ferdica

2020-09-28

I was refereeing a boxing match. It was George Foreman vs. Joe Frazier and George kept knocking Joe back into the ropes. Outside the ring was deep, clear, blue water. When one of the fighters got knocked out of the ring, which happened quite often, they would fall all the way into the water and then quickly swim back up and climb back into the ring.

Me and a bunch of tiny people were running away from somebody, through dark hallways and up stairs. I finally broke through into a large, red, dimly lit room and stopped. This was some how a safe room and I had successfully gotten away.

As I was panting and trying to catch my breath, I noticed a couple of tiny people who had gotten here before me were lying twitching on the ground, curled up into little balls. As I watched, new tiny people who arrived immediately dropped to the ground, curled up into a tiny ball and started twitching, flailing their arms around.

I realized that they were trying to do crunches, sit-ups. They saw me staring and one explained, “he said that if you get away, you have to do thirteen thousand sit-ups, and then you’re free to go.”

I replied, “There’s no way I’m doing thirteen thousand sit-ups,” and I turned and walked away and went outside.

I was scrambling as the zombie hoard approached, going through the weapon stash. They were all ancient bladed weapons. Battle axes, glaives. Handles worn smooth, and each metal blade covered in faded intricate scrolling, all piled in heaps in an old box.

I selected a large axe I liked the heft of and turned to the front of the hall. Just as the zombies started to come in and gather in the wings, I heard an electric hum off to the right, like a guitar being plugged into an amp. I turned and saw Ferdica approaching, lead by its frontman, a woman the size of three men with long black hair covering her face. She stood with her long, thick arms at her side, flashes of a wide grin visible through her hair. Three other band mates accompanied her, each as small and skinny as she was huge, and each wearing a black t-shirt, a black denim vest, and spiked greasy hair covering their eyes. They lugged all the equipment and scrambled around to plug their instruments in, climbing up and over the amps and running cables.

I cheered knowing that with Ferdica’s muscle and songs of power we would have no problem taking on the hoard.

A couple zombies came near and I took a couple of practice swings at them with my axe and almost fell clear over as I sliced through them like paper. I would have to hold back and put almost no strength behind my swing at all. Hell yes, Ferdica!

One especially poised and proper zombie stepped forward and addressed us in a clear voice and said that they would be ready to commence as soon as we all put on some face masks.

“Oh, of course!” A little embarrassed and eager to comply, I turned and rooted around for my mask.