It was one of those cute little
college towns sitting in a valley, domed buildings, observatory, bricks and one main drag down which the people moved. And there I was on top of the
observatory when the l heard the aliens were coming. Fortunately, in dreams observatories come equipped with their own
rocket launcher . I get my orders by Nextel, and let go a volley. One of the
rockets runs low and nails the
town hall spire with a huge boom and flashing golden sparkles.
Ornate cast iron stairs lead down from the dome to a streetside coffee shop crowded with patrons, none of whom seem to have noticed that I just nuked the town hall. Nor have the mardi gras paraders who have packed the streets. But I have my mission, and need to move through town to get there. Doing my by best James Bond imitation, I crawl up on a balcony, intending to cut down the hall and save time, but I step into a room occupied by a pair of lovers, who are horrified by my entrance.
Excuse me! I beat a rapid exit back out the balcony and swing to the next, and enter again.
People say you don't dream in color, but not this time. I enter a hallway, loaded with tchotchkes, decorated and painted like a Mexican restaurant on LSD. Brilliant atomic oranges, bright turqouise, blinding maroon. I move onward, and all around me women dressed like flamenco dancers and wild west prostitutes slink away from me. I am the only man. I apologize for the intrusion and tell them I'm passing through. None impede me but their eyes are hard and narrow, telling me I am not welcome. Perhaps they noticed my rocket barrage.
I exit the right door but end up on the opposite side of street, outside another restaurant. It has another patio behind an iron fence, a mansard roof and the walls are all made of ironwork and glass. The sidewalk is brick and a mature elm grows up through the bricks. There I meet a man, he is tall and slim, and looks a bit like creases. Up pulls a stretched cop car. "Get in" he tells me, "He'll take us to the place where they'll make us Gods."
The car is black and white with a big golden sherriff's star on the door. The cop pushes it open, and it turns out to be Seth Rogan's cop character from Superbad, only without the cycnicism. But the car has been mutilated. Someone has cut out the floor of the car from the front of the passenger seat back through the front of the rear seat. The edges are ragged, probably from a welder. Behind Rogan is caged german shepherd The dog eyes me in his cage but keeps silent, until I notice he's been muzzled. "I don't know anything about Gods," Rogan says. I take my seat, careful to keep my legs well above the open floor. He takes off and the acceleration pushes me back. Paraders scream and run for the sidewalks as we head off into the smoke and fire.
Then came the alarm clock. Always the alarm clock. It's like I can't dream a good ending.