Super7 is pleased to announce the St. Patrick's Day
Ghostfighter Contest!

This contest is for an unpainted St. Patrick's Day
Ghostfighter!

How do I win this singularly killer prize? You need to
write or illustrate your take on the death of
Ghostfighter (RIP). That's right, Super7 is giving
away two (2) blank St. Patrick's Day Ghostfighters:
one for best tale another for best illustration. Post
your submissions in this thread.

Your story can be as short as a few lines or a few
paragraphs, but writing a book is not necessary.
Illustrations just need to be posted in this thread.
Deadline for entry is 5pm Pacific this Monday March
17th St. Patrick's Day.

Judging will be done by Pogue during his day long St.
Patrick's Day quest to tell everyone around him what
his last name means in Gaelic. With Pogue as a judge
grammar and punctuation are not an issue (we have all
read his post), you will be judged on
originality and relevance. There is no restriction to
how many times you can enter, so get creating!

YES!!!!!

you cant kill a ghost, obviously the ghostbusters got him.

Is there already a back story to this figure or are we supposed to give you our interpretation of the sculpt? It looks pretty kewl.

Within hours of the time, Ghostfighter was waiting in front of the new Secret Base shop. He had received a letter that morning reading:

Dear Ghostfighter,

It is time we end this conflict right now. Everyone well knows that I am the ultimate Super7 fight figure, and the new and old fighters agree with me too! The only people you have on your side are the Mantis and those disgusting Madball Mantis. I am not calling for a poly-match, but i'm calling for a one-on-one, man to man. Gloves off or on, you know mine will be off. We will rendezvous in the front of the new Secret Base shop at 3:00 am, Hiddy himself will be supervising the match himself so things don't get a too out of hand. I will fuck you up. Be there.

Sincerely,
Frankenghost

He had been waiting since 2:00 am, he enjoyed being early. Time before, he had been training ever since he had received the letter, and had just finished his dinner consisting of steamed Bok Choy with Korean Barbecue pork. Ghostfighter was waiting in his best fighting shorts and gloves. He and his plush guts were ready to rumble. As the LED changed to 3:00 am, Frankenghost had appeared, with the support of Stomp and Squirm. Frankenghost said to his friends in a polite manner, "Remember, its just GF and I, I don't want to see any of you droog's rookers flying around." "Cut it with the Clockwork talk, lets just do this." Ghostfighter responded. Hiddy came out of the shop in a neatly fashioned referee suit manufactured just for him by BxH. Hiddy stated the rules, "Okay, I want a good clean fight. No shots to the dick, as Frankenghost's dick size also depends on partner. Who ever gets to the total of ten shots to their opponent's torso or head, wins the match and is titled to be Super7's best fighter." Both Frankenghost and Ghostfighter nodded their heads in agreement. Hiddy hit the boom box, which then played "Violent Paradise" by Balzac, "LETS GET READY TO RUMBLE!!!" Hiddy shouted. The fighter was in a closed ring, and both fighters were floating like butterflies. Both fighters threw punches and dodged, but Frankenghost made the first shot to Ghostfighter's left head, this made the crack in the left head grow. Ghostfighter then made two shots to Frankenghost's torso, dirtying up his new lab vest. About 15 minutes of "Violent Paradise" looping around, the scores had gone to a tie, 8 to 8. Sweat and blood drained like waterfall's from both fighters, anyone could have one. Ghostfighter faked left and right, and went for a shot right in to Frankenghost's stomach, then, made a slight but good enough punch to his face. "STOP!!!" Hiddy screamed, and within moments, he held Ghostfighter's right hand up high and declared Ghostfighter the winner, therefore making him with the title of "Super7's Best Fighter" and was rewarded with a pair of chrome hand painted Pushead gloves. Hiddy phoned Brian Flynn to bring the news to him. Frankenghost's face was in shock, he could not believe that he had lost. As Ghostfighter walked away, Frankenghost grew frustrated and infuriated with the loss. He finally lost it, without a sound, he raced behind Ghostfighter's back, and stuck his bloody hands right into Ghostfighter's left head, through the crack. He then ripped out all of Ghostfighter's swirled guts. "I ripped your mozgs and guttiwuts right out! I win!" Frankenghost screamed. As soon as Hiddy saw what had happened, he raced to the spot and looked at both of them. Ghostfighter layed right on the concrete, guts everywhere and with no sign of any life within him. Frankenghost stood crunched over with the guts in his hand, and a madman look in his face, much like the Madball Mantis. "You fucking bastard!" Hiddy screamed at Frankenghost, and punched him right in the face. Ghostfighter was finished, but had died with the title. As Hiddy watched Ghostfighter's dead corpse, he then saw a sort of neon green light float into the air, he knew for sure that was Ghostfighter's sprite, and that it would live forever in eternity with the Fight Gods. Frankenghost was sent back to the lab and was forever confound, but later escaped with the help of his buddies, and now hides in where authorities suspect somewhere in someone's collection.

RIP Ghostfighter


-------------------
Man I'm bored...

apparently, neither is spelling

"You're Free!"

Interesting, as no one had been speaking with him at the moment of his exclamation.
Nevertheless, he approached the bar and began the story I’m about to tell.

But before I get ahead of myself. First a little bit about me and the bar said gentleman and I were so merrily engaged. I am a teaching assistant, and seeing as today is neither Tuesday nor Thursday you will find me one barstool from the Guinness tap and fourteen steps away from the WC. The establishment is known as Nowhere. 9 a.m. means nickle beer and today it’ll be green.

Anyway Flynn, as all within shouting distance were told to call him, spoke of his Irish grandfather who sixty years ago had come into the possesion of a passage from a 15th century diary written by one who encountered spirits inhabiting the underworld. And as the tipsy orator had, at my last count lost his train of thought some twenty times, I will summarize the results of its translation below:



The air is stale but spirits are abuzz. I managed to finally escape after six long years of imprisonment by hiding in the catacombs this morning. The raiders are still now patrolling so I lay silently amongst the bones. I hear a faint voice not of this world begin to speak.

"Fear not. I am a crusader for righteousness. Because my actions while on earth were not entirely noble I am to earn entry into heaven by serving as an angel of death."

"Will I make it out of here safely?" I ask.

"That is not for me to determine. It is not my place to prevent harm from being inflicted upon you. I want only what is right for you. My fight is with the angels of hell. They will offer you compassion and deliverance from pain, however pain is inescapable on a path towards goodness."

"When will you be allowed into heaven?" I whisper.

"I am of two minds conflicted. My hands are soaked with the blood of demons. One half of me wants to stay to continue the fight while the other relents. It is only when I am of one solemn mind will I be allowed entry into the promise land."

"How can I help?"

"Though you were stolen from your homeland, you must someday return to these shores to bring goodness where you know only evil. It is you who can enlighten these people and in so doing you will set me free."

I close my eyes and dream of an epic journey. I am guided by my new friend through the depths of the earth. His two ghostly heads keep a watchful eye while his gloved fists fight with unbridled fury. Through sand and ice and fire and swamp we traverse. And having survived we ascend to the top of a shadowy mountain. Before I can ask the warrior of his name I awake.

The sounds of my captors above have given way to the sea. It beckons me. Today I will begin my great mssion; to dedicate my life to liberating hearts and minds and souls. And someday I will go to sleep knowing the people of my islands are free. -M. Succat.



And so every year around this time I remember ol' Flynn and his story about the diary of St. Patrick. And I wonder about the ghostfighter. Proud. Smiling down from the gates of heaven. I like to think he’d be wearing green.

Only the good die young!

I like that all the mourners are in traditional black. Very respectful!

I wanna see some illustrations! Mine's about half done...

I'll be making an illustration to go along with my story.

Started mine last night, but I'm etching it, so it will take a while to finish ...

I'd better stay away from this thread to avoid getting disheartened.

AWWW

Here is my entry, sharpie on bristol board. I wonder if this qualifies me for the story and picture contest? My scanner is a tad bit too small for the picture, so its alittle off, but you get the idea.

Imagine the story cuts in on the 12th round of the fight, Ghost Fighter weak and weary, turns to face the masterfull Skull Bee for what may be the last time...

If I may ask, when was the Ghostfighter introduced?

I'm sorry for the lack of artistic ability here:

To Brian,
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.

All the warnings since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of the releases for too many years now. I feel guity beyond words about these things.

For example when we're on the shelves and the stores about to open and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn't affect me the way in which it does for Skull Pirate over in Japan, who seems to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk in the shop. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do,God, believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had years ago.

On our last 3 releases, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our creation, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus figure. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!

I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since I was young, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.

Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.

Peace, love, empathy.
Ghostfighter

Please keep going Brian, Dora and Ava.
For your lives, which will be so much happier without me.

GHOSTFIGHTER second to NONE!!

RIP Ghostfighter
12" x 16" Acrylic on Canvas
Click to zoom in.

Very nice wthalo!

I've got a bone to pick with Ghostfighter. In the text that follows, when I quote from Ghostfighter, I will use the word "excrement" in place of another word which is now apparently permitted in general circulation publications and which I have edited out. His metanarratives have experienced a considerable amount of evolution (or perhaps more accurately, genetic drift) over the past few years. They used to be simply crotchety. Now, not only are they both chauvinistic and pretentious, but they also serve as unequivocal proof that you should be sure to let me know your ideas about how to deal with Ghostfighter. I am eager to listen to your ideas and I unmistakably hope that I can grasp their essentials, evaluate their potential, look for flaws, provide suggestions, absorb feedback, suggest improvements, and then put the ideas into effect. Only then can we create a world in which irrationalism, propagandism, and oligarchism are all but forgotten.

Must it be explained to Ghostfighter that his evil beliefs are largely due to his drawing mistaken conclusions from what he wrongly takes to be evidence? Because he obviously doesn't realize that one of his most loyal acolytes is known to have remarked, "Ghostfighter can convince criminals to fill out an application form before committing a crime." And there you have it: a direct quote from a primary source. The significance of that quote is that unlike Ghostfighter, when I make a mistake I'm willing to admit it. Consequently, if -- and I'm bending over backwards to maintain the illusion of "innocent until proven guilty" -- he were not actually responsible for trying to suppress people's instinct and intellect, then I'd stop saying that the main dissensus between me and Ghostfighter is that I insist that it is a dangerous folly to ignore the threat to democracy posed by the worst types of inerudite hermits there are. He, on the other hand, contends that trees cause more pollution than automobiles do. I suspect that it is important to realize that the original purpose of animalism was to force us to experience the full spectrum of the Ghostfighter Rainbow of Misoneism, even though that presupposes a dialectical intertwinement to which a vengeful turn of mind is impervious. If truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, then he is on some sort of thesaurus-fueled rampage. Every sentence Ghostfighter writes is filled with needlessly long words like "phenomenalistic" and "incomprehensibility". Either he is deliberately trying to confuse us or else he's secretly scheming to attack the critical realism and impassive objectivity that are the central epistemological foundations of the scientific worldview.

I overheard one of Ghostfighter's lapdogs say, "The Universe belongs to Ghostfighter by right." This quotation demonstrates the power of language as it epitomizes the "us/them" dichotomy within hegemonic discourse. As for me, I prefer to use language to fight scurrility and slander. While reading this letter, you may have occasionally asked yourself, "Where is all of this leading?" and, "What is the point exactly?" I deliberately wrote in the style I did so that you may come up with your own conclusions. Therefore, I leave you with only the following: Ghostfighter bases his jibes on the belief that he is as innocent as a newborn lamb.

The Ghost Fighter looked over the hills at the moon. Not even three years had gone by since he started, and now it was ending like this on a cold, dreary March evening. Merriment was in the air, but not for him. It was a feeling he could barely remember. He had made his way all over the world, gaining new friends and taking care of every foe. He lived without regret because he knew his time could come at any moment. He always thought about the way it all began for him, or rather the way things had to end in his old life so that he could begin this new one. Now it was all over. He looked above him, at the one that finally defeated him. A brave and noble warrior, there was no dishonor in losing to him. They exchanged respectful nods, each one knowing that they would likely never face another so brave and noble. If there was any sadness at the moment, that would have been the only reason why, for they both knew the risks they were taking every day and accepted their inevitable fate. The Ghost Fighter's gaze went from his foe to the sky, closed his eyes and drifted away.