Okay, this one's a doozy. And it's the last DreamScape (at least under its current format). I haven't been happy with them and since they're primarily an excuse to sneak creative writing into my rant and rave days, I figured I'd buck up and stop cheating. Ah, useless discipline... how useless thou art. Uselessly useless. Useless, I say!
As always, the actual dream portions are in italics.
I'm at a friend's house in Australia, and it's a little disconcerting that its layout is almost identical to my sister's old rental home back in the United States. Then again, perhaps human imagination has completely run out and everybody's just knocking out the same old shit from habit. I have no idea. All I know is that I can find all the silverware and dishes in the kitchen.
My friend's son and I are getting hammered. It seems to be thing to do here. He likes beer, I like wine, but I'm downing beers like they're going out of style. And then he ditches me. His sister's around, but she's ignoring me. You know, being an arrogant American and all. She's stunningly gorgeous, which usually makes me a little nervous, but I guess since it's my dream I'm a walking bastion of confidence.
There's a guitar there. Not sure where it came from. And it shouldn't matter, since I can't play very well. But I can tune the shit out of one. So I pick it up and start tuning it. I guess my friend's daughter is into on-key tones, since she suddenly decides to start talking to me. I'm not sure where the conversation leads as far as talking points, but she's kissing me now, so I don't really care. Yeah, she's stunningly gorgeous. I'm not gonna tell you what happens next.
I tend to have rather odd occupations in my dreams. This one is no different. I'm not certain what it is exactly that I do, but there's a news report on television of a plane crash that destroyed the southern tip of a Canadian Island. Within moments I get a phone call. I'm to get to this island as soon as possible. But not, it seems, to rescue the crash survivors. Instead, I'm to rescue some endangered species of moth that lived on the island.
I'm not entirely apathetic, I suppose, and I feel sorry for the survivors we sail right by while we're collecting moth specimens.
We're wrapping up the rescue and somebody is filming a documentary on it. I can't tell who the host is, but it's a fairly stocky fellow. Either Russell Crowe or Napoleon D'umo from So You Think You Can Dance. Whoever it is, he wants to interview me, but somewhere else. I start following him. That's when I notice George Bush, Sr., walking down the street. By himself. He's smoking a cigarette. Out of curiosity, I ditch the documentary crew and head over to him.
I ask him for a smoke. He complies. He starts talking about nothing in particular. Apparently, I'm a klutz, because I drop the cigarette. Bush doesn't notice and he accidentally steps on it. I wait patiently for him to move his foot. He never does. I ask for another smoke. He complies. I drop that one, too.
George Bush and I chat for a while, until he drops to the ground. Heart attack. Out of nowhere come a shitload of Secret Service agents. One of them seems cool enough and gives approval when I ask if I can come along. I used to be an EMT. I might be Bush's only hope.
Except... they have other ideas.
We wind up at some Arab shaman's place. In front of it, naked Western children are being sold off at auction. I point this out, but none of the SS guys seem to care. They're only purpose is to save the former President's life. They don't let me in the shaman's store. One tells me that I'd be too disturbed.
I'm disturbed enough by the children being sold off. No one has any clue what's going on. Or any care. But I'm getting pissed. I know that, to help the kids, I have to see what's behind that door. Guns are drawn. Shit's about to go down. I'm totally fucked.
And then I wake up.
I have to admit, for sheer curiosity reasons, I wish I wouldn't have. I still want to know what the Hell was behind that door.
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