Long, long ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there arose a valiant warrior named Deathstalker (Richard Hill) who hath been summoned to fulfill his destiny, a quest to destroy the three powers of creation – the amulet of life, the sword of justice and the chalice of magic – and in so doing, vanquish the evil sorcerer Munkar (Bernard Erhard).
The quest will be heavy and toilsome, but yea, his will is strong, his might supreme and his libido through the fucking roof.
Adorned in what appeareth to be the choicest costume garbs from the Halloween clearance rack at the Mart of K, we thus meet our hero Deathstalker as he slays the abhorrent tribe of Rocky Dennis in defense of the honor and integrity of the damsel that lieth in distress.
“Woman, rejoice! For thou art free!”
“But wait, my Lord! What is this throwing of thine self on my bosoms that thou doest! Why dost thou proceed to indulge in this act of fornication?”
“Because fuck you, I hath saved your life, that is why. Now spreadeth them legs, O fairest of ladies, so that I might have my way with you.”
Verily, readers, I say unto thee, how much more socially unacceptable a dick the corrupt in heart must be when, yea, even the most noble of men so freely rape their rescued.
So now Deathstalker’s quest awaits him. Reclaim the powers of creation and become the power, and save the dethroned king’s daughter Princess Codille (Barbi Benton) from Munkar’s grasp. Little doth her father know, but surely Deathstalker, with all his might, will trieth to mount his daughter. With the helping hand of the warrior named Oghris (Richard Brooker), Deathstalker’s destiny is there for the taking in Munkar’s castle, a fortress of impenetrable styrofoam and the most desirable backdrops a 50 cent budget can obtain.
Alas, a stumbling block doth come forth unto these warriors. There she, Kaira (Lana Clarkson), a warrior of utmost defiance, standeth before them in all her gratuitously nude glory. Verily, she doth asketh for it tenfold, and may the powers of creation deal with Deathstalker, be it ever so severely if he chooseth not to smite her forbidden fruit with his own “sword of justice”.
Strong is the sexual assault with this warrior of questionable virtue. Be not deceived; old Rob Lowe home movies thou doth not witness.
At long last, Deathstalker, Oghris and that blonde, recently defiled harlot have arrived at Munkar’s fortress. All powers be praised! There lieth Princess Codille, her clothes begging to be torn asunder from off her body. And lo, upon summoning the cheap synthesized theme music from the heavens, Deathstalker rescues the virgin princess, but is unable to approach her fleshly vessel. Nay! Who doth protest this fine warrior from knowing his prize?! Such agony!! Why, it is Munkar himself.
“Woe is me! I hath been cock blocked!!”
Upon reclaiming his royal captive, Munkar transforms his henchman into the likeness of the penis-less Princess Codille, sending forth his right hand – uh – Bruce Jenner to deceive and destroy Deathstalker. The temptation is overwhelming for our hero; as surely as the sun rises, this woman is in store for an unlawful entry. What canst be done to end such a lowly fate? Perhaps using your God-given Adam’s apple to let forth a masculine cry?
“Sweet mother of God! Unclean!!!!”
Alas, Deathstalker’s lascivious, rapey ways wouldst get the best of him. Oghris hath betrayed him and Kaira hath been brought down by the henchman. The clanging of their swords hath fallen on deaf ears, but her whispering Deathstalker’s name before forever sleeping with her fathers is quickly answered by him. Selective hearing? It may be so. But ’tis certain that it wast only the wearying of the shock from nearly porking a dude.
With his fellow warrior and friend now against him and there being nary a fertile hole to forcibly fill, Deathstalker faceth his nemesis Munkar, destroying the tournament of enemies who standeth in between the two and eradicating the powers of creation, thereby bringing calamity and death upon Munkar, and leaving our champion with no other path left to take besides searching for the princess and forcing himself on top of her.
One can only be left to wonder how easier the quest wouldst be for Deathstalker if the tournament instead wast raping one’s way to the top.
Moral of the story: Either way, thou art fucked… literally.
Deathstalker, aka Conan the Barbarian’s retarded Z-movie brother, is as cheap and poorly executed as sword-and-sandal films cometh, playing out like a 14-year-old LARPer’s wet dream full of dungeons, sorcerers, sword slayings, wench humpings and exposed titties aplenty, yea, more so than the college parties of Mardi Gras. But, hath its labor been done in vain? Nay, I say, for how often doth we receiveth a hero whose brightest honor is his constant urge to rape every victim he doth mightily fight to save?