I had a strange dream last night:

A low humming sound adds to the “spacey” ambiance of the room I become aware of.  There are two others sitting at the rectangular table with me.  In the center, some kind of chrome plated sphere hovers in the air, slowly bobbing up and down.  It almost sounds as if that is the source of the humming.  I scratch my head and look down at the black stone tablet, thin as paper and easy to crumple, but unfolds itself into it’s original shape if tampered with.  Printed on the tablet are white numbers, encased in two dimensional white-outlined squares.  A large celestial map sits in front of me, the contents of which alternate between the heavens, colored in indigo’s and deep blues, and an old world map, colored in brown and parchment tones.  I look at the others sitting at the table with me and they are hard at work trying to decipher the have similar tablets in front of them.  I touch the exact middle square with my finger and the chrome plated sphere emits an extremely high pitched whining, hydraulic sound and blinds me with a bright flash.

When I “come to”, I am in a desert, though the color palette of the terrain looks very washed out.  I am by myself for awhile and not sure where to go, as nothing is in sight aside from more desert and some mountains off in the distance.  Soon enough, a bus comes barreling down the dusty road and pulls over as it nears me.  A few small, one story buildings grow up from the ground as well as a stable filled with people in hospital gowns with shaved heads.  The atmosphere becomes malicious.  A man in uniform approaches me and states that I have been selected to work at a high-end, secret facility for cracking the code on the tablet.  My gut screams at me not to trust him, but having no other options, I board the bus in order to bide time.

We ride for hours and the landscape never seems to change, it only looks like the same few shrubs are placed in different areas off the side of the road.  A line of shuffling feet cuts into my anxious thinking and up come a group of identically dressed, shaved-headed individuals, holding their arms in such a way as if they were holding invisible rifles.  They look like they are in an extreme amount of pain & discomfort but cannot fight back or do anything about their current circumstances.  Intuitively, I am told that they are being trained to oversee the other people being taken to the facility, that they are being broken & brainwashed.  That put fear into me and heightened my senses; I go over ways to escape.

The bus is turned into a boxcar and all goes dark.  The door is rolled back and the sunlight slams into the wall behind me, rattling the walls and floor.  One by one, we are all taken to the ground and directed to one of the brainwashed individuals.  I am the last one; they grab me and throw me to the ground and kick me in my sides to rough me up and intimidate me.  It hurts but I am not intimidated, just pissed off now and more determined than ever to escape.  I approach my “overseer” and he looks insane, his eyes are wild and seems that the only thing that is holding him together is serious PTSD from his “re-education”.  He cradles his arms and bends his knees, sticking out his tongue and slobbering everywhere, yipping at me to jump into his arms.  What a balanced fella.  I run and jump into his arms two times and fall, making him laugh hysterically.  On the third attempt, he tries to stick something into my back to control me but I flip over his head, gripping it with both hands and, as hard & quick as possible, twist it, breaking his neck.  He crumples to the ground and the boxcars disappear along with everybody else and some more one story buildings grow up from the ground.

As fast as I can and barefoot, I take off to a shed sitting by itself on the far side of the road.  Inside are more guns than most people would know what to do with.  I know sure as hell what I am going to do with them.  Shots ring off in the distance followed by orders being yelled out; they are coming for me.  I strap myself like a one man army and kick the door open.  I run in the opposite direction of the shouts, desperate to get away to warn others of this place but ready to fight.  A bright flash whites everything out.  I wake up.

The demon of Somalia

October 18, 2010

I had a strange dream last night:

The sun is at its highest in the sky and relentlessly pounding the dirt with a blistering heat. Before me are the sights of a run down, broken desert city, in the midst of ruin. Shanties crowd for space along the narrow streets. Needless to say, there is a lack of curb appeal here. Gun shots pop off about a mile away, followed by return gunfire and some shouting. A stranger runs into my line of sight and I stomp my foot into the ground, bringing up the crosshairs of a reticle. At the bottom of this scope are a list of weapons I may use. I blink at the one in the middle and hear the whooshing sound of a small rocket leaving me overhead and it slams into the frantic stranger, leveling him in an instant. 

I take off running through this maze of a city and suddenly there are hundreds of people running about, shooting at each other, beating each other in some desperate fight for survival. I am able to remain somewhat unnoticed and take down person after person in my crosshairs. There is an alley to my right that I squeeze into, hiding momentarily before rushing back out into the street to kill a group of four. I peer down the dirt road about a half mile and fire a barrage of small swords and knock another from his motorcycle, immediately appearing next to it, hopping on, and taking off. The bike is palm-sized but I am able to ride it nonetheless. A boy grows out from the grime of the side of a building and speaks to me in a guttural, strained voice. Fighting the urge to invite such a seemingly friendly demon for coffee, I pulled on the throttle to get away from it/him as quickly as possible but every half mile or so, he would appear off to the side of me and laugh first, then try and swipe at me to knock me off my micromachine crotch rocket.

I steer off a hill, catching a lot of airtime before crashing to the ground. My entire body feels like it is on fire. The boy devil approaches me, taking his time and I look at the bike, which is now in flames and I panic, knowing I have to get up and get away. There was little distance between us now and I yell something inaudible at the kid, somehow causing the bike to be “pulled” over to me and attach itself between my legs. It sits up, with me on it, and hits full throttle. I was gone from the bottom of that hill, making my way, full speed, on a bike that was now in flames. Every shanty and hut I drove past, the people would pour out from with the same face as that devil that had been pursuing me. Up ahead I noticed a long stretch of concrete road and as I approached it, everything went black.