7/6/08

7/6/08
Long, round mall with gold inlaid walls along steep marble passageways - I am there on lunch from work. Agent is there with friends, but she has just been asssaulted. Two men ran up and stabbed her two friends to death, and she barely survived. The family meets her.

I wander. A small bathroom down the corridor. There's a black man in there, crying, perhaps in remorse, maybe 19. Is he responsible?

Cnn.com later showed me that the men involved had been caught at the scene.

I am working in a field. There is a massive project being overtaken. I am driving a taxi therein, though I am somehow driving it from the rear left seat. An older man and his young ward climb into the car (front left and rear right, respectively), and I take them somewhere. I am scared of
the boy, so I race wildly backwards in the car, hoping to crash it.

The project is to construct a massive blow-up dragon, something like a massive reinforce balloon or bouncy castle, but mammoth in scale - 1/2 x 1/2 x 2 miles high. The dragon is divided into multiple sections, with the upper wings being a massive parts, indicated by glowing lines traced across my perspective with no source. People are building 2x4 frames to hold it. Project is led in part by Anders Friden who stands atop all the frames.

Farmer's daughter is helping the project, a young girl with short blond hair in curls. She needs the two sheriffs' favor to allow the project to continue. She offers the first sheriff pie, but he says "No, missy, you can't persuade me with bribes." The second immediately says "Right here," she
gives it to him. She leaves. She then returns slightly later with another pie, leans over to the first, and asks again. He refuses, so she kisses him. Kisses his chest, and works her way down to his now-erect penis and begins to suck him off right there.

Is there more?

7/5/08

A seedy bar, with something of a western flavor, sawdust on the floor, most things made of wood, large parts of the bar actively outdoors with the line between in/out simply blurred. At times, the roof simply ceases to be, and the night sky twinkles down into this courtyard/bar lit by strung lanterns.

Me: "They're coming soon."
He: "Who?"
"The fucking Spanish."
"So? We have plenty of guns."
"No we don't, not anymore. All our guns, our worlds, they're being extinguished. If they land one man with a gun here, that's the end of the last."
"... Jesus."
"We have to get ready for them, if we want to defend ourselves and all the other... French?"

I know that we're French, but the confidence lessens greatly. Flailing around the barstool I find that all my neighbors are wearing patches of Old Glory. Perhaps I was wrong.

The night comes, we are embattled. The time period seems extremely confused. We are clustered amongst a small network of rickety, incomplete wooden fences about 5' tall. Several prepared rifles line the walls.

Suddenly the battle begins. Bullets, perhaps arrows, fly through the air, piercing the flame-licked darkness of a time before electricity. Men covered in armor crackling with lightning mow down over 18th century golddiggers in an orgy of violence. Behind me, a half-gnome/half-demon looking like whatever Lunar's Jessica is vomits magma to defend her children while a nobleman with a blazing sword demands that his comrades write sonnets mid-war of his exploits. A woman chases me, promising violence, until her last attack expended leaves me standing, and all I can do is reveal the last hammer that I still hold in my dirt-caked hands.

She dies by my hands.

7/4/08

I was interning for the Red Sox. Not as a bat boy, but as a Workout Manager. Everyone is playing pickup basketball, including Big Papi, Kevin Youkilis, an attractive woman, and a distracted old man. He seems to be scraggly at best, white-haired, and wearing torn clothing. Something about the throwing of the ball seems to terrify him - particularly the woman. He stumbles backward out a rear-corner pair of heavy-set gym doors, always verging on screams.

There is a confused condensation of the crowd as people mill around like a Mad Hatter's Tea Party. Perhaps in the confusion, or in the blink of a mind, I have been grasped firmly between two burly guards who 'escort' me down a long passageway. The scenery rapidly descends into ironworks, grime, and heavy interlocking doors. I am shuffled down a labyrinthine set of passages before being brought through some final sphincter of a door into a vast, tall, open space.

Looking up, the room is simultaneously exterior and yet interior. Above, well-rounded steel, present though unplacable light, and the dull roar of thousands speaks to a dystopian futuristic, perhaps steampunk-esque setting. I am watched like a Christian in the arena - or perhaps a maggot introduced to an ant farm. I am marched down the runway, still held firm between two shoulders, for the door indeed ends in a long solitary corridor overrunning an endless shadow. On the opposite side, another such ramp leads down to a 10' circle of metal, whereupon a fallen body now lies.

The old man lies in a puddle of his own dried blood, a grisly chainsaw savagely wedged somewhere into the mass of flesh that he has become. A guard turns to my partner dressed in blue, lifts up another such chainsaw, and forcefully rams it onto the man's shoulder, forcing him into the position of a man of burden "at rest". The saw's blade rips through about an inch of flesh before stopping with a sickening crunch in bone. He seems to be armed.



"Is there anyone else here? Somebody's screaming - Please help me. Let's find out now that I'm not dreaming. Welcome to my damnation - Here it comes: The Real Me."