Frank Dieselwang didn’t set out to take on a seven foot tall Zombcchini with biceps the size of bowling balls, but when his assignment was to take on the Moreganic industrial complex, he should have foreseen something like this happening.
|Monster Zucchini, taken by Meg Lauber|
“Well, when life gives you Zombcchini, make Zomboli,” he quipped before flexing his arms and charging forward, a metaphorical truck with huge arms charging with abandon towards a vegetable patch.
Earlier that day…
“As you can see, Professor Gasolinedick, this is the most Moerganic of factories! Everything is certified organic!” shouted the “organics minded” director of Pharm To Tables Totally Industrial Moreganics Factory. That director’s name was Director Cuppingplant Barpillow.
Frank Dieselwang, in his alter ego as Professor Gasolinedick, rubbed his fake moustache and adjusted his no frills designer professor glasses with a muscular index finger. “I think you’re taking too many chances, and playing fast and loose by what organic means.”
Director Barpillow snorted! “Would we have THIS SIGN if we weren’t certified organic.” He stabbed a finger in the air with the authority of a Sunday School teacher on a Saturday who thought it was Sunday at the large sign that said “CERTIFIED INDUSTRIAL MOREGANIC: WAY MORE INDUSTRIAL THAN ORGANIC” which was clearly fingerpainted by the director’s nephew, self styled artist whose heart was in the right place, but whose brain left much to be desired.
Frank, unturned and unconvinced, a monument, no a manument to manliness, knew there was trouble brewing, “But what about those!” With an unerring bicep, he thrust his finger at a giant sized transparent pipe with something inside that looked like a monstrous zucchini, except somewhat humanoid.
“Ehhhh, don’t worry about that!” The director said, waving a fistful of cash under an unflappable Frank Dieselwang’s nose.
As though on cue, the “Zombie zucchini” opened its eyes, and smashed through its confinement! A slightly briny smell pervaded the room as it was clear that the pickling liquid was not at the correct percentage.
“Ohhhhh nooooo!” shouted the director as he ran squealing out of the room, leaving Frank to deal with the mess that was happening.
Back to the present
“I knew this would happen,” Frank said in 20/20 hindsight, even though that was a pretty limited flashback, if you could call it that.
His quadriceps and calves, tanned from working and fighting under the Tuscan sun, flashed brightly as he charged onward to certain conflict. Recognizing a meatbag charging towards him, the Zombcchini beat it’s squashy mitts together and rushed to engaged Dieselwang.
Like an enormous piece of ham being slapped roughly against a freshly picked summer squash, Frank and zombie squash met in a crash of flesh and vegetable matter.
“Just stop! If you can understand me!” Frank yelled at the monstrosity like a D&D player that goes through all of the options before fully engaging in combat.
Mouthless, the Zombcchini simply pressed its assault, leaving Frank without options, and swung it’s gargantuan right armpendage at Frank, batting him a good two feet off balance (where a normal strong man would have died instantaneously).
Getting results, it continued to attack, but this time Frank was ready. With a sudden flex of his bicep, his muscles were as hard as oak, bouncing off the attack with the power of human strength!
Taking advantage of the pause, Frank charged in yet again, kicking his casual dress shoe clad foot (which he was wearing to fit his disguise) into the torso portion of the monster, blasting off a chunk of zucchini with enough volume to more than fill two grocery store value packs.
Barely dodging a vinelike kick from the lower extremities of his vegetal foe, by executing a vertical leap as high as a 5’ tall kitchen table, Frank shouldered in with a shouldering shoulder.
Shouldered off balance, Frank took advantage to kick the Zombchhini in its Zomcchi-knees, and delivered a spinning jump kick while it was even more off balance, launching it backward into through several conveniently placed vertical blades that were hanging around.
The squash monster, cut into neat even slices, lay in a large pile, fit to be dressed with a nice light vinaigrette or perhaps ranch if that’s more your speed.
Frank grunted, “I guess thats….” Pausing to put on some sunglasses, “how you cut the crudite.”