Flannery O'Connor in Hell
I am on a small farm. There are plowed cornfields all around, so the entire landscape is within my view. A small, two-story farmhouse stands behind me in the middle of the property. In front of me, there is a small tool-shed.
From behind the tool-shed, an old man I can best describe as looking like Richard Attenborough comes trotting along with a seed spreader. He is dressed very nicely, not like a farmer at all. I can tell he doesn't notice I am there. There is a garden to one side of the tool-shed, and he seems to be heading for that. His head is nodding along with a song within his head. He is content.
When he comes to the garden, he notices me. My presence upsets him very much. So much so, that he shouts out-loud in anger and briskly stomps back to the tool-shed. I stand still in confusion. When he comes around the bend this time, he has a pitch-fork in his hand. He screams a scream of rage, flailing the pitch-fork above his head like a Tuskan Raider. I make no hesitation about turning and fleeing for the farmhouse before he has a chance to advance upon my person with his weapon. Since I don't hear him following me, I turn back around to see what he's doing. He is still standing there screaming, the pitch-fork above his head.
I open the door to the farm-house and step inside a breeze-way. To the left is a door to the house, and straight ahead are the basement stairs. It comes ot my immediate attention that I am in my aunt and uncle's old house outside of Boody, Illinois. I am made very comfortable by this realization, so I casually open the door to the kitchen. The manic old farmer is waiting for me. He thrusts the pitch-fork at me with a calm, but loud declaration of:
"This is for you."
"Thank you," I say. I wake up immediately so as to not suffer through impalement by pitch-fork.
I fall back to sleep and have this same dream two more times, verbatum.
Pat Smear's Pap Smear
I and three associates of mine are all dressed in black suits. We all have on black and red striped ties and black sunglasses. We are not the Blues Brothers. This is apparent. From the top floor of the Children's Museum, we make our way to an elevator. One of my associates is carrying a briefcase. I am carrying a grenade launcher. A security guard stops us before we can get to the elevator and asks about my grenade launcher.
"It's a wet-saw," I tell him. He wants me to demonstrate. "In-doors?" I ask. He tells me I have a point, and let's us board the elevator.
On the elevator, we start to discuss our mission. We are headed up to the thirteenth floor. I wonder out loud why we left the top floor if we're just going back. One of my associates starts to birate me bitterly, but is stopped short by being drug through the floor. An elderly man in a brown business suit has broken through the bottom of the elevator and grabbed him by the legs. He screams bloody murder and begs us for help. Terrified, the rest of us plant ourselves against the walls so as to not be subject to any other roving elevator stock-brokers. Our companion is gone forever, so we converge again in the middle of the elevator to discuss our mission. When we arrive at the thirteenth floor, I wake up.
Again, I fall back to sleep and have this same dream two more times. Each time through however, the number of stock-brokers increases. In the second dream, there are two, which naturally drag away two of my associates. In the third dream, there are three. They come from the ceiling as well this time, and I am left all alone. I never get to where I'm going, wherever that may be, with my grenade launcher. Nor do I use my weapon on the carnivorous elevator stock-brokers. That would just be stupid.
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