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'Don't tell me what to do'
Dec. 23rd, 2021 07:20 amI dreamed we were having a confab with three strange biker-like figures, three burly men. The two on the left and right had obscured faces, looming like nondescript hulks. The one in the center had a pronounced forehead that tapered down to a sharp chin, almost like that of the projected wizard in the film "The Wizard of Oz," but in color: exceedingly pale skin and eyes, a goatee, and many creases in the forehead. He was clad in black leather with a black helmet that only emphasized the forehead, but above his left eyebrow was a large tattoo: a solid red background with white lettering, reading: "Don't tell me what to do!"
I asked him about the tattoo, whose message matched a patch that all the bikers wore on their right arms. "It's a quote from a movie," he said. "Don't you know?" He seemed shocked and dismayed, but neither I nor the other interrogators had any idea.
*
I dreamed the new recruits had to be dunked in a bath of cold water. The reasoning behind this was that sometimes they had to leave the station temporarily in the freezing cold, and were thus subject to the freezing temps outside. They had a small kiddie pool set up outside, near a large oak, the base of which was spidered with veins of ice. There was a device that kept the water temperature above freezing, but only just. People were lining up for the dunking, with the recruits doffing their gear in the cold twilight.
*
I dreamed we were on an escalator in the desert. The escalator was nearly a mile long, proceeding from the bottom of a deep canyon up to the surrounding cliffs, which were tinged with purple. It was evening, and freezing cold. There was a roof over the escalator at points, and the stairs would move back and forward, sometimes threatening to crush riders between the stairs and the overhang. But we all managed to arrive safe at the top.
*
I dreamed we were having a meeting of authors of various lasagna cookbooks in the woods. There was a small kind of grey cabin, elevated a foot or so off the ground. One of the authors, however, went rogue. He was hiding among slim cedars not far from the cabin, with a crossbow equipped with some strange yellow darts. A bearded fellow in plaid, he was doing his best to hide, but you could see him peering out most glaringly against the trees. He was calling out a "Ms. Besauncey," one of the more popular authors of lasagna cookbooks. I had the impression that he was planning to shoot her with a dart. Undeterred, Ms. Besauncey rose from the convocation and began striding towards the shadowy figure. At this point, I shot the man with a small .22 I had on me, and he fell dead on the forest floor.
I asked him about the tattoo, whose message matched a patch that all the bikers wore on their right arms. "It's a quote from a movie," he said. "Don't you know?" He seemed shocked and dismayed, but neither I nor the other interrogators had any idea.
*
I dreamed the new recruits had to be dunked in a bath of cold water. The reasoning behind this was that sometimes they had to leave the station temporarily in the freezing cold, and were thus subject to the freezing temps outside. They had a small kiddie pool set up outside, near a large oak, the base of which was spidered with veins of ice. There was a device that kept the water temperature above freezing, but only just. People were lining up for the dunking, with the recruits doffing their gear in the cold twilight.
*
I dreamed we were on an escalator in the desert. The escalator was nearly a mile long, proceeding from the bottom of a deep canyon up to the surrounding cliffs, which were tinged with purple. It was evening, and freezing cold. There was a roof over the escalator at points, and the stairs would move back and forward, sometimes threatening to crush riders between the stairs and the overhang. But we all managed to arrive safe at the top.
*
I dreamed we were having a meeting of authors of various lasagna cookbooks in the woods. There was a small kind of grey cabin, elevated a foot or so off the ground. One of the authors, however, went rogue. He was hiding among slim cedars not far from the cabin, with a crossbow equipped with some strange yellow darts. A bearded fellow in plaid, he was doing his best to hide, but you could see him peering out most glaringly against the trees. He was calling out a "Ms. Besauncey," one of the more popular authors of lasagna cookbooks. I had the impression that he was planning to shoot her with a dart. Undeterred, Ms. Besauncey rose from the convocation and began striding towards the shadowy figure. At this point, I shot the man with a small .22 I had on me, and he fell dead on the forest floor.
