Real tennis. Until the club turns.
SNES-STYLE PSEUDO-3D · UMPIRE VOICE · 15/30/40 · AND THE DEAD
▶ PLAY NOW MEET THE DEAD FREE · IN YOUR BROWSER · NO DOWNLOAD · NO ACCOUNT
Real tennis. Until the club turns.
SNES-STYLE PSEUDO-3D · UMPIRE VOICE · 15/30/40 · AND THE DEAD
▶ PLAY NOW MEET THE DEAD FREE · IN YOUR BROWSER · NO DOWNLOAD · NO ACCOUNTWhat is it
Splatter Tennis opens as a straight-faced 16-bit tennis sim — the kind you remember from a SNES summer. Toss, time your swing, hold serve. Then you win a game, the light goes wrong, and the club is on its feet — because the club is dead. From that point on you serve at zombies, and every tennis ritual keeps running as if nothing happened: the umpire calls the score, the ball boys still fetch, the crowd still applauds.
Hit hard enough and a body splatters. Hit soft and it just gets angry. Kills score points, points make games, games make sets — and the dead keep coming faster.
How a run goes
Win a real game of tennis against a real opponent. He turns mid-match. They all do.
Your serve is the weapon. Full power splatters; anything less only staggers them.
Every set ends in a horde — the racket auto-fires and your finger just has to keep you alive.
Bombs, triple serves, flame balls. Never found, never bought — only won in sudden-death duels.
Every ten games the club sends someone who used to run this place. Contact is still death.
Five ways to play
No blood, no bites. A clean, honest SNES-style tennis match — the game the club used to play.
The endless ladder. Eighteen rungs of undead opponents, each one game, each faster and meaner than the last.
A drawn bracket: round one, quarter-final, semi, and a final that is always THE CHAMPION. Wounds carry between games.
Straight into the splatter. Hordes, bosses, ball machines, permadeath — the run summary is the whole game.
Live tennis against a friend, phone to phone. Share a room code and settle it on centre court.
Know your enemy
Everyone who worked, watched or played at this club is still here. They have kept their jobs. The jobs have changed.
He was here before any of this.
He still fetches. He just bites now.
He paid for the whole seat.
He is asking you to leave.
He covers the court. All of it.
Nothing gets past him twice.
Name's not on the list.
He flattened this court. Then the rest.
Beat him and his weapon is yours.
Somebody left it on.
Every tenth game
The staff went down with the club — and every ten games one of them walks back on court, clears the stage, and volleys at you until one of you stops moving. They don't shamble. They remember the game.
He mowed this lawn for thirty years.
Every ball of yours is out.
His call was always final.
He taught you every shot you have.
He knows exactly where it hurts.
The crowd still loves him.
He strung your racket. He knows its limit.
He is calling security.
Cream with that?
The name on every trophy in the clubhouse. He returns everything you can hit, he is faster than anything else on court, and he waits at the end of every tournament. Nobody has retired him yet.
Four surfaces
GRASS · FAST, LOW SKID
CLAY · SLOW, HIGH KICK
HARD · TRUE BOUNCE
AFTER DARK · TRUE BOUNCE, NO LIGHT
The umpire is still calling the score.
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