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The dream I had after the day my sister and I traveled to Winter Park, during which an Arab looking man and I grinned, remarking how much we liked each other’s beard.
It was DeLand’s mainstreet. Cars sashayed through the main corridor, flanked on either side not by shops, but a massive workers union of blacksmiths. There were troughs of water running along the sides, and steam billowed up from the cooling of the smiths’ red hot irons.
As in dreams, the most inexplicable occur. Here, my sister’s name was Fry. She was my sidekick.
The air was thick and smelt of metal, but it was spring and flowers bloomed. There were not sidestreets but alleyways. I went down one, and Fry presumably mingled among our smithy comrades. The environs looked rather normal and absent of smithing. I ascended a staircase, its real-life equivalent down the alley from the coffeehouse. I faced East and rested my arms on the guardrail. Ten yards away from and 30 degrees up from me, there was a little girl on a stool on a balcony: squalling and facing a woman in the doorway. I dropped eaves.
“You good-for-nothing, disgusting vermin! I hate you!” she chastened. “You should be DEAD!”
I called to her: “Hey, lady.” and sustained insult on her for no more than five minutes. The fine nuances of the monologue are, unfortunately, forgotten to the dreamworld; but with every word, her face evolved into something more heinous and vile. Nearing the apex, her wrinkles softened and took a blue tint, and eventually she became soft, bloated, and colored a deep, rich blue. It was at this moment I executed the end of the harangue. With a smirk, and an enunciation three times too long, I stated flatly, “diiieeeeeeeee.”
Cue the music.
She deflated. I turned about and crossed my arms. She walked inside. The dumpsters North and now right of me rustled. There was movement behind the bushes East. The sky hued grey and the air warped as if a great fire loomed, but it was cold. I descended the staircase and headed for the alley West. A zombie. And the undead behind me were now visible. She was thin, pale, odious, cackling and gliding to me. A necromancer? Fuck.
I searched for a weapon. Zilch. But there lay a wound hose — I’ll take it. I dashed for the tall fence. My pants are too fucking tight. An undead clasped for my foot, but I rolled off the edge of the fence — my hose is snagged and… got it.
I made for mainstreet, coiled hose in hand. The fence toppled and The Necromancer and her horde were on my tail. I saw our comrades and the smiths still smithing. I spied a spigot and attached the hose to it.
The Necromancer caught up to me before her lumbering horde could accompany her. I ran South. At this point, I must have acquired a power-up to my boots. Earth’s pull on me was weak. She gave me chase, I leapt up, and shot a jet of water behind me. It hit her in the face and she weakened. We squared off in the sky with a horde of zombies lumbering in from the North and the smiths forming an impromptu phalanx at the South end, commanded by Fry. I turned up the water steam to max power and thrust on The Necromancer thirty seconds of pain. She glares at me, and with her voice from hell bellows, “Six minutes to midnight.”
Iron Maiden ended and I woke up.
