In the centre of a dark, unlit boxing ring, a solitary warrior stood silhuetted against a backdrop of roaring fans. The dusky figure made peace with his gods and calmly limbered up in stoic preparation for the trials and tribulations that lay ahead. His name... was Apollo Cream! - The ultimate futuristic clone-warrior! Spliced from a dubious stain discovered on the late Apollo Creed's star-spangled shorts and genetically augmented with improved speed, strength and charisma. His personality had also been carefully tweaked with painstaking precision to make him more violent, less remorseful, and above all, a stark raving homosexual!

With an explosion of multicoloured pyrotechnics, huge floodlights illuminated the ring to reveal our hero in all of his fabulousness, clad head-to-toe in a pink sequinned gown, top hat and feather boa. Tonight, this whirling dervish of dancing demolition would be facing up against the toughest opponent of his life...

Now... silently making his way through the crowd like a hammerhead shark manoeuvring through a shoal of hapless mackerel, a towering mechanical humanoid approached the ring. Hailing from the Soviet Union... His name? Iron Drago! - A cybernetic organism constructed from pure low-grade communist steel! Designed by a genius scientist who once solved a Rubik's cube with minimal assistance. This great, hulking assembly of pistons, gears and little flashy buttons that went 'bleep-bloop' glared at his glamorous opponent. It was illogical for Apollo Cream to live, therefore he must be exterminated!

This pugilistic spectacle for the ages wasn't taking place in your everyday, run-of-the-mill sporting arena. Oh no! It was located in a secret underground nuclear bunker on the moon. You see, situating the punch-up in such a remote location was the only way to ensure the safety of mankind when these two bad-boys started throwing fists! Spectators traveled from across the Multiverse to see the exhibition. In just one small section of the crowd, one could witness a Klingon, an Ewok and a Xenomorph awkwardly rubbing shoulders, and in yet another section, an interdimensional fractal elf was perched alongside a sentient amalgam of gaseous discharge born from the sphincter of a galaxy-devourer. Between these two otherworldly spectators, a crap sock puppet was comically eating buttered popcorn - It was a pretty diverse bunch is what I'm getting at!

"I must break you." Drago asserted from his cheap, monotone voice modulation apparatus.

"Change the station, Metal Mickey! You're about to get creamed!" Quipped Cream, removing his dazzling pink gown to reveal an impressively chiselled physique. His torso was like an Italian Renaissance mahogany coffee table; intricately crafted and built to endure. If Drago had been fitted with an emotional simulator chip, he'd be experiencing some pretty conflicting urges right now.

Cream inserted a cherry-flavoured gumshield into his mouth and gave Drago a cheeky wink.

The bell sounded for round one. It's shrill clang resounded around the stark concrete caverns of the subterraneous bunker like the ominous wail of an air raid siren.

How fitting. For tonight, bombs shall fall... Mused the sock puppet, spilling his popcorn all over the gaseous being to his left.

The brawl that ensued didn't fail to live up to stratospheric expectations! The pair duked it out for fourteen intense rounds in cheesy montage fashion with 80's synth music and funky slap bass playing throughout. But no matter how spectacular the contest, there could only be one victor. And by the final round, Drago had worn his flamboyant opponent down, delivering a brutal right-hook to Cream's chops that dropped him unceremoniously to his knees. Bloodied and bruised, poor Cream looked up at the indestructible iron collosus that towered over him as it raised it's huge ferrous fist, preparing to unleash the final blow. Closing his eyes, Creed welcomed the cold embrace of death within his heart. In his mind, he was kneeling upon the shores of oblivion, gazing out into the impenetrable void of non-existence, which, like a black hole, began to draw him in, deconstructing his consciousness, unravelling his being into a spiralling stream of sub-atomic particles. Cream drew his final breath...

Just as Drago was about to deliver the coup de grâce, a stocky little beast-man leapt from the crowd, grabbed the unsuspecting robot and hurled it out of the ring with impressive, animalistic strength.

"Cream, old friend." He snarled. "It is I, Rocky Balboa. In this reality, I am a werebadger."

Cream accepted his statement without further question.

Rocky continued, "Now there isn't much time, so just listen, okay? I have been studying Drago's digital blueprints in great detail and I believe I may have discovered a fundamental flaw in his mechanical defencive systems..."

But before Rocky could divulge any further info, the enraged bot had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and slung him into the corner of the ring, where it proceeded to pummell the poor beast into a semi-conscious heap of bloody, matted fur.

Rocky's distraction, though calamitous in nature, had thankfully allowed Cream sufficient time to regain his composure somewhat.

Hey, laser dick!" He hollered, struggling to his doddery feet. "What is your primary directive?"

Drago responded "To exterminate the one that is named Apollo Cream."

At that, Cream triumphantly held his arm aloft and opened his gloved fist to reveal a pink, sparkly cube. It appeared to be a semi-precious jewel of some description, no bigger than a standard six-sided die.

I have concentrated all of my mystical life-force energies into the materialisation of this humble cube. It is a pure, crystalline manifestation of everything that is Apollo Cream; both eternal and indestructible! This empty husk of a man which now stands before you will wither and die within a matter of minutes, but the essence of Cream will live on, in this lustrous artefact... forever!"

Drago froze, trying to analyse this new data inside his tiny thought-processing unit. "Non sequitur. Illogical. No makey no sensey..." He relayed.

Without any means of achieving his one and only purpose, Drago was effectively obsolete, and according to robo-logic, must be self-exterminated! Drago's positronic brain started to malfunction and go all glitchy, so Cream seized his opportunity and wrenched the bastard's head clean off with a massive crowbar - an act which instantly disqualified him from the fight. But Cream didn't care about hollow victory anymore. He helped his wounded companion, Rocky the werebadger, to his little hind legs and the pair limped out of the arena to the rapturuous applause of an adoring crowd.

Overcome with concern, Rocky turned to his friend and snuffled "What about the crystal? Are you really going to die now?"

A cheeky smirk stretched across Cream's lovely round face, "Oh, this crystal?" He smiled, with a twinkle in his eyes. He swiftly tossed the pink gem high into the air and caught it inside his gaping mouth like a Venus flytrap. "It's just a cola cube!"

The pair laughed heartily. Rocky coughed up a lung.

"So... what was this weakness you tried to tell me about?" Questioned Cream.

"Oh, there's this big red OFF switch on Drago's forehead. I thought you could just press it."

Cream froze in his tracks for a moment, intense thought furrowing his moistened brow... "Oh yeeeaaah!" He squealed, slapping himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand like an embarrassed schoolboy.

The pair hobbled off, hand-in-paw, into the sunset. Apollo Cream and his fuzzy little sidekick would go on many crazy adventures together, overthrowing evil space dictators and charming many-tenticled alien damsels into their bedchambers. Rocky would eventually settle down with a young female wolverine called Missy and start a family, but Cream continued to wander the galaxy like a funkadelic space-samurai until the time came when he would transcend his physical self and become one with the Universe... He then opened a chain of sleazy gay bars and overdosed on poppers.

The End.