Morpheus at it Again!!

 

The first important thing about dreams is that they're scripted. The events in a dream are inevitable. Predictable. I knew for example that my dear college friend was going to get us arrested, and no — not the one you're thinking. He was zipping back and forth, from room to room, frothing. WE COULDN'T AFFORD TO RAISE SUSPICION! I grabbed him, and like a supple hyena or a crowing snake, he eluded my grasp at every turn. Now, we're in the Bathroom, but someone has just entered, so we each take in a stall (does he do so willingly or does it require a good shove?). Turns out he's in the stall of the someone who'd just entered, getting pissed on by the someone, all curled up like a feeble half-dead roly poly, getting pissed on. Afterwards, he definitely smells of ammonia, but no less frenzied, soaked in piss now. Huge flakes of cocaine blow out of his nose onto EVERYTHING. Again, he eludes my or anyone's grasp. He storms the stage of the venue and begins hacking away at the band's instruments. Putting up a struggle, he's wrestled to the ground, cops are on the scene. I volunteer my freedom, knowing without doubt they'll catch up to me sooner or later. The paddywagons keep getting updated year after year. Here's a new one with a seat that climbs up to the roof. The wagon, of course, is completely transparent. That's no surprise. And spherical. That's one of the newer features. I can see everything in the world now. This is without doubt the highest perch I've ever occupied in a moving vehicle. About 3 stories, give or take...Later, we're all together, out-on-bail, G-- has bought more cocaine instead of paying for damages. My family's there. G--'s feeding cocaine to my father, while my father's asleep, just laying a snowfield there, right there in Dad's protruding lower lip...

Is this prison? My crazy toothless grandma is coming onto me, her wet pimply lips the color of a fresh bruise, slobbering, palavering, speaking in tongues, confirming the evil prurience aglow in her eyes. Now, she's pawing at me. Her flabby flesh rubs against my thigh, my cheek, my neck. Something's wrong. For Mom, nothing is out of the ordinary. Nothing could be more normal. She's already in her race-car with the Guardian. My girlfriend/girlfriend-to-be/girlfriend-never-to-be says she's driving out to New Orleans, and I'm almost seduced: The Crescent City weighs in the scale of my mind. But no no no, none of this is ordinary, none of it is normal, and I race down to Mother, who's already revving up the engine, with pupil-less, glaucous eyes, possessed, non-human. Somehow I know my sex-fiend Grandma is behind it all. Where did they come from, now? A rank of bald men, suspicious, walk up a ramp in the distance. They also play a role. I'm sure of it. I follow them into a small bedroom - truly more like a sleeper car - and am about to confront them, about to attack, infiltrate, turn this plot on its head, when inspiration lights. I wheel out a compartment beneath the bed, and I find 5 Nicaraguans stowing away, terrified for their lives. Aha! The jig is up!