Movie Villain Face-Off Quarterfinals: Four on the Floor

The wire. We're down to it.

(Movie Villain Deathmatch history: Part 1, Part Deux, Part Tres, Part D, First Mean Sixteen, Mean Sixteen 2, and Fate of the Great Eight)

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Hollywood Villain Deathmatch - Final Four on the Floor

My, But Aren't YOU a Handsome Devil Division:

Hans Gruber Vs. Sheriff of Nottingham

"Look, if this is supposed to be some sort of prank, I'm not finding it very funny," sneered Gruber. He was circling his opponent, unable to tear his eyes from the man's stunning face.

"Then I suppose that makes two of us," replied the Sheriff. "I'm not sure what the sadistic bastards running this thing are on about, but just who in the hell are you supposed to be?"

"I was just about to ask you the same question."

"I'm the Sheriff. The Sheriff of Nottingham."

Hans laughed harshly, and without humor. "Are you serious? The Sheriff of Nottingham? From Robin Hood?"

The Sheriff's eyes flashed angrily. "I'll thank you not to sully my ears with even the mention of that ruffian's name, sir. He is a scourge."

Hans studied the man's eerily familiar face looking for any sign of irony, and found none. And, he thought to himself, he would have seen it had it been present. Here was one fellow whose expression he figured he ought to be able to read with ferocious accuracy.

"Okay. All right. So, you're completely insane then. That's good information to have."

"How dare you, you horrid scum?" spat the Sheriff. "Just who in the hell are you, anyway? And why in the name of God do you look like me?!?"

"I'm Hans Gruber. And I think you've got it backwards, friend. YOU look like ME."

"Is that so?" replied the Sheriff. "Hm. 'Hans Gruber' is an odd name for an Englishman, certainly," said the Sheriff, his eyes narrowing.

"As it turns out, there's a good reason for that, you fool," said Gruber. "I'm not English. I'm a German."

"Then why don't you have a German accent?"

The gun was in Hans' hand, and aimed directly at Nottingham's forehead before he could finish the sentence. "I DO, you swine," he snarled. "Now...I don't care how good-looking you are. If you so much as say another word, I'll shall be forced to shoot you directly in your gorgeous, hairy excuse for a captivatingly charming, and comely face."

"You don't have the -"

Nottingham was dead before he hit the ground. A pity, thought Gruber. So attractive, and yet deprived of an open-casket service all the same.

Still, as the man's life left him, Gruber felt odd, sad and torn...as though a small piece of him had died, as well.

WINNER: GRUBER

ShangTsaw Division:

Shang Tsung Vs. Leatherface

Shang Tsung felt a slight twinge of anxiety as he watched the homicidal lunatic with the exhaust-spitting chainsaw lumbering toward him. Certainly, he'd faced worse in his thousand-year fighting career, yet all had fallen just the same. This simple creature would be no different.

For his part, Leatherface was just hungry. And as he ran toward the man in front of him, his only thoughts (if you could even call them that) were of recipes. He squeezed the trigger on the chainsaw, relishing the vibrations and comforting noise, a man possessed.

Shang stood his ground as the man approached, the instrument of bloody death revving away in his hands, and sounding less like a tool than like a motorbike. But then, all at once, the saw sputtered to a sudden halt. Leatherface, confused, slowed his pace, and yanked a few times on the starter rope. The chainsaw chugged a few times, but did not catch.

Stopping now, Leatherface looked at the saw with as much confusion an anger as what was left of his brain could muster. He continued to pull fruitlessly on the rope, howling and groaning in frustration each time it turned over, but did not roar to life.

The corners of his mouth turning up into the slightest of smiles, Shang clasped his hands behind his back, and strode slowly over to 'Face. "Looks like you're having some trouble there, my friend." he said, his tone taking on an almost comforting lilt. "How very unfortunate."

Leatherface howled, his gutteral protests muffled by his ever-present mask of tanned flesh.

"Perhaps I can help you," said Shang, reaching for the saw. "Why don't you let me take a look at it?"

At this, Leatherface recoiled in disgust. NOBODY else touched The Saw. Not ever. Had his mind and mouth not been so twisted by sickness and bloodlust, he might have said as much. Instead, he began to swing the saw haphazardly back-and-forth in Shang's general direction, confused and frightened as he trying to spontaneously develop a DE-fensive strategy from thin air.

As it turns out, that was a good instinct. Unfortunately, it would prove to be ultimately fruitless, as Shang Tsung was able to dodge 'Face's clumsy blows with no effort. Then, as soon as he had an opening, Shang crouched down, and then exploded a fist upward into Leatherface's chin with such force that he knocked his head clean off of his shoulders, and into the sky. It spun and whirled and danced, spraying gobs of red gore in what seemed like every direction at the same time.

"Curious," said Shang to himself as he tried to collect the soul from what was left of Leatherface's corpse, only to find that there was seemingly never any present to begin with. "Curious, indeed."


And just like that, the finals are upon us. If you're still reading, great. if you're not, your mother's a whore. See ya.