Leaving behind the local zombies, we’re walking a ways up the wide road. It’s usually busy. Now it’s just crowded. Upturned cars, tipped over lamp posts, shattered glass. Apocalyptic shit.

And oh, looks like we got ourselves the Macy’s Day Parade of fucking zombies limping toward us.

The size is a little intimidating, for sure. But, I have been sort of itching to see what wielding my Big Sword feels like now that I can make full use of its immense girth.

I charge into the frey of the battle. I equip my sword along the way, and unlike last time, when I hold it anime-side style, I actually feel like a bad ass. It doesn’t hurt my wrists like it did before. It doesn’t strain my biceps, and despite its stupid length, it doesn’t waver at all. It still has some weight, but nothing I can’t handle.

And now. Now I can finally savor the moment. Me with a sword in hands, in a zombie fucking apocalypse. Childhood dreams come true.

God, I really was a fucked up kid. Am I a fucked up adult or just a fucked up kid stuck in an adult’s body? Not sure. Adult or kid, I know I am a fuck up. And this fuck up’s about to project all his toxic issues onto a horde of the mother fucking undead. Think my therapists would all agree…that’s progress.

Jumping into the air, higher than I’d ever thought possible (thank you Dexterity?), and I’m about to land in the middle of the horde.

Fuck it, let’s get chaotic.

Descending with impressive hangtime, my boots finally crush through a zombie’s skull, and I use Cleave. Mid-air: crescent moon spin and force ensues, severing, slashing, whipping crimson paint everywhere, and…

I finally land and nearly slip on entrail soup. It’s already a fucking bathhouse of blood and guts in here.

How metal.

Maybe ten zombies heads to my left, Jake jumps fifteen feet into the air, and lands light as a feather on the roof of a Uhaul. Spamming his Rapid Shot, he’s firing into the zombie parade like he’s an angry teenager who maybe everyone shouldn’t have picked on quite so much.

Pumped Up Kicks by Foster The People is playing, and he’s singing along. “All you other kids with the pumped up kicks, you better run, better run, faster than my bullet.”

How anyone could make columbine catchy is beyond me.

And now it’s time for me to actually test my skills with this previously near-useless Big Sword of mine. Three cheers for Erectile Dysfunction! I’m cured now though. My Big Sword just got pumped full of fucking Viagra and it must’ve had a long dry spell, because within the first couple swings, I am already on a goddamn rampage of acrobatics, dodges, calculated slashes, hilts through zombie faces.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

I’m a zombie-killing Gene Kelly, just singing in the rain of death. What a glorious feeling.

Maybe that edible’s just starting to really ramp up or maybe I’m just this fucked up, but I swear I haven’t felt this happy in...actually, I don’t wanna figure out how long it’s been, that’ll just bring me back down. It’s been a while. But I’m fucking blissful right now.

Each swing just flows. The adrenaline. The fluidity of my swings, steps, spins. And with every passing second, I feel. I don’t know. More connected to my weapon. In sync.

I tee off and baseball bat swing an obese face from its neck. Jowls and all, the head flies toward the Uhaul.

This is the same Uhaul where Jake’s still busy firing away like he’s some golden boy killing innocent third world countrymen in the name of truth, justice, and the American way.

The obese face splats against the Uhaul’s side with so much force it shakes the container, and Jake leans over to see the Pollock of brain matter. "Punk rock."

Craig appears out of dark smoke, does a cross scissor movement through an old man's waist. I've never seen a spinal column do that. Craig is paying attention to my art work though. "I'd call that metal."

"Post-metal really," Tabi says. She's running by, shield bashingly.

"How's this...Jake! Play It’s All Coming Back to Me by Celine Dion!”

"You have problems."

The song starts. It’s beautiful. My demented dream world. I’m in the night and the wind’s so cold, but I’m whipping zombie blood across the snow-bed. I feel powerful. Graceful. It’s a choreographed dance of death. Savage. Primal. But that’s not what’s got me feeling so great. It’s the feeling of being pushed to the edge, of testing my limits, trying for that perfect match. Or it could be I wanna hack and slash entire hordes, and who knows, maybe this is what I was meant for.

Suddenly, right as I’m intuitively curb stomping one zombie while hammer-chopping another’s head, I notice something right by my HP Bars…

Inspiration Meter: 100%

My Inspiration Meter is glowing an effervescent aquatic blue, like some mix between cyberpunk electric and sunlight catching the Caribbean sea. Power Up attack??? My thoughts are confirmed when I see an option for...

“Cleave: Super Choreographed Inspired Attack!” strobe-pulsing at me so bright and variegated it needs a seizure warning.

Naturally, I do the same thing any responsible adult in my position would, and shout, “Cleave: Super Choreographed. Inspired…ATTACK!!!” with anime gusto.

And now I’m moving unlike ever before. A brilliant glow erupts around me, and striking at the air with cuts so powerful they strike down zombies with a single blow, no matter which direction I swing.

With each strike I project a copy of myself that echoes forward and performs the exact same attack.

Additionally, the copy attack projects a burst of light that does damage to several zombies.

While attacking, I can hear the chorus, and I’m serenading my Big Sword like I'm Celine herself. Each attack in sync with the lyrics.

“When you kill them like that and I swing you like this, I just gotta admit, that it’s all coming back to me, when you drop them like that. The XP’s coming into me. These are moments of gold. They’re flashes of light. These kills will be done again, how can killing zombies feel so right?!”