« on: Yesterday at 12:29:13 am »
Having had a stretch of far too much "nice" the past few months my subconscious decided I needed a bit of a wake up call. Here are the highlights
1. It's a dream about a Texan frackign magnate, gone to Russian to peddle his trade without pesky environmentalists interfering. In a bid to prove the safety of his company's action he vows to live on only local water and produce. It backfires, and he gets an aggressive form of flesh-eating cancer. In a bout of obscure bargaiing behaviour, he donates all his money to the local baptist stadium church (that he imported), and hauls his rotting ass up every Sunday to be contrite and talk about what's happening to him. (While the frack goes on).
For the first couple months, he's just sort of pink and a bit streamlined. Then the serious amputations need to be done. By the end, he's just a pink torso, hobbling in across the beige plush carpet on his stubs, pausing for the nurse to hose out a cavity with saline before he says his piece.
2. Active role in this one - I'm heading the cleanup crew. The ones that won't scream until we're off the job and leveling some podunk bar because HOW ELSE do we deal? The project we're breaking in to was started by some turn of the 1900's "Exceptionalism" and "Mind over matter" nuts who were convinced that in a properly dire situation a well disciplined individual could put themselves into long - term hibernation. To this end they've given a family of four the whitewashed details and sealed them into a makeshift funeral vault. They've got a week's worth of food to "prepare", as they're supposed to work themselves into the proper calm mindstate, then they all lie down dressed in their Sunday best to be awoken peacefully when the test is over - in three months.
It's two weeks in. The jackoffs responsible are hauled off to be beaten and dumped in the river. We get to open the vault, and make the snap judgement about if whatever is left inside needs to be "helped" or "liquidated".
We crack it - only the children are left. Sharp-toothed and feral, they're been eating whatever they can. Mercifully, theses are just brown dried husks on the beds now. The whole place, done up like one of the nice parts of "The King in Yellow", is coated with a fine, even layer of horrible shit. The kids lunge for us, and we can't talk them calm. It's workaday watching yourself and you can't blink as you have to get five men and boot on the head of each to keep them down. You're yelling, hoping to communicate while calling for the docs and the drugs (for who?), and just closing your eyes to stop seeing this seems like a GREAT idea, but you're working (and your eyelids AREN'T - treacherous fucks), and kind of on auto now so you just keep seeing it.
Things are looking up, looking down. -R