Yes it was some sort of dream. It was one of those intermittent glimpses as seen a bit removed from oneself; interlarded projections of you’re routine quotidian collection of images and actions, and that other more inaccessible part of you’re mind acting on it, shaping it, contorting..et cetera. I wake up all the time. I chase petty brigands over bruised hills with a gun made out of business cards folded perfectly.
I look down, I’m the old furtively placed ‘camera’ to put it imperfectly, and though it looks like a serpentine four lane highway of outdoor resin chair white, I do not look on at the macabre scene to come with any light-hearted cartoon slap in the fuzzy back dismissiveness. The people were toys, but they were people nonetheless. Ploiks in the lowfat milk of a gauzy horror. A blue truck, one of those poseur toy imitations of real monster trucks that pretend urban-hicks like to gruzzle around as their wiping the youghert from their bloop toots, goes driving around this nighttime-highway with complete recklessness.
I see cars being slammed into corridors, destination signs, real bodies flying, screaming, out of pretend cars. This blue truck continues barreling. A cockiness wretches out of it’s power-windows as they go down. I hear a garbled one liner and some squidish chortling. The dream stops looking that way, it is held still and away. I don’t see it for a bit, an abeyance, yeah. When I return, when it returns me to it, the real gruesomeness commences. The blue truck has been pinned by the angry mob of motorists in their damaged cars. They are looking for revenge. They are looking for old-timey god wipe out the whoeverites. This Lilliputian makeshift militia wanted to see this bloody poltroon torn from head to toe. What they did woke me up, and disturbed my pathetic attempt at sleeping again.
This mob took the pretend man out of the pretend monster truck. A life size bottle of cheap beer in brown glass propped against (maybe a Cyprus tree with wax leaves?) was lifted by all of them in a communal Herculean effort to destroy the man. They proceeded to cut this man’s neck and body. The brown bottle was lifted and swung, a brutal vivisection mercilessly performed. The brown glass was all over that white plastic track. The brown glass was in my beautifully hardly rested head of hair god bless that too godamn it. You could hear screams if you wanted, you might relax in a pornographically blood lustful way in the ease of your imagined discount loveseat as the glass was cleaned off the track by a friendly uniformed play-person with a big yellow roller sponge wheeled vehicle on his way to a nourishing lunch break that won’t take place for many nights to come.