The Bio-Chemical Equation: Part 3
The Dream or Why Does my Subconscious Frell with Me Like This?
I'm old. Like as old as I am right now. Which feels pretty frelling old, particularly when you have a cold. But I'm also young. Tough to explain really, but in a dreamscape you get to pull these things off. I'm snatched up by a bunch of ruffians and packed into a station wagon. I'm going to call it the Station Wagon of Doom. It was just your average wood paneled station wagon from the 70s, but it seemed to seat like a dozen. Which is a bit much even for one of those beasts. The car was filled with these ruffians who clearly have an unsavory plan for me. But I couldn't leave. Why? I don't right know, I was just cognizant of the fact that I was unable to leave the wagon. Maybe they would kill me. Yeah, I think that was it now upon reflection. These guys were kinda mean. And by kinda I mean I was pretty sure they ate pitbull snacks and sharpened their teeth with rasp files.
So the SW of D pulls up at it's final destination. A place I'm going to call The Compound. Mainly because that's what it resembled. Out in the middle of the boonies, mildly fortified, with teenaged armed goons mucking about it. Now I don't know about you people, but I'm able to guide my nightmares relatively well. Good dreams I can't control for crap, they end long before I'd like them to end. But my nightmares seem to last forever and always manage to take a turn for the worse. I think to myself, what's the worst possible place this could be? A drug factory, and you are being forced into servitude here. Sure enough! That's what we got! But they could never make you work here by sheer force. Threatening to kill me would end the nightmare faaar too soon, so their next best bet is, of course, make a junkie out of me. So I walk into the place, look around in fear at the goons, one of them walks up behind me and I'm conscious just long enough to see him hold up a huge full syringe of something ominous, smile a sharpened toothy grin and stick me in the back with it.
Now, this is where I lose consciousness in the nightmare and have my own personal nightmare inside a nightmare. Think Russian dolls but with a really demonic and psychotic twist. It was so bad that I actually repressed it inside the dream itself. Which actually I'm somewhat thankful for now. The darkness fades and we flash, to the future.
How do I know it's the future, well, I reach around my back and I have a gun in the back of my pants. I pull it out. It's a fat calibur long barrelled six shooter from hell. Looks like it could perform knockback on Cadillac. And I simply know I've done horrible things. No specifics, I just have this feeling of dread about me that I have sunk to depths I never thought imaginable. And I want out. Now. I look at my gun and put it back in the waistline of my pants. I always know I'm in a dream, by the way, and there are certain rules of physics that I've come to respect in my dream world. The First Rule in my dream world is that no gun wielded by me ever works. It's either not loaded, or it jams, or it just plain doesn't fire. So why bother. I put it away.
I walk out to the main room where Head Ruffian hands me a tray of drugs. "It's not coke idiot, it's crank," he says, anticipating correctly that I haven't a single clue what I'm looking at currently. "Go put it in the wagon," he commands. I think to myself that this is a great opportunity for me to get the hell outta dodge. I get to go to an automobile! Hell. Yeah! So I eagerly accept it and head out the door. This is where the Second Rule of My Dreamworld comes into play, and I don't have this one mastered quite yet. Anything that appears to be a way out, it's a trap.
I get outside and to my horror the compound is under siege from a rival gang who appear to be driving station wagons that are a horrific crossbreed of something you might see if a station wagon from That 70s Show mated with a vehicle from The Road Warrior. I immediately run to the only place where these vehicles currently aren't, a grassy meadow just out of the doorway. As I run I hear machine gun fire and screams. It's not going well for the ruffians from whom I am attempting to escape. Then it dawns on me. I am one of them. And this is where that sinking feeling of despair hits. This rival gang won't give two shakes about my new reformation and recent decision to leave this life behind me. I see tracer rounds fly out from vehicles and scan all around me. I am surrounded. I am doomed. I am a dead man. I know my gun won't work (see First Rule) and I've only six shots even if it does, so fuck it.
This is where I don't give my nightmares the satisfaction of killing me. I wake myself up.
I'm old. Like as old as I am right now. Which feels pretty frelling old, particularly when you have a cold. But I'm also young. Tough to explain really, but in a dreamscape you get to pull these things off. I'm snatched up by a bunch of ruffians and packed into a station wagon. I'm going to call it the Station Wagon of Doom. It was just your average wood paneled station wagon from the 70s, but it seemed to seat like a dozen. Which is a bit much even for one of those beasts. The car was filled with these ruffians who clearly have an unsavory plan for me. But I couldn't leave. Why? I don't right know, I was just cognizant of the fact that I was unable to leave the wagon. Maybe they would kill me. Yeah, I think that was it now upon reflection. These guys were kinda mean. And by kinda I mean I was pretty sure they ate pitbull snacks and sharpened their teeth with rasp files.
So the SW of D pulls up at it's final destination. A place I'm going to call The Compound. Mainly because that's what it resembled. Out in the middle of the boonies, mildly fortified, with teenaged armed goons mucking about it. Now I don't know about you people, but I'm able to guide my nightmares relatively well. Good dreams I can't control for crap, they end long before I'd like them to end. But my nightmares seem to last forever and always manage to take a turn for the worse. I think to myself, what's the worst possible place this could be? A drug factory, and you are being forced into servitude here. Sure enough! That's what we got! But they could never make you work here by sheer force. Threatening to kill me would end the nightmare faaar too soon, so their next best bet is, of course, make a junkie out of me. So I walk into the place, look around in fear at the goons, one of them walks up behind me and I'm conscious just long enough to see him hold up a huge full syringe of something ominous, smile a sharpened toothy grin and stick me in the back with it.
Now, this is where I lose consciousness in the nightmare and have my own personal nightmare inside a nightmare. Think Russian dolls but with a really demonic and psychotic twist. It was so bad that I actually repressed it inside the dream itself. Which actually I'm somewhat thankful for now. The darkness fades and we flash, to the future.
How do I know it's the future, well, I reach around my back and I have a gun in the back of my pants. I pull it out. It's a fat calibur long barrelled six shooter from hell. Looks like it could perform knockback on Cadillac. And I simply know I've done horrible things. No specifics, I just have this feeling of dread about me that I have sunk to depths I never thought imaginable. And I want out. Now. I look at my gun and put it back in the waistline of my pants. I always know I'm in a dream, by the way, and there are certain rules of physics that I've come to respect in my dream world. The First Rule in my dream world is that no gun wielded by me ever works. It's either not loaded, or it jams, or it just plain doesn't fire. So why bother. I put it away.
I walk out to the main room where Head Ruffian hands me a tray of drugs. "It's not coke idiot, it's crank," he says, anticipating correctly that I haven't a single clue what I'm looking at currently. "Go put it in the wagon," he commands. I think to myself that this is a great opportunity for me to get the hell outta dodge. I get to go to an automobile! Hell. Yeah! So I eagerly accept it and head out the door. This is where the Second Rule of My Dreamworld comes into play, and I don't have this one mastered quite yet. Anything that appears to be a way out, it's a trap.
I get outside and to my horror the compound is under siege from a rival gang who appear to be driving station wagons that are a horrific crossbreed of something you might see if a station wagon from That 70s Show mated with a vehicle from The Road Warrior. I immediately run to the only place where these vehicles currently aren't, a grassy meadow just out of the doorway. As I run I hear machine gun fire and screams. It's not going well for the ruffians from whom I am attempting to escape. Then it dawns on me. I am one of them. And this is where that sinking feeling of despair hits. This rival gang won't give two shakes about my new reformation and recent decision to leave this life behind me. I see tracer rounds fly out from vehicles and scan all around me. I am surrounded. I am doomed. I am a dead man. I know my gun won't work (see First Rule) and I've only six shots even if it does, so fuck it.
This is where I don't give my nightmares the satisfaction of killing me. I wake myself up.
2 Comments:
Aren't drug induced dreams the best?!?!?!?
yeah...
so...
Go buy some fresh NyQuil, and feel better soon.
Although the messed up dreams do make for some good reading.
The way I see it, those of us who are sane (relatively anyway) get all of the crazy shit out of our heads when we dream. Then we don't act it out in real life.
It's good for ya... enjoy it.
And have some Nyquil.
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