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honky cracker: The Mossy Mold that Ferments in my Head
This is what happens when I leave my brain alone with itself for a little while:
It always hurts to start.
(Note: This reads better if you're listening to "2+2=5" by Radiohead, off Hail to the Thief.)
I dreamed the town I lived in blew up in a war. There was no sunlight. Only darkness. Twenty-four hours a day. The buildings were permanently covered in grey ash. People died. The bodies were not buried. They just lied there, a constant reminder of everything that used to be.
The entire town was taken over by a guy - a former trucker, I believe. He took over my old favorite hangout bar and turned it into a strip-club/brother, forcing every woman who lived in the town to work there for nothing.
It starts with me, in the bar, watching a Requiem for a Dream style sex-fest going on in what used to be the central floor of my favorite hangout.
I ran home screaming.
I had just met this girl - Betsy. Or Marcie. Or Kim. Crap, I can't remember. But I had just met this girl in the past few days... we fell in love... decided to move in together. She was on the lam - a strip-club brothel runaway hiding out from the Man Who Would Be King of Allston - and shacked up with me. (She was also a bi-sexual whose girlfriend had moved to Portland, Oregon to escape the town... She also was a vegan who worked the deli-counter at the local supermarket. She shaved me some bacon once, and I was hooked.)
And I was leader of the Resistance - a rag-tag bunch of misfits who banded together to fight the Would Be King and his reign of terror. He had spies everywhere. It wasn't easy, but we tried.
I also worked for World Wrestling Entertainment as a creative consultant - writing storylines and the like. We taped Smackdown in my basement. When I got home that day, a certain Mr. Vince McMahon was waiting for me.
"Chris," he said. 'You're going on tonight."
"Wha..??"
"In the Ring. You're wrestling The Undertaker. And you're going to win."
"Wha????"
Vince excused me to get ready for the match. Immediately I sought out The Undertaker, to talk this thing through.
"Taker," I said "We're, uh, we've got a match tonight."
"I know."
"And, uh,... you're all right jobbing out to me?"
"Yeah, kid. Whatever. It furthers the storyline..."
"WHAT storyline"
Vince called me from the other room.
"Chris" Vince called out "Do you have a finishing move?"
"Yeah, I have a couple," filling Vince in on this which I wrote a long time ago.
"All right. You're in. Now go get dressed."
And that's it. I just woke up. No resolution. No match. I just woke up. It's been freaking me out for days now.
