I Had A Dream

In honor of the amazing Martin Luther King Jr. and his increadibly prophetic “I Have a Dream” speech, I decided to take a look at one of the more interesting and dare I say revolutionary dreams I have had in some time.

From time to time a siesta specter has been so life like and engaging, I have woken from a deep slumber to kick the winning goal or fight off my would be advancing murderer.  One gets found so entrenched in this alternate realty that it really lives in you, irregardless the vast absurdity that may be occurring.  I’ve had face shifting ex girlfriends, classmates I haven’t spoken to or even thought of in over 10 years, as well as ancillary character actors star in some of my most robust renditions while I snored away. My most recent blockbuster however is one for the ages, worthy of critical acclaim; featuring all the traits common to my trippy tales.  

Now I have come to learn that dreams can be coerced in certain ways to get specific results.  Of course if you have Bronson Pinchot on the mind somehow Balki Bartokomous is working his way in your nightly saga.  There are more nuanced enhancers that I have discovered, one of which is a late evening preferably sugary snack.  Try some cookies or ice cream about an hour before bed to let those synapses set off a fireworks display of drama in your brain.  For the particular dream in question it was perpetrated by a slice of gingerbread with a scoop of pistachio ice cream.  The dairy delicacy  combined with a fairly lurid and bizarre dream library provided exceptional results.  Enough of my ramblings let’s get into the mayhem.

For contextual purposes this dream occurred the night of December 28th, 2016.

The setting of this epic was a small blue color town that could be anywhere in America.  The type of town that has three stop lights, one Main Street, and mayor who seems to have eight different occupations.  It’s Halloween and the town is gearing up for one of its most acclaimed events, the annual Haunted Highscool.  Flyers pepper the storefronts on that tiny 4 block down town area, selling the ghoulish gala that is set to take place that evening. Late afternoon is setting in and I’m wiping down the counter top of the diners that I have inexplicably been set owner of.  An old farmer Jim sits on a stool and makes small talk over his like warm cup of coffee.  Like most dreams I am completely symbiotic with my character, I feel right at home behind this counter and have known Jim for years.  As the chit chat about crop harvest yield progresses in runs one of the organizers of the event bemoaning the loss of one of the actors,who was supposed to portray a chainsaw wielding mad man, to the flu.  Always being the helpful neighbor that I am, I offer up my dutiful services and thus remedies this dire situation.  

A period of other mundane situations occur when making my way home to get ready for the night that I won’t bore you with, however when I step foot inside my house I discover that my wife is none other than Elizabeth Berkeley.  Now I was always more of a Kelly Kapowski fan myself, but I guess it’s been hard for poor Liz to get work recently so she had to settle for my dream.  Now after some back and forth about how “excited” I was to be wielding a chainsaw at frightened youth, my best buddy Allen, who was a seven eyed fluorescent alien with a pot belly and Mohawk, came to pick me up.  Hopping in his red Ford pickup, we cruised over to the school where preparations were already under way.  Allen took his spot behind the concessions out front, using his patented charisma to hawk popcorn and candy apples, with that sort of suave arrogance that only Allen has.  I was placed in the hall way between the mad scientists operating room and the gymnasium full of killer clowns.  

Now as things got under way, hoards of groups kept streaming though, each echoing a frightful gasp as the blade of my saw charged past their trembling cheeks.  A steady routine of yell, swing, cackle, swing, yell produces countless droves of pant soaking terror, that was until my final group of the night came through.  Even though they hid their identity with masks I could tell something was off just based on the stature of the group.  They were all short but much more bulkier of a build than the classic teenager.  

As I leapt into action screaming and waving my chainsaw, the group of five pulled out a myriad of weapons ranging from a shotgun, handguns, to a Amazonian blow dart.  I dove back into the gymnasium as the barrage of ammunition richocheted off the weathered lockers in the hall.  Luckily as it were I was only wounded by one bullet that had entered my left knee and exited my hip.  Partially immobile I dragged myself out a side door and out into the parking lot where a war zone had broken out with a full array of humans, animals, and aliens decked out in full military armor laying siege to one another.  I saw Allens lifeless body dropping his neon plasma all over the popcorn like butter.  Bodies were strewn all about, which I used as cover while I made my way towards my fallen friends Ford.  Glancing back at the door of the gym I saw my assaliants emerge, now maskless. 

Who could had been the malicious hit squad sent to take me out.  Well it was a motley crew consisting of Kevin Hart, Justin Beiber, Howard the Duck, my third grade teacher Mrs. Darcy, and a talking ram.  These renegades scanned the carnage surveying for my bleeding corpse, reloading their weapons and signaling to their allies.  I was about a third of my way to the truck when my wife approached.  Grasping at my wound I urged her to keep quiet and help me get to the car.  With great horror she stood up and let loose an ear splitting whistle, causing all the action to cease.  

With eyes firmly set on her she proceeded to give a speech that seemed sent directly from the mouth of Cyrus in The Warriors.  As I faded in and out of consciousness from the blood loss(I must had been waking up), I was able to deduce that the whole exchange was just an elaborate trick or treat prank played on me; what’s funnier than murdering my best friend, half the town, and wounding me in the leg after all?  As she came back over I pleaded with her to take me to the hospital so that my wound could be managed.  Interspearsed with flirtatious making of post prank plans with Howard the Duck and Bieber she casually washed my pleas aside as menial and not time sensitive.  As I became more assertive and it became apparent I was ruining her discussions, she approached me wielding a bazooka materializing out of nowhere and callously uttered “trick or treat mister falcon”.  She then unleashed the payload on me and I woke up in a confused state of anger, pain, and bewilderment.  

While I know Martin Luther King Jr’s dream was an inspirational call to actions for a better future I think that an equally impactful deduction can be made from my dream.  Hopefully your out of work teen actress wife never hires a hit squad to take down your alien best friend and murder you as an elaborate Halloween Prank.  Good sleeping to all!


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