one of the continent's greatest martial arts heroes of all time. As the sun sets to the west, and the jackrabbits burrow into their nests, the wind tells stories of Chief Aggro.

Chief Aggro's origins prior to his settlement in the Awesome Valley are more myth than fact. The one thing most folk can agree on is that, one blustery autumn eve, Chief Aggro appeared as if almost out of thin air. Some at that time believed the Chief was a living spirit wandering the land to seek revenge on his fallen tribesmen, and others saw him as a being not of this world, perhaps a moon of Jupiter. Chief Aggro himself boasted that he was the embodiment of a unity between Chuck Norris and some crazy fine bitch, perhaps a night elf, but as either did not exist for centuries to come it seemed unlikely, however not impossible. It is not important to note, for Chief Aggro's legacy would be left by himself.

Chief Aggro was adorned with various piercings and tattoos, each telling a tale of their own. His back was blessed with the marking of his immortal battle cry - "Fight Me or Fuck Me" - while his chest remained bare save a patch of woollen lamb's hair shaved into a Star of David, to keep the missionaries away. He also wore a grueling scar on his left nipple, once host to a metal stud piercing, lost in a ten-round championship match against Benicio De La Vega La Muerte at the Palms Casino. Chief Aggro had his balding hair shaped into what was supposed to be a proud, standing mowhawk, shaved by a blind shaman and blessed with oils and a touch of glitter. But the Chief was far too combat-weary to style it, and it lay flat to one side like the fin of a domesticated orca. What clothing Chief Aggro did wear was testament to his impending skill - a pair of blue Russell sportswear gym shorts and hi-tops stained with the blood of his victims and a streak of bison shit. He toted a man-purse - adamantly called a brohan satchel - that housed his trophies, various phone numbers of hot girls that had boned once or twice, and a CD collection of hardcore heavy metal, including a copy of the best of Grim Reaper .

Chief Aggro bore no weapons. No obvious ones, anyway. His right hand held his fist and his left held the fighting spirit, and that was more than enough. However, Chief Aggro did carry guns, at least the guns that were his bulging biceps that twinkled with perspiration after every cage match.

It is not known where Chief Aggro learned his technique, or techniques, as he bore a range of fighting styles that traversed both time and place. One consistent rumor is that at the age of four, Chief Aggro summoned the soul of Bruce Lee to travel to the past and train him in the mountains for seventeen years. But this meant it would involve learning the four thousand styles that Chief Aggro was only witnessed to using, and as Bruce Lee is known only for his kung-fu, it seems likelier that Chief Aggro had instead swam to the bottom of the Indian Ocean and unlocked the scroll that Lee would use much later to learn the techniques bestowed to Chief Aggro first. The mighty Chief was factually connected to the origins of Shaq-Fu, a technique used centuries later by Shaquille O'Neal. However, basketball was not yet introduced to the cultures, so Chief Aggro utilized a boulder carved into a sphere with five uncovered raptor rib bones and a pirate's cutlass. Despite its weight, Chief Aggro would dribble the rock, encompassing all aspects of ancient Shaq-Fu, including the dreaded "Shaq Attack" that left his opponents beaten and generally decapitated.

As the Awesome Valley began to notice Chief Aggro's wanton lust for battle and pussy, rumors sparked of the great chief's skill. Some claimed they witnessed him split an oak tree with the skin of his ballbag, fending off the herd of black bears that lived in it with a hornet's nest that fell and stuck to his ballbag and stung them into submission. A tribe of gypsies camped on the plateaus claimed to have seen him toss Superman into the center of the earth one hallowed evening. Or perhaps it was Ulysses S. Grant. It was dark and kind of far away. But they were certain it was Chief Aggro, as his labret piercing glistened in the moonlight and Anthrax's "Antisocial" echoed throughout the valley.

Almost as notorious as his combative skills were his lover skills. Many maidens were swept from their beds in the midst of the night to be fiddled with for the Chief's desire. Some were stricken with child, and even though Chief Aggro doubled-bagged his shit, his lustful rage forced his seed to explode through two, even three latex coatings, and once through a plate glass window. Despite the fact that Chief Aggro was not just any wayward cassanova, anyone standing in a five-foot radius from him for longer than twenty minutes was telekinetically raped.

The tribes of the Awesome Valley were both fearful and at awe with Chief Aggro. As time wore on, more legends of his deeds were whispered of to warn children and fan the flames of time onward. But for now, this was only the beginning of his story.

Super Boob Fun Time Japan Yes: Bayonetta.

Yeah, yeah, games, games. And yet lately I've been pretty jaded with the latest stock of stuff I've been whittling away at. Prototype lunged at being a great game and fell flat on its monster tentacle face with mediocre elements and too many bullshit freezeups that forced reloads. Brutal Legend was good in its own right but tried to do too many things and failed to be great at any of them. And I can't even muster the reasoning to turn on the PSP, even though I have a decent reason to play it with another Jak & Daxter game on my shelf. Fuck the DS.

Then Bayonetta showed up, as if to say, "play me." In a dirty way.

Bayonetta's origins derive from the Devil May Cry series from Capcom, a set of games featuring an Asian ladyboy badass with guns and a sword and no need for prisoners. It's a basic 3D hack-n-slash that you either like or loathe. Bayonetta's ties to this series are solid, as they share the same creators. But the group of developers fled to Sega, changed their name, and left little to the imagination with this one.

There's a great deal of injustice being dealt to say that Bayonetta isn't screwed up. While the game mechanics are practically copied straight from DMC, they then hike the absurdity and sexism to near-catastrophic levels. The titular character is the best example, as she struts around in skintights attached to her oddly comely beehive hairdo. This is because her wardrobe is her hair, which metamorphs into various combative formations like a stiletto boot, a demon dog, or a bizarre devil parrot thing. This is combined with gun combat, and consider that she carries four guns - one for each hand, and one strapped to each boot. She uses all four rhythmically and with wanton precision, wildly shooting in every conceivable direction as the combos build up. She also has a vaguely sexual affinity for lollipops, which act as her healing items. Top this off with her sexy, yet weird British accent, which will either entice gamers or add to the crazy sense of humor of the game.

Bayonetta has a story far too insane to try and decipher in any review, not that it ultimately matters. The game's two focal points are deep, yet interesting, combat and ridiculous cutscenes (which add up to nearly half the game's overall time spent playing). Most objectives involve Bayonetta running through linear pathways, defeating alien-looking angels and cherub-faced dragons, and collecting halos that look strikingly like rings another certain Sega character cherishes. Scattered throughout the game are bosses that blather on about world domination... until Bayonetta shoots them or finds some offensive way to shut them up. There are also a couple of driving missions inspired by old arcade racers that break up the monotony of hack-n-slash and weird cutscenes.

Perhaps Bayonetta's biggest blessing-or-curse is the oft-mentioned absurdity. Obviously, Bayonetta's acute femininity teeters between hilarious and slight offensiveness. She tends to move about like a professional pole dancer, writhing and sliding around the stage as she fights like a Las Vegas-inspired Annie Oakley. Camera shifts and crafty pauses to accentuate her... ahem... curvature further the cause. The other point to bring up is the strange, Japanese sense of humor. How characters react to Bayonetta's antics are imaginable yet still funny to watch. Dialogue doesn't ever stray away from the joke that this game is supposed to be silly, and even the fighting music (a jazzy riff of Fly Me To The Moon) jumps on the insane bandwagon.

As you can see, Bayonetta has the major bewbage going on. Nice glasses, too.

I can't in all seriousness find many faults in Bayonetta's presentation as it never really takes itself seriously. The graphics are splendid, the combat is approachable, and the wackiness spills out like D-cups out of a tube top. Some may find it too childish or stupid, but Bayonetta charms in a way that few games I've played lately do.

For your health,

-C.