A Collection of Nightmares

[The Good Reverend Roger]

They come around the old folks' home at night, you know.  They slide under the resident's bed, and then reach out with their long and spindly arms, to hold cups under the ears of the patients, and they collect the memories that dribble out.  The doctors call it Alzheimer's, but what do they know?  They trust the monitors...But they know where the cameras are, and they stay out of sight.

<flip>

So, I was walking from the mail room to the back entrance of the main office building, when I heard my name being called.  I turned around, and Nigel and LMNO were standing by the mailroom door, calling out to me.  I tried to walk back to them, but the hallway stretched out forever.  They kept yelling at me, telling me that this was all some sort of fever dream brought on by a head wound and I have to GET UP because I've been left for dead, and if I lay there any longer I WILL be dead.  I laughed, because they're such kidders.  How could I have experienced 22 years of generated memories in just a few minutes or hours?  But I had sand in my mouth, so it kind of didn't sound right.

<flip>

My wife comes up to me and says she loves me, but behind her face her head is full of murder gears.  She gives me a big hug, and I try to pretend that everything is okay, until I notice that her tongue ends in a hypodermic needle.  How did I miss THAT?  I would run, but her arms are steel bands, so I guess that

<flip>

"I never loved you", she said, "Do you have any idea how much they had to pay me for the last few years?  You disgust me.  Pig."

<flip>

I want to feel the sunlight on my face, but no matter which tunnels I crawl through, I keep heading deeper into the ground.  Keep moving, keep moving, those are big fucking rats behind you.  Powerful big rats.  Then I remember that there isn't any sun to shine on my face anyway, because all that's left up there is a blasted, radioactive snowfield, and clouds that never go away.  And those aren't rats, are they?  No, those are the other people from the civil defense shelter, mad because I ran when I drew the short straw.  Long pig, will travel.

<flip>

The man-thing walks up to the chair I'm tied to, expressionless because he has no face.  He tears mine off and staples it where his face belongs, and then he looks just like me.  He smiles, and says "Well, I have to run.  I've been just dying to meet your family.

<flip>

My name is The Good Reverend Roger.  I live in Tucson.  I have a 4 bedroom house, a wife, one and a half kids, and a dog.  Two cars, one of which is paid for.  I work in a refinery.  Don't anyone move, this thing is loaded.  I'm Doktor Howl.  Tucson.  House.  Two kids.  Wife.  Dog-thing.  Job-thing.  I'll shoot, I swear I will.  MY NAME IS LITTLE BILLY.  MORENCI, ARIZONA.  PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I woke up early this morning.  Too early, because they hadn't had time to set things up.  When I opened my front door, there was nothing there but empty space, so I tried to call in to work to tell them I wouldn't make it in, on account of the universe is missing, but the phone didn't work.  I tried to drop the battery to reset it, but it was fake...Just a plastic mock-up of a phone.  I ran back upstairs to tell my wife about all of this shit, but there was only a manikin in the bed.

<flip>

I'm in the conference room, when I realize that I'm not wearing any pants.  I panic for a moment, until I realize that my colleagues aren't wearing any skin.  Ho ho!  Won't they be embarrassed!

<flip>

I live in a dystopia.  I am a fungible cog in a vast machine; I am good at what I do, but I am replaceable.  The president smiles and smiles as he lies and lies.  I have toys and gadgets.  We send robots to kill people in far away lands.  I have my rights.  We torture people and hold them for years and years without trial.  I tell myself that we are all equal; a Black woman disagrees with a sneer.  I will work until the day I die.  So will my children.  And that, of course, is the best case scenario.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Well, this went over like a lead balloon.  Teach me to stare into the desert all day.   

[Cainad (dec.)]

Definitely nailed the "nightmare" feel. A few threads of coherency running through an otherwise disconnected series of uniquely upsetting moments.

[Junkenstein]

The visions brought by the desert will not always quickly commented upon. Poor souls need time to reflect on their personal flashing nightmares.

It's pretty constant, you know? You blink and there's a new cretin uttering incoherent needs at you. Then the Live action personal dramas played out on speakerphone. The phone rings and Jimmy's Grandmother has died again, 7th time this year. The stream of pretty shite presents itself and demands attention and to be taken oh-so-seriously.

They ask why I'm always laughing. Or sniggering. When my visage is not contorted in rage anyway. Sometimes I lie. Sometimes I tell them that I refuse to take this waste of my time seriously. It depends.

I don't get a flip. My nightmares are steady. But laughing helps.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

The man-thing ripping the face off? And then looking like you and heading off to meet the family? I've had that dream. I'm always tied up to a spindly chair with a high back that really hurts my neck and digs into my ribs. And my hands aren't tied behind my back, I'm sitting on them like I've been put in time at at Grandma's for getting a piece of candy without rolling over and playing dead first.

The chair is on a hill so I feel like I'm going to tip over at any second and it's putting a crick in my neck. The hill is covered in wild flowers that are filled with bees.

The man walks up, slowly. Smiling without a face in a way that turns my guts to ice water.

He finally arrives and rips my face off, which only makes the crick in my neck worse. And after he comments on my family, I give him their names and birthdays. Which surprises him. I tell him to only drink Pepsi, not the Kool-Aid. The Kool-Aid will kill you. He runs away and bees start landing on my exposed meat, to drink up the blood and turn it into honey.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

The visions brought by the desert will not always quickly commented upon. Poor souls need time to reflect on their personal flashing nightmares.

Don't sweat it.  My head is full of broken glass, the last couple of days.

It's pretty constant, you know? You blink and there's a new cretin uttering incoherent needs at you. Then the Live action personal dramas played out on speakerphone. The phone rings and Jimmy's Grandmother has died again, 7th time this year. The stream of pretty shite presents itself and demands attention and to be taken oh-so-seriously.

They ask why I'm always laughing. Or sniggering. When my visage is not contorted in rage anyway. Sometimes I lie. Sometimes I tell them that I refuse to take this waste of my time seriously. It depends.

I don't get a flip. My nightmares are steady. But laughing helps.

Oh, yes. 

[The Good Reverend Roger]

The man-thing ripping the face off? And then looking like you and heading off to meet the family? I've had that dream. I'm always tied up to a spindly chair with a high back that really hurts my neck and digs into my ribs. And my hands aren't tied behind my back, I'm sitting on them like I've been put in time at at Grandma's for getting a piece of candy without rolling over and playing dead first.

The chair is on a hill so I feel like I'm going to tip over at any second and it's putting a crick in my neck. The hill is covered in wild flowers that are filled with bees.

The man walks up, slowly. Smiling without a face in a way that turns my guts to ice water.

He finally arrives and rips my face off, which only makes the crick in my neck worse. And after he comments on my family, I give him their names and birthdays. Which surprises him. I tell him to only drink Pepsi, not the Kool-Aid. The Kool-Aid will kill you. He runs away and bees start landing on my exposed meat, to drink up the blood and turn it into honey.

Remind me to tell you about the heroin bees sometime.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

The man-thing ripping the face off? And then looking like you and heading off to meet the family? I've had that dream. I'm always tied up to a spindly chair with a high back that really hurts my neck and digs into my ribs. And my hands aren't tied behind my back, I'm sitting on them like I've been put in time at at Grandma's for getting a piece of candy without rolling over and playing dead first.

The chair is on a hill so I feel like I'm going to tip over at any second and it's putting a crick in my neck. The hill is covered in wild flowers that are filled with bees.

The man walks up, slowly. Smiling without a face in a way that turns my guts to ice water.

He finally arrives and rips my face off, which only makes the crick in my neck worse. And after he comments on my family, I give him their names and birthdays. Which surprises him. I tell him to only drink Pepsi, not the Kool-Aid. The Kool-Aid will kill you. He runs away and bees start landing on my exposed meat, to drink up the blood and turn it into honey.

Remind me to tell you about the heroin bees sometime.

Sounds exciting. I used to have a nightmare about a giant eagle coming to carry off the oldest younger brother and eat him in the middle of a horrific storm. I had to choose between saving him from the eagle or saving everyone else from the tornado. It stopped when I decided that my brother was a god damn douche bag and he could fend for himself. Then the eagle dropped him and flew off and hasn't come back. I think it was muttering something about "Well that's the first time THAT's ever happened. God damn kids these days." as it soared off.

I woke off filled with a supreme feeling of "WTF?" But I agreed with my dream-self that my brother was a douche bag.

[Junkenstein]

I live in a dystopia.  I am a fungible cog in a vast machine; I am good at what I do, but I am replaceable.  The president smiles and smiles as he lies and lies.  I have toys and gadgets.  We send robots to kill people in far away lands.  I have my rights.  We torture people and hold them for years and years without trial.  I tell myself that we are all equal; a Black woman disagrees with a sneer.  I will work until the day I die.  So will my children.  And that, of course, is the best case scenario.

The super fun part with this is how many will never recognise this nightmare. This is for some the sleep of the blessed.

If you ever hear someone say something like "That's the way it's always been" in a very jovial tone, put money on them dreaming this hell and wishing for more.

Understanding about the Bees may help us at this juncture.

[Richter]

It's red outside.  Like that snow-storm pink in the inner city at night, except it's dark red.  I'm in the house I grew up in so I msut be visiting. I don't know.  I run to the porch to see where the red is coming from, and all these grey aliens are sort of underwater walking up to me.  The mind control doesn't work though.  Too wrong, too basic, too much of the old berserker blood.  They're after my family, I'm mad, and they are tissue paper..

<flip>

It's one of those backwards worlds again, I know somehow.

"Back for another shoot, huh?"  says the blonde bombshell with the camera and the deranged smile.  "Bet you're SO proud of what you're doing for the conception of men as objects.  Since you've been so naughty, we're going to start with THIS."

She hands me a can of Fosters that ain't for where I want

<flip>

I'm walking through a hall, remembering. 

I'm remembering being with her.  The good times.  Her laugh, her life, her energy, the sweat on her skin...

"No."  Growls the thing living behind my eyes.  "That will bring sadness.  Or happiness.  Be cold now.  Cold and mad."

<flip>

I'm at the game again.  Everyone's there, Cram, Cainad, the rest of the team of nuts.  It's at the new camp site too.  The one with the cabins surrounded by dead ironwood trees hung with the skulls of our enemies.  The ones with the sand dunes of Wood End covered in fragrant northeast pine.  The one on the bay where the family has just brought the boat in, and are riding at anchor.  We'll take a row out at dinner hour for wine and food with them, then back in for the nighttime raids.  Best place and people for LARP ever.

...and I've left my fucking boffer weapons in Rhode Island....

<flip>

The Tribe dude (Sioux, Blackfoot?  I can never remember...) and I are in the woods again.  No nature hikes or herb lessons this time, this is actually risky.  He knows some short cut to power, and it involves hanging fake dead babies from trees in their weird wrapped coffin things.  Why in the name of Hell am I helping him?

Then the spirits show up and shred him before I can even blink.  They're in the form of these three little kids of cold unflinching demeanor and unquestioning purpose. 

There's a creek, so I lie down in it, and make one with the water.  Flowing away slowly, but maybe silently enough that they'll miss me.

They don't and lined up, side by side, they lean over the stream as I float by.  Each in turn kisses my forehead as I pass, and says the same thing to me.

"Murder - chaun"

"Murder - chaun"

"Murder - chaun"