Blanka would kick both of these guys' asses.The drive-in is jumping tonight. A low-rider with purple flames bounces
next to a Hummer topped with a row of girls. In the shadows, hip-hop
boys pump their arms, and Vegas-scale neon signs emblazon "DINER" and
"BURGER" across the sky.
I enter the ring of headlights with the
authentic swagger of a worldwide legend. As Ryu, I've been starring in
the Street Fighter franchise for twenty years now. My arms, as massive
as gnarled tree trunks, burst out of the ripped shoulders of my
karategi. My feet are bare and bigger than my head.
My opponent,
however, is new to the game. Named Rufus, he is an obscenely fat
American topped with a bright yellow braid of hair. His belly roils
like water in a bag, and his breasts wiggle violently as he kung-fus
himself across the arena.

