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Worldwide Ace » Stupid Nap

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Stupid Nap

29 October, 2003 (07:52) | Dreams

This is where the wavy lines of the incoming dream sequence appear… yes, I know there’s no visuals in a journal, but just imagine for me. Thank you.

Part I: The Game

I want to say it was a variation on Donkey Kong, but that’s probably because the Simpsons episode I had been watching had a very funny Donkey Kong joke in it when my mind bridged the gap between reality and fantasy.

I stood atop a stout tower that jutted out of the green cliff top that looked out over a clear ocean. I could smell flowers, cherry blossoms perhaps, and could feel the strong winds rip across my bare head. My hair would’ve been flailing like a cat of nine tails… or maybe like Fabio on a romance novel cover, but if it was like that I wouldn’t admit it… if I had long hair. The tower was old, its grey stone moss-covered and worn. A single trap door led down from the top.

I opened the door and slipped down the tenuous rope ladder to a landing. Two open windows let the rush of cold air swoop into the tower and down into the darkened depths below. The moss-covered walls glowed light blue, casting an ethereal light across the descending stairs. There was a thud as the tower shook lightly and swayed. I kept my eyes down at the darkness below as I slipped cautiously down the stone walkway towards the ominous sounds from below, one hand on my sword and one on the railing less wall.

It seemed like ages, but I finally reached the bottom, my eyes now accustomed to the dim blue light. The chills still swept readily from above, but the light from the windows had long since been lost above me. It was odd, a tower that stood only two stories at most from the ground level, and yet descended what felt like miles beneath the surface of the isle. A large metal door stood before me, it’s rusted rivets reflecting in the rancid pools of stale water in front of me. A gargoyle head knocker rested on the face of the door, silently goading me to bravely knock and awake the inhabitants of this lair I had chosen to trespass through.

I would’ve knocked too, except I’m not a stupid man, and certainly not the kind who would choose boldly going over safely returning. I slipped my sword into the crack in the doorway and gently pried the door open. As rusty as it looked, it did not creak. The light inside assaulted me, torches flaring brightly in comparison to the mossy walls in the tower. I took a moment to survey my surrounding, checking carefully for traps or monsters awaiting me. The vaulted ceiling flickered in the torchlight, my mind flickering along with fears that the sinuous shadows were seductively shielding the dreaded demons that desired to devour me.

As I crossed the room, I anticlimactically noticed it was completely empty. No monsters, chests, princesses, wizards, jewels, lint, pocket change, spare tires, DeBeers posters, 8-track tapes, surgical tools, torture devices, New Kids on the Block CDs… My fear dissipated as I wandered across the enormous room looking for a new destination, but to my dismay there was not one in sight. The iron chandelier hung in the center of the room. I wandered underneath it and stared, hoping there might be a token worth stealing to bring to my love, whomever that was, hidden amongst it’s ornate trellises. As I stepped into the center of the room, the floor collapsed and I tumbled downward into the abyss below.

As I dug myself out of the dust and rubble, I noticed that there were 3 doors spread out along the walls of this cylindrical chamber. Another thud shook the tower, this time much closer. I ducked out of the way as a few more bricks came tumbling down to join me, sprinkling my body with rough particles of mortar. I decided not to go through the door with the loud sound, since it felt like a giant gorilla throwing a barrel at a chubby plumber who speaks Pokemon.

SIDE NOTE: How come Mario and Luigi can only say their own name? Is there a reason why Pokemon can only say their own name? Are they distant cousins? How come you can’t catch a Plumbermon in the Pokemon game? This is the sort of thing that pisses me off. Now back to your regularly scheduled dream…

I wandered towards the door on the right, but the wafting smell of the sea air convinced me that was the exit. Obviously, there was a prize to be won, a damsel to be rescued, a free coupon for a hot dog at the next jousting tournament to be clipped, and it obviously wasn’t down the exit path. This left the door in the middle. I traversed the short hallway and entered a small chamber that had a rickety wooden ramp leading around the side down to the base. I quickly and quietly fondled my way down the ramp, making sure each step that the floor wouldn’t collapse beneath me again. I still had a slight headache from last time, you understand.

As I reached the bottom, I hopped the last few feet onto the dirt floor and ran to the chest that sat in the middle. I slowly ran my fingers across it, felling the ancient wood still firm beneath the metal supports. Standard pirate type chests like this one would have chains to be broken off or a code to figure out. This was anything but a normal pirate chest. It wasn’t just locked, but a note was tacked to the top of it. Likely it said something like, “the prize so close, the tale verbose, and yet the key you do not see.” Whatever it said, the message was clear: “Sucker! You gotta get the key from the monster.”

I thought about it for a moment, decided the monster was probably large and scary and that it was probably a dangerous task designed for an adventurer with strength, talent, and bravery. In other words, someone else can do it, cause this dream sucks and I’m out of here.

Part II: The Investigation

I’m not sure how I knew, but I knew I was a private dick who’s luck had begun to run out. I think it was the pile of frozen burritos under my jacket that gave away that I hadn’t had a solid case in a while, or at least not a solid payday. My hands were shaking as I made my way through the Frozen Food section, not because I was scared of being caught, but because it was the Frozen Food section and those freezers are cold. I slipped around the corner into the produce section, being careful to avoid stepping in the spilt dressing on the floor.

Oh how I wished the spilt dressing had slipped of her body when I saw her. Her dark hair shone lightly in the keeping the produce fresh dew spray like she’d run through a meadow with unicorns. She wore a dress that said, “Hi big boy. How you doing? Well, that’s really something I needed to know.” You know, the classy kind of dress. I didn’t know if the celery gods had decided to favor me, but the stalks that filled in between that dress and the floor were toned and lean. If I hadn’t been staring at her tomato swaying back and forth with each illustrious step, I might’ve noticed the toddler sitting in the cart she pushed in front her.

She turned towards me when she heard the pile of frozen burritos hit the floor, her eyes brimming with tears. It hit me like a ten pound sack of potatoes, boiled and garnished lightly with parsley. I was in love. Or maybe I had just slipped on a frozen burrito and smacked my head on a ten pound bag of potatoes. Either way, seeing her leaning over me, a look of concern on her face as her soft, delicate hands rubbed my shoulder as gently as if she were peeling a ripe orange.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You slipped on a… burrito.”

“I’ll be fine, angel face,” I slyly remarked back. My eyes met hers, which met the potatoes’ at first, but then met mine instead. She smiled at me as I stood up and brushed myself off. “You’ve been crying,” I said. “Perhaps there’s something I can do to help you. I’m a private eye, miss; a professional.”

He was utterly handsome, and his reputation as a womanizer made him the perfect man to help get my revenge. All I had to… I always hated when my thoughts got mixed up with other people’s, but at least I knew something thanks to the uncharacteristic film noir thought cross-over. That’s right, I knew I was gonna get some.

“Well,” she said, her eyes slipping to the frozen burritos on the floor, “I’ve been having some trouble in my personal life–”

“Surveillance? No problem, miss.”

“No, not surveillance. I need some help around the house. And call me Karen, Mr. Cliffton.”

“Well, Karen, I think I can certainly handle some handy-work with my big hands that the ladies love.” I knew I was in when she sidled a little closer to me and started to walk alongside towards the exist. Her baby, which was obviously a plastic doll thanks to budget constraints on this story, began to cry when the sound effects guy pressed the play button. I made sure to pull the cable from the CD player as I walked past.

I guess the cloudy sky and impending rain indicated that trouble was brewing, but I was more worried about the coffee brewing, since I’m not as suave without my coffee. We had ended a night of raucous passion, ignoring the plastic baby’s cries for a new diaper, and I had crept down to the kitchen to prepare Karen and myself some breakfast. Unfortunately, the toaster was broken, the eggs were all gone, and the sausage was overcooked, at least after I got done with them. Of course, the coffee was coming, and that’s what’s important.

When Karen entered in her sheer slink robe, the smoke from what would’ve been breakfast only added to the effect. The velvety texture clung to her like burnt egg to a frying pan, and it certainly made my sausage sizzle. She leaned over the counter, her negligee slipping low enough to give me a good look at the poster on the wall behind her.

“Well, cowboy, you better ride along before my husband gets home from church.” The fact that it was suddenly Sunday and that her husband hadn’t been home all night hurt the continuity of the story, but I ignored it in order to remember the fantastic romp we had shared. Sadly, that part of the dream had been skipped over, so I ignored the intended flashback and went straight to answering back.

“You hadn’t mentioned a husband, let alone a pious and holy one.”

“Oops,” was all she could say to me as she smiled that toothpaste commercial smile at me. After that smile, I was like melted butter falling off burnt toast and would’ve believed anything she had said.

“Well, at least let me have a goodbye kiss,” I said, smiling back in that charming way that 4 years olds seem to look cute doing, but doesn’t quite work after. Regardless, she took pity and planted wet kiss on my cheek. As she began to pour herself a cup of coffee, I said, “How about some tongue?” She finished poor and gave one of the most memorable kisses I’ve ever had. I’d describe it, but it’s hard to remember. Well, I was on a roll, so I said, “How about a quick romp in the hay, or slightly older than now time’s sake?” This time she turned and walked from the room, her hips swaying in rhythm with her wagging finger. “A blow job? No? A hand job? Anything? Please?”

I knew by her silence that is was my cue to leave, so I grabbed the ashtray and my clothes and wandered out to my car. Crap, I don’t have a car. Where the hell did I wander? Oh yeah, to church. I figured God deserved thanks for last night.

The first thing I noticed as I walked up to the church was a mini-van just like Karen’s parked in the lot, complete with the “If you touch the minister’s wife, you’re going to HELL” bumper sticker. Probably just coincidence that there’d be 2 teal mini-vans with that bumper sticker in the same town. Services had already started so I slid quietly into the back. To my dismay, one of the altar boys told me to put out the cigarette.

The sermon was just like I remembered it; boring and irrelevant to my life. The congregation seemed to hang on every word, but I just wanted to take a quick nap and let the lord rejuvenate me. There was, however, something about the way the minister said, “and THAT heathen has tread upon my doorstep and stolen fruit from my kitchen,” seemed to point to me. Of course, the finger pointing to me may have given it away. I stood up and quietly made my way out of the pew and towards the exist.

I guess I should’ve known something was wrong when I saw Karen sitting in the minister’s wife’s seat at the back covering her eyes and shaking her head. And if that didn’t reveal a problem, the altar boys tackling me from behind definitely should’ve. A few little altar boys are simple to deal with when you’re a man of my talents. It’s the big one that got me. I was dragged up to the front and laid before the eyes of the congregation to be judged like pimply teenager on The People’s Court.

“You, sir, have violated the sacred trust of marriage and MUST BE PUNISHED!” the minister screamed. I waited for the organ player to grab a folding chair and come at the minister from behind in a fit of betrayal, but then I remembered this wasn’t the WWE, so I lit up a cigarette and waited to die. “You have tread in the house of the lord after committing an egregious sin, and the lord HATH NOT FORGIVEN YOU!” ABy now the crowd was on its feet. It wasn’t a religious service, it was a lynching, and I was the lynch. Actually, I’m not sure if the lynch is the lynchee or the lyncher. I’d certainly rather it be the lyncher if I was the lynch, but I guess in this context it’s not. Kind of sucks for me.

Course, I’m a P. I. and I’ve always got a few jacks in the hole. Karen should’ve told me I left them there, but it was too late for that and I had to think on my feet. I surveyed the room, picking out wives and daughters who might fill in my schedule if I lived. Two girls who were out of my range caught my eye. On looked on at the minister in anger seen only in the way a fruit bat attacks an orange. The other watched him with a sad and quiet awe. That’s when it came to me.

“Excuse me, minister, but how can you condemn me when you’ve been back-dooring the altar boys like the cast of This Old House?” Silence swept across the room.

“I haven’t touched the altar boys in that manner.” He said it with such voraciousness, I knew I was the one screwed in the ass if I didn’t come up with a better answer.

“True, but you have been sleeping with two of the Sunday School aides, both between the ages of 14 and 17.” I knew I was right when the giant altar boy dropped me to the floor like a sack of potatoes I had recently met and the congregation was filled with an angry murmur. Quickly, I brushed myself off and headed for the door. I certainly didn’t want to be around when the angry mob quenched its thirst for blood. The two girls were standing in the entryway as I came to the door.

“Why did you reveal us,” the angry one said, her bosom bouncing in such a way that I understood how the minister could’ve easily mistaken these girls for 18 or 19 from the neck down.

“Oh, I’m glad it’s out in the open. You never wanted to kiss me in public anyway,” said the sad one who was now cheery. The angry merely hrumphed and wandered off.

“See a rape counselor if it bothers you that much. And if it doesn’t, you can always sleep with every moving thing you come across until you feel in control of your sexuality,” I responded as I walked out the door. I could’ve sworn I heard cheery one say ooh, any living thing, which gave me hope for the future.

I guess it was over now. All wrapped up in a nice little package. Karen had slept with me to get back at her husband for sleeping with the aides and not getting AIDS. Me, I was just a pawn in the game, which was kind of like chess, except with 5 pieces and a sack of potatoes. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the parking space where I didn’t park my non-existent car that I noticed I was being followed.

I turned around slowly, making sure my hand was on the stale candy bar I pretended was a gun whenever I got in trouble. The first time I got a stale candy bar, it was a mounds bar, but apparently coconut helps keep it from becoming rock hard, so now I use 5th avenue because of the peanuts. My predecessor swore by Butterfinger, but that ad with the teeth really creeped me out.

Karen smiled at me and I relaxed, dropping the 5th avenue bar on the ground. It was a waste of a good fake gun candy bar, but she was worth it.

“So what now?” I asked.

“Well, I think I’m going to stay away from home for a while until things calm down, and then maybe divorce.”

“If you need a place to stay,” I said hopefully, remembering that first touch we had shared in the produce aisle, “you can stay at my place.”

“No, I think I’ve got a place.” I was disappointed to say the least, even tough I slept in my car and didn’t have a place. “But if you’ve got some time to spare, I wouldn’t mind fucking…”

So now where’s it’s supposed to fade of into the sunset, or since it was dream, into the sunrise. And, in fact, that’s almost what happened. The odd thing was, when I woke up, I was in bed, only 3 hours had past, and I was hugging my comforter as if it were a sack of potatoes…

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