Well, happy Saturday. [checks] Okay, yeah, it’s Saturday.
And a happy Saturday it is. I’ve been sick the last few days. Started even before I cleaned the bathroom, but I figured it was just the dust bunnies. They can be quite vicious, you know. But once the fever started, I realised I might actually be sick.
Being sick is something that I don’t do very often because I hate it. But I guess sometimes it’s unavoidable. So, two days of alternately clogged and leaking nostrils, headaches, heat and chills, and oh god the coughing. I think I strained my coughing muscles.
But after two days of pounding more NSAID’s than is really safe or healthy the fever has broken and my head feels more like I haven’t had my morning cup of tea (which I haven’t) than like I got run over by a train. I still have some upper respiratory symptoms, but I expect to be fully back to normal by tomorrow.
You know those stories where a whole bunch of terrible and/or weird shit happens and it all turns out not to be real?
I just had a dream like that.
It was me and my parents at the beach. Apparently in the dream, I’m an only child. A friend of the family, Miles, dies mysteriously, and so does the mayor for some reason. Both neighbors; Miles was next door, and the mayor was a few doors down on the opposite side of the hallway. That bit probably isn’t relevant.
Anyway, I get a job working at the building down the beach a little bit. Right away odd things begin happening. In the auditorium during a show there’s flashes of light and attendees disappear.
And there are people getting turned into things. Fighting things that may have had some kind of purpose in the dream, but if they did, I don’t remember it. Let’s pretend they were meant to be some kind of army, because that sort of makes some vague sort of sense.
And then one of the fighting things was on a cargo dock fighting a zombie. And I’m not watching it happen–or dream me is not watching it, but brain me can see it happening as if I’m watching from a helicopter. And the fighting thing is just pounding away with its fists, and the zombie does its own zombie thing, which is to say it didn’t use any kind of martial arts or fighting strategy, but just kept coming on, totally unfazed, and bit the fighting thing on the neck.
And I never get to see if the fighting thing turned into a zombie, and I’m kinda mad about that. Just imagine the implications for zombies and fighting things! I suppose that was why the fight was set up in the first place. For science!
Then my perspective changes to that of a slender black woman, average height, hair chemically straightened-ish, but still sort of curly, wearing a kind of semi-formal outfit cut a little bit like a suit. I don’t know the word for this outfit, but I can see it–and her–very very clearly for some reason.
Anyway, they were going to turn her, but she got out. I can see her running across the wide concrete cargo dock, climbing over fences. She gets away in one of the maintenance vehicles.
Then it’s back to dream me. Apparently, the person who has been changing people into things is my boss. So now I have to expose him without him catching me and deciding I should be made into a dead thing. But I don’t have any hard evidence–just stuff I overheard or something. So I start watching more clearly. I’m in the ocean front hall of the hotel I’m working at–it’s quite an expansive room, red carpet in the center stretching along toward the other side of the hotel, huge chandeliers, and a window several tens of floors high overlooking the ocean. It’s something like ten at night. And I overhear him saying that he is going to dump a bunch of evidence into the sea then blow up the hotel so no one can catch him, like, ever. Well, this is surely actionable stuff, right? I mean, that’s practically a bomb threat and they have to take those seriously.
He’s going to do it right at midnight. And right there in the big hall, he’s setting up a thingy that will dump the stuff into the sea. There’s a sort of panel in the floor before the big-ass window that opens up, and beneath it is a platform, I guess, and he starts piling stuff on it. Which is also pollution. It counts under that ordinance as criminal behavior. Never mind the turning people into things and the blowing stuff up. Now I’ve really got him. You see, it’s material evidence that’s key. I think.
So getting out of the hotel is not easy–I don’t remember the details how or why, but by the time I’m out it’s eleven. As I head out the door, one of them sees me, and what’s more is I’m on the side of the hotel opposite the apartment where we’re all staying. Well shit.
Well, the only thing to do is to dive into the ocean and swim. They’ll never see which way I’m going, right? If I can make it to my uncle’s boat, then I can call the cops before the hotel-person tells my boss and he can respond–again, probably by killing me.
So I get there, but it’s eleven fifteen and unfortunately there isn’t a phone to be had in the entire boat. Well, that’s not the end of the world, is it? I can run up to the room and grab one of our phones. It’s eleven twenty-four when I get there, and I pick up the phone and start dialing the police but it starts downloading something. What?! Phones are not supposed to do that. Shit shit shit. There’s a button that says “end” and I pound on it, hard, and the download stops. I turn it off for good measure and turn it back on. I wonder if my boss did that. Perhaps I should try and find some else to tell about all this. Miles or the mayor would know what to do, but they are both dead. Shouldn’t there have been some kind of special election? But these are the kinds of crazy things that happen in dreams (and yes, those are the things that dream-me is actually thinking).
But it’s clear that my boss knows what I did, because now he starts shouting threats at me through a megaphone. Everyone can hear it. He’s definitely going to kill me, and he’s definitely going to blow up the hotel, and I’m probably going to die and all that. No chance he can get away with it now, is there?
So I decide to try the phone again, and to my amazement I actually get through. And not too soon either, since it’s eleven forty-five. Cops better have good response time. So I tell them about the threats, about the exploding, and about the things. They keep questioning me and asking me about details and all that, and I’m desperately wondering when will they get here. I tell them he’s really going to blow up the hotel and it’ll probably take out the building I’m in as well and I don’t really want to die.
Suddenly it’s day, and before I can wonder when the sun came up, there’s the cop I was talking to on the phone. And I ask him what he’s going to do, and he tells me, “Son, I don’t know how to tell you this, but that guy is an entertainer. It was all just a bit of theater.”
Well, if I hadn’t been asleep I probably would have fainted. As it is, I was so offended I woke up right then and there.
By the way, can anyone tell me whatever happened to “Freshly pressed?” It was nice to see the newest things period without all the required popularity/we’ve-been-spying-on-you-and-decided-you-would-like-this-type filters imposed on it.