"Not even your precious Science can save you now!" Rowan Atkinson said, deciduously.
Somewhere in the back woods of a temperate forested area, I am being chased by druids with torches--probably. We have a very grand looking shot of a precipice, a very high ledge at the bottom of which is a not-so-raging river. I am running quickly trying to find a way out of whatever predicament I've gotten myself in, but the light from the torches gets closer and closer. I can't make out any voices but there are definitely sounds being made behind me. They sound like short bursts of some sort of lizard noise but with a hint of large mammal in the mix, as well. Whatever the case may be, I am being chased through ragged woods in the dark by a band of evil that wants me dead.
After a few moments, I come to a break in the trees. It is a turnabout at the end of a cul de sac. From the design and placement of the houses I can tell that the world is 1950s suburbia - where, I'm not entirely sure, but 1950s suburbia is a fact. All of the ranch houses are in a line on either side of the street; most are the same except for color, plus or minus a garage.
I clear three-quarters of the street in only a few moments and make for the last house on the corner just before the intersection of Wasted Potential Boulevard (the street I'm on now) and Play It Safe Until Retirement Avenue. Getting in the house is now problem - the door is unlocked. Vacant to the naked eye, I tour the house quickly and determine that I am indeed alone. All of the lights are turned off; the furniture has plastic on it; the toilet is aqua green; and the den is paneled with a dark oak faux-finish.
I make one more round through the house and discover a note on the refrigerator I hadn't noticed before. I can't read it (it's a dream). I conclude that there is no assistance whatsoever to be found in this American Splendor through-back, so I vacate the premises and take off down Play It Safe Until Retirement Avenue to seek real help.
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