A number of urban myths, alternative hypotheses and conspiracy theories have been formulated to explain the disappearance of the Pumpkin Head, Obake and Ghostfighter: The U.S., Japan, Afghanistan or Iraq government orchestrated the abductions themselves. The figures spontaneous combusted, at the speed of light has been widely suggested in many parts of Japan. The FBI confiscated a video, which may have captured the Pumpkins, Obakes and Ghostfighters held captive in an area of Aoto Japan. The video is said to show them doing labor that was once performed by Mutant Evil, Head and Chaos. The video was shot by an employee of a local Family Mart. This video has not yet been released.
Ben-can are these pics on Flickr? I cant see them. and usually I can see flickr. I also just want to say WOW, so many great pictures and different takes on GF, this is going to be a tough comp.
Ben- are these pics on Flickr? I cant see them. and usually I can see flickr. I also just want to say WOW, so many great pictures and different takes on GF, this is going to be a tough comp.
"Ghosty, I'm not angry with you, just... disappointed..." Brian Flynn said as Ghost Fighter walked into the back room of Super7. GF sat down in the chair you sat in when you were about get yelled at by the boss and stared hard at Flynn who he knew was about to give him the old heave ho. All four eyes fixed on the bearded man sitting behind a large desk made entirely from Legos. "What you do on your own time is your own business, but the Super 7 Mixed Martial Arts League has certain standards that we need to uphold in order to maintain a clear message in a crowded marketplace..." Flynn looked at Ghostfighter's attire in a mix of bemusement and repulsion. "and you are decidedly off-message. Not to mention you're wearing the competition's hoody..." Yes, Ghost fighter had caught Hyphy Fever and was bedecked in the latest gear from the freshest Streetwear labels. His twin heads were crowned in fitted New Era 5950 baseball caps , one in cyan and one in magenta. One mouth had Gold Fronts, the other Platinum. He had a pair of lime green and day glo yellow JB Classics shoes, a crisp new Mishka teeshirt and yes a Kid Robot hoody. All paid for by his winnings in the ring. He admittedly bought the hoody just for this meeting, to show his "father" that he wasn't a lil' ghost anymore and could make his own decisions and do whatever the hell he felt like. He was his own ghost, not some obedient Homonoculous that did whatever its master told him. Flynn went on but GF thought back to when he first discovered Hyphy and how it transformed his afterlife. It all started after Ghostfighter left his Portrero Hill apartment a few years back and got an apartment in Downtown Oakland. In his travels to and from BART, GF noticed a movement amongst the youth in his adopted hometown, and apparently it was called "HYPHY". It was raw, new, ALIVE and it was intoxicating. At first he was listening to the radio to learn about the music that he heard blaring from the long line of driverless cars passing by his window at night. Then he started going to local Hyphy parties to celebrate after his MMA wins, and it was there that he got hooked. The pulsing music, the wild nightlife, and the clothing, DEAR GOD, THE CLOTHING! That was it for him, he had to be a part of this Hyphy Movement! Here he had a 2nd chance at being in the world of the living so he sure as hell wasn't going to dress up like he was going to a funeral. These kids didn't know how good they had it, what with not being dead and all. He then realized Flynn was looking at him like he was waiting for an answer to a VERY important question. "Well Ghosty? What's it gonna be? You gonna keep dressing like a [expletive deleted] or are you gonna to keep fighting? It's either one or the other. I'm sorry its come to this but I got a Promotion to take care of..." He thought for a second, stood up and opened his messenger bag. He removed a his pair of brand new gold lame' boxing gloves and threw them on Flynn's desk "Sorry B, I'm through doin' "Super 7", I'm doin' me from here on out....Peace!" And with that he picked up his bag, and strode out of Flynn's office for the last time, feeling freer than he'd felt since before he died. He walked through the store, Joe Bunny and Hiro looked up nervously, they'd heard what happened and got up to say goodbye. But Ghostfighter motioned for them to sit back down and strode confidently out the front door. He walked over to the parking garage, got his gold Caddilac Escalade and drove slowly down Post Street blasting Keak the Sneak. As he passed Super7 one last time he slowed the SUV to a crawl and got out of the driver's seat and started Ghostriding the Whip past the store and sat on the hood as it crept down the street. Joe Bunny, eyes full of tears, ran out of the store shouting "GHOST! GHOST! Come back Ghost! Come baaaaack!" But it was time for Ghostfighter to strike out on his own again, he'd been practicing on his turntables a lot lately. Maybe he could get a gig spinning on Wednesday nights or maybe they're looking to hire over at Huf. But whatever it was he was going to do, it was definitely going to be HYPHY!
The Origin Old clichés die hard. In part, that’s what he felt like—an old cliché of a Private Investigator who gets enmeshed in the lives of toxic, tragic women too many times, getting dragged into situations beyond his ability or understanding, losing sight of what was really important to him once upon a time in a better world that only exists in the scattered memories formed by a naïve young mind. Jack knew his life was an old cliché played out in print and in stage so many times. He had dreamt of this drama as a young detective on the force. He had wanted to be the unshaven tough guy persona so much that he didn’t even mind being forced into early retirement by the District Attorney. It was just another cover up for a corpse, and Jack was just another cop sent to the block for the wrong reasons. What else could he do? Let that girl’s father think his daughter had died a whore? It wasn’t in the code. You know the code. We all do. So he bought a trenchcoat and a camera, and became a Private Dick. That was twenty years and four trenchcoats ago. He was an old cliché. And he was dying hard. Face down on the pavement in parking garage level 3F between an import and a domestic, he cursed his luck as he clutched the wound on his head. This had been a typical adultery case. Follow the schmuck around for awhile, take some photos with his hand down some young thing’s blouse, and go home feeling like a creep who’s lost his sense of justice. But the scene didn’t play out that way. He followed the man as he left work. He snapped photos from across the street when he picked the girl up. Following them to this parking garage, Jack was fully prepared to take some tasteful pics of the couple embroiled in coitus in the back of the husband’s Lincoln. He tailed them from a distance as they descended deeper into the labyrinthine bowels of the garage. The Lincoln pulled into a spot and killed its lights. Jack did the same after waiting a few minutes. He had always found his clients paid best for shots with less clothes, so he gave them time to disrobe before quietly opening his door and crouching low next to his car. He was adjusting the telephoto lens when it hit him. The lead pipe, a classic blunt object of choice for thieves, murderers, and low-class ruffians, smacked him hard in the temple. He awoke in the middle of a circle of cars, headlights glaring at him from all directions. But he wasn’t alone. As he struggled to his feet, he grabbed for support from the first thing that presented itself. It was a bed on wheels, a hospital bed with accompanying portable IV drip. A man lay there with eyes closed, unspeaking. Jack stared at this face for a moment before he realized he was surrounded by robed figures. One of them approached him, slowly pulling back the hood of the robe. It was the woman who hired him! That I FART A LOT! How goddamned cliché! She spoke, “We’ve been watching you, Jack. We’ve seen you struggle for justice and come up empty handed. We want to help you fight, Jack. Fight for what’s right and true.” Jack spit the words out, “Who the hell are you people? What’s this all about?” He gestured towards the unmoving man on the hospital bed. “Did you help him fight for what’s right too?” She smiled crookedly, “Yes we did, Jack. And now we’re going to help you.” The cloaked figures grabbed hands and began chanting. Jack didn’t have a lot of experience with the supernatural, but he knew something freaky was going on and he didn’t like it. ‘No one helps you by hitting you in the head with a pipe’, he thought to himself as he searched for an escape route. But the chanting continued and next to him, the body on the bed started to glow. At first, it was a low pulse of blue. But it grew stronger as they continued chanting and Jack found himself frozen to the ground out of sheer curiousity. The chanting morphed into a hum like that of a million angry cicadas and suddenly it stopped. The cult members fell simultaneously to the ground, their robes draped about them. The comatose figure on the bed now glowed fiercely through his translucent gray skin. Closed eyes now opened quickly, the light behind them shifting like fireflies held captive in a glass jar. With these eyes, the man looked squarely at Jack. “Wh-who are you?” Jack stammered. The man sat up slowly in the bed and weakly smiled at him, “I’m just like you. I’m here looking for a fight.” He grasped Jack’s hand and the glow began to envelope both of them. “We have a purpose in death that we did not have in life,” the man stated. “You and I will be warriors in the world beyond this. I won’t be confined to this bed. And you, you will be my twin.” Jack could feel the warmth of the light enveloping as it dissolved his body. He knew this was the end for him, but the detective in him needed to know why he was going to leave this world. “Why me?” Jack screamed. “It’s simple, Jack,” the man replied. “A single soul cannot survive in the nether regions. And as I was born with certain gifts that force me to play in this arena, I must find a twin soul with which to bond. And let’s face it Jack, you’re the cheapest, most clichéd Private Dick in this city. But you’re still a hardboiled asshole with a mean right cross. And that’s what I need.” Jack’s body was now beginning to be totally subsumed by the glowing power of the other man. He could feel his persona merging with that of the other. There was a pain associated with the loss of his individual soul, but there was also a new pleasure. A power beyond mortality was infusing both of them. While he still had a voice of his own he asked, “What’s the purpose of this? What do you need me for?” At this the man with the luminescent, firefly eyes smiled widely. “Why do I need you? What’s the purpose?” He laughed cruelly, “That’s simple Jack. You and I will fuse into one metaphysical entity of power and then we will fight. We will fight monsters in the arena of the gods.” Jack struggled to speak as most of his body had been absorbed into that of the other. Only his neck and head still protruded. He twisted his neck to look at the other man. “Sounds good to me, brother,” Jack said. A flash of light, accompanied by the ringing of the bell, and all the gods of our mythologies tune their mystic TVs to Supernatural Pay Per View to watch our newly formed hero. To watch the dead fight for their second lives is the luxury of the gods. A death is a birth. Old ghosts never die. They retire.
The last stand your final fight arms extended the last jab end uppercut two heads are better than one unless… standing eight count now sixteen back in the ring spinning down you go TKO you drift away You rise fierce you hunt strong battle one then another yet another till the end of time Ghostfighter Rest in Peace my friend March 17, 2008 was the day you died
Step aside Ghostfighter, there's a new kid in town.... Sorry for the crappy pic. No scanner right now
Ode to the Fallen Fighter The death it was short The death it was sweet March seventeen Was when the end they did meet! In memory of Saint Paddy Guinness was drunk From mornin' 'til evenin' Many pints were sunk! An idea was hatched A tradition of old 'Kissing the Blarney Stone' As the story was told . . . Would give the stone kisser The 'Gift of the Gab' For smooth one-liners All the ladies think fab! Up the hill to the stone Wobblin' and trippin' Our pair wound their way Black nectar still sippin' Now, kissin' the stone Was a perilous affair Balancing precariously Sixty feet in the air To bend over backwards across a chasm like gap To kiss the said stone Without fall or mishap Unworried and undaunted Our fearless two Set themselves in position And back their heads threw But weight distribution Caused a terrible farce And overbalancing completely They fell head over arse! So with dismay, some sadness and stories still to tell Basheads and Brainers Will bid them farewell . . .
It would if the one stepping aside is also a squid. Since Squirm is the only one, then he would say "kid"
Here's my submission(s), I couldn't decide if black & white, or color was better: I didn't want any ectoplasmic blood on my hands, so I thought the best way to kill a ghost would be to bring him back to life? I based this idea on the Ghostfighter's entire existence took place in the 28 minutes that Mr. Fighter was pronounced dead; after being KO'd into the afterlife by a sucker punch from mysterious new fighter in the annual St. Paddy's Day Slugfest. It is interesting to note that the dangerous rookie was represented by a big-time promoter, who goes by the initials B.F.??? P.S. Bert, yours rocks!
Nice to see all the creative muscles getting flexed around here! Here's mine. I had a lot of fun with it.
Thanks Meczilla, you just fucked me out of the grand prize I think photo shop pics should be excluded from this contest(jealous)
WOW. some amazing stuff. i wish i did something (even though i wouldn't win) - how the hell u guys do these so fast?
