Dressing down the ambience with gunfire and bloodshed, the war stumbles onwards. Pages of time frenziedly turned by the fingers of Fahey, paragraphs day-long beheld by Seagal, a hardcover constructed out of fallen shrapnel by Van Damme, collateral damage foisted on high by a smiling effigy of Lundgren. The battle oozes over plains, thinning at the edges as men wielding the tiniest of pencil-moustaches mount a rear attack on their adversaries.

The tall vanguard, shielded in debonair graces and a luckless propensity for oral fireworks, throw looks that gel in spirals of hateful fury. The sky is ripped open and outpours two synchronous soliloquies, both embroidered with aristocratic fervour and dripping spools of regency. Awe rages from onlookers creating funnels of webbed glee in the air. Apexes are hit by a sonorous pummelling – a vocal guillotine chops the head of all remaining on the prairies of war.

This struggle has endured countless attempts by the four deities to dip the proceedings in vats of anodyne fluid to quell the continuous eruptions of wrath on both sides. Lined up on one side, blank video tapes for shoes, riding imaginary chickens, are the John Waters brigade, each oathed into allegiance to their quirky, camp master amidst great antenatal turmoil in the womb. The opposite lengths are crowded by towering statuettes, clad in velvet tank-tops, and police sirens spilling forth from their mouths – they are the Vincent Price contingent.

The great voice wars were initially sparked off as the two grand masters sat in the lobby of an advertising agency, each awaiting proclamations from the auditions happening beyond a vast iron door made of melted prophecies and the screams of lemurs. Under the miasma excreted by the gateway, their polite small talk turned into a tennis match of abuse as one would declare his superior talents in the voice department while the other would lambaste those declarations with hammer-blows of dexterous speech. Very quickly the entire building had crumbled to dust around the two barking gentlemen in suits, bounding in and out of monologues soaked in auditory tones so transcendent passersby would be eviscerated on contact – a fatal call-and-response was searing the fabric of existence.

Waters versus Price. Comparable talents on every side. Skills to articulate every possible sentence in the most joyous of vocals – never could a world hold the two of them without some sort of Armageddon taking flight in the air. And now here it is, gusting along the grasses of the avenue as a pair of gargantuan heads take up residence in the sky, clouds lacquering sweaty brows, facing each other in preparation for the mighty end confrontation that will decide who has the best voice in the business.