Sweet Dreams

Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬

[1] Heart “These Dreams”
[2] Brenda Russell “Piano In The Dark”
[3] Lionel Richie “Hello”
[4] Climie Fisher “Rise To The Occasion (Hip Hop Mix)”
[5] Julie Andrews “The Hills Are Alive”
[6] Aerosmith “Eat The Rich”
[7] Paul Engemann “Push It To The Limit”
[8] Eurythmics “Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)”
[9] Danzig “Mother”

 

“Sleep. Those little slices of Death. How I loathe them.”

Edgar Allen Poe

 

Okay, so I’m fairly assured that I’m asleep. If not, then I’m a little unsettled by the oversized field mouse sitting in the corner strumming his harp. I’ve seen some shit in my time but none of it quite compares to being serenaded by a rodent. Do I pay him any mind? I’m guessing that’s a no as I don’t have my dream dictionary on hand to decipher his meaning and I already gobbled up all the cheddar in the refrigerator prior to bedtime so he’s unlikely to be approachable.

The best I can do is to ignore his melodic song and take a scout around my immediate surroundings for some kind of clue as to what the bloody hell is going on here. Last thing I knew, I was unwinding after a particularly challenging 24 hours, and recall my eyes getting heavy after said day’s exertions had well and truly taken it out of me. I’ve never been what you’d call a heavy sleeper and tend to drift in and out willy nilly, barely ever remembering what has played out once the cock crows the following morning. However, something tells me that tonight is going to be decidedly different.

For one thing, it doesn’t even feel like I’m asleep. Granted, the musical shrew is a little out of left field, even for my outlandish imagination, but otherwise I feel fully in control of my faculties and things aren’t nearly as vague as is customary. Moreover, I know the place where I’m currently stationed only too well and was only there a few hours ago so can vouch for its authenticity. My mind may be able to recreate my local grocery store fairly effortlessly but never to the point where I can read the price on the pasteurized milk and feel the icy chill of the freezer section dancing around my collar.

Of course, there’s still the question of what the hell I’m doing here when I’m fairly assured it closes at 7pm. But perhaps they’re just doing a stock take. That said, I can’t seem to discern a single member of staff, and could seemingly walk out with my weekly groceries tucked beneath my wing without making payment, which is more than a tad bizarre if I’m honest. Nevertheless, this certainly doesn’t feel like any dreamscape I’ve ever visited.

I guess the best way to be sure is by vacating the premises and taking a look outside at what’s going down in the “real world”. Should memory serve, then I’ll be facing a bustling main road and no more than thirty seconds brisk stroll from the nearest gas station. Hardly a day passes when I don’t run low on supplies so I’ve long since memorized the layout of Maine Street. Oddly enough, I am no longer feeling any kind of fatigue, so there seems no justifiable reason not to investigate further.

Perhaps I’ll see dear old Mrs. Catchpole searching for a safe place to cross the road and can catch up on my daily good deed while I’m here. Or maybe I can nip into the barber shop and get that short, back, and sides I’ve been promising myself all month. By all accounts, this is just a regular day in the trenches, field mouse aside, and even that is likely just some sort of promotion. I’d hedge a bet that there’s a middle-aged guy named Mick beneath all that fur and, if I stick around for long enough, he’ll likely take his lunch break. Speaking of which, I wonder what hour it is anyhoots?

Now that’s a little out of the ordinary. My trusty Sekonda wristwatch appears to be going somewhat haywire and the long hand has never travelled in reverse previously. I could’ve sworn I only changed the battery a few weeks ago and this timepiece has been ever dependable since I first strapped it to my wrist way back in 2005. Could there be a storm brewing outside? Or perhaps I was sold a dud lithium battery?

Unless I’m mistaken, it’s impossible to tell time accurately when dreaming, so I’m still not ruling out the whole slumber deal. Looks like there’s only one way to find out and I’m not about to do so standing around procrastinating as per usual. Dream or no dream, I can thank my lucky stars that it’s not my worst nightmare as the last thing I wish to do in the morning is explain to my seventy-three-year-old mother why I soiled the bed linen. This proposes to be little more than an everyday walk in the park.

Or not as the case might be. You see, I’m feeling no real sense of familiarity out here and, unless Maine Street has had one helluva makeover since my last visit, I’ve been transported to somewhere else entirely. My first clue that all is not kosher? Possibly the fact that any cracked pavement slabs have been replaced by piano keys. Well at least that clears up the whole am I dreaming debate once and for all. What’s more, there appears to be some kind of choice to make, as I can either choose to sidestep to my left or right, and dare not venture forward as it’s shrouded by an ominous mist and without anything whatsoever resembling signposting to ensure my safe passage.

I can play When The Saints Come Marching In on a xylophone, not with any great sense of rhythm or aptitude, but that’s pretty much my entire repertoire sewn up. But if Tom Hanks can master D minor with no previous pianist experience, then I can sure as hell lick that shit also. With any luck, the audience will be tone deaf and elect not to pelt me with loose coinage. Those fifty pence pieces can be lethal you know if tossed with sufficient welly and a dash of spin.

Now I know how Dorothy felt when required to trek along the Yellow Brick Road in search of the elusive Wizard of Oz and to find her way home. The difference is, she had herself an entourage and, while the services of her trio of travel buddies weren’t anything to write home about, at least she had someone to chew the fat alongside. I’ve got nobody other than me, myself, and I to share my journey time with, which translates to something I like to call diddly squat and I’m not altogether sure where that one actually originated but it rolls off the tongue well enough to frequent my vocabulary.

If it wasn’t for my complete discombobulation at this present moment, I’d be more than happy to fly solo, but could do with a reality check from somewhere and fear it unlikely that it will come anywhere near my current coordinates, which were G sharp at last observation. If this is a dream, then I’m a little perturbed that my mind failed to conjure a Yamaha keyboard as I could do with a demo drum loop to conceal my every tentative step.

Now that we’ve ascertained that I’m no Richard Clayderman, I’d say it’s high time I split this popstand and find another dreamscape to mince about in gormlessly. It was novel for a while but there are supposed to be 88 keys on a standard piano and, at last count, I made it over two hundred and still counting. I’m not asking for the moon on a stick or anything outrageous like that, just an indication that I’m not purely going through the motions with no sign of an end product. Is there such a thing as a dream God to consult? An all-seeing sentinel that vigilantly observes our every move before reporting its findings back to the Sandman himself?

I never wanted to be a millionaire but wouldn’t say no to being granted my Phone-a-Friend right now. I mean, it’s not like there’s an audience present to ask, and I already played my 50-50 back at the grocery store entrance when opting to play it lefty. So all signs point to sucking it up and, if all else fails, I’ll simply wait for the shrew to finish his shift and follow the little vermin back to his hideaway for long overdue answers.

This is rapidly starting to give me a severe case of face ache you know. If only I had set my alarm clock, then there’d be a chance of escaping my perpetual slumber once it chimes its far less than delicate reminder. Without that, I’m banking on a bump in the night to shake me loose and my closet has been devoid of monsters since the Great Long Legged Beastie Crash of 2012.

Mom is a light sleeper so there’s aways the possibility of the obligatory 2am everything must go bladder sale to rouse me from my drowse but she’s famously light on her feet and has a tendency not to flush the latrine in the middle of the night unless a poo takes priority. Curse her thoughtfulness. However, there’s no point crying over spilt milk as, for every second I ponder my next move, I increasingly begin to resemble a melted pretzel. And I don’t recall today being a lipstick and eye-liner day either. That’s weekends only dagnabbit.

Finally another living soul to confide in although I’m not altogether convinced that any emphasis should be placed on existent if I’m honest. Now I’m not one to judge a book by its cover under normal circumstances but, if you can think of a solitary thing normal about these circumstances, then now would be a great time to weigh in. Given that I regard myself as something of a people person, befriending this quirky chap shouldn’t pose any real conundrum right?

That said, it was drummed into me from a very early age that I should never trust dubious stragglers and I’m reasonably assured that an eighteen inch licker hanging from one’s spinal column constitutes as odd, especially when said stranger has four available eyes to ogle me with, only two of which appear to be in their alloted spaces. Here, you tell me, am I just being paranoid or would you be wary of accepting boiled sweets from this baleful lurker.

What’s that? Seems inconspicuous? Are you looking at the right slide? Okay if you insist but I’m holding you personally responsible if he masticates my cranium until which time as it dissolves in his rectal throat. You guys are far too trusting, you know that? However, I’m nothing if not dedicated to my readership, and this is only a dream after all. One more thing before I take this leap of blind faith, which of the two mouths do you think I should address first? I’m guessing that the rear maw is a distinct no-no as it appears not to have quenched for some time and is salivating just a little too freely for my liking.

Frontside, he doesn’t look too terrifying, and will no doubt be more afraid of me than I will him so this has the hallmarks of catwalk written all over it, in permanent marker no less. Here goes nothing. Please need a shit mom. If ever a moonlight bowel movement would be welcomed, then now would be about that time.

“Excuse me young man. I was wondering whether you could point me in the direction of the nearest and most secure exit”

“Mmm. Dinner”

“I’m sorry, have I interrupted your dinner time? I’m dreadfully sorry. I think my watch may be busted”

“Come closer”

Unless I’m mistaken, this is how Hansel & Gretal came unstuck back at the witch’s knocking shop. I feel that I projected well enough and it’s not as though my voice doesn’t travel so what’s with the sudden deaf ear? Could this be a cunning trap designed to ensnare me while this vile looking creature decides whether to consume me off the bone or not? It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve been bamboozled on account of thinking the best of people I really shouldn’t but something informs me it may well be the last.

“Thanks but I’d rather just hang back”

“Fuck. Bollocks. Piss”

“Excuse me”

“Assholes”

Poor little man seems to be blighted with a pretty severe case of Tourette’s. I’m tempted to give him the number of a local speech therapist whose unorthodox technique has been known to yield remarkable results but there’s no way on earth I’m handing this gnarled oddball her business card without first duct taping it to a selfie stick. I may be a dash naïve, but I’m not a complete chowderhead and have watched more than enough horror movies to know not to tempt fate as it has a tendency of taking you up on your offer quick smart.

“Have I offended thee?”

“Mmm. Dinner”

That’s all the evidence I require not to advance into this wretch’s personal space. Coarse language is forgivable, given that I regularly curse myself, but the constant gnashing coming from his rear section is really starting to set my teeth on edge and I don’t recall granting that burly tongue access to my trouser leg either. Not that I would traditionally raise objection to having my balls licked just to pass the time, but there’s a world of difference between pig-tailed cheerleader and thirsty hell fiend and time is kind of a sore subject currently anyhoots.

While we’re on the subject of soreness, my new friend appears to be in discomfort and I pray to the heavens that those aren’t hunger pains causing him to twitch uncontrollably. Even more reason to hate on Dorothy as that mealy-mouthed slag only needed to click her heels together to be returned to her sanctuary. I love my Adidas Classics dearly but they’re hardly looking like my ticket out of here. This brute looks dodgy and sounds dodgy also, so it may be an idea to trust my eyes and ears as they’re only confirming what my gut has been crying out ever since the first “Mmm.” Let’s hope they’re working in cahoots today.

Never mind the fight stance, that’s just harmless sparring, and they’ll soon be the best of friends once more after the final bell chimes. I’m not waiting around for that to happen as both advised that I make a dash for it and never look back, and naturally I took their advice to the letter. The good news is that my newfound tag along is evidently far from a track star and I can no longer discern distant slobbering, which suggests that I’ve put sufficient space between us. Perhaps I should come off the throttle a little as I’d hate to end up lapping the bastard just to bag myself a fresh personal best.

Besides, here appears to be a rather tranquil spot to take five, and I’m not altogether sure my mind could have conjured a location quite so downright hospitable had it been at its optimum setting. Quick question for you, must one die to go to heaven? Providing the answer is no, then would there be sufficient time in our hectic schedule to squeeze in a quick fist bump?

I don’t need an abacus to tell me that there are five voracious vixens to just one of little old me and, while I’d be hard pushed to satisfy the quim of just one of them, I’ve been promising myself a spa day for a month now and had planned to tie it in with my haircut. Unless I’ve been misinformed, middle eastern masseuse are more than happy to accommodate a happy ending and I have no memory of reading anything in the terms and conditions about this dream not being permitted a wet one. This is my bleeding dreamscape and I’ve earned my right to a fleeting rub-down after almost becoming hors d’oeuvre for Mr. Two Face back there. May God strike me down if I’m speaking out of turn but…

“Hello ladies”

Has anyone got a Turkish phrase book handy? While these saucy little madams certainly have come to bed eyes down to pat, they’re hardly what you’d call conversationalists and appear to be firmly stuck on the suggestive pout setting. Never mind, I had no great desire to recite Emily Brontë to them anyhoots, and something tells me they’re not exactly the keenest of thespians. I once perused an eye-opening article on the international language of love and, judging by the erect nipples and dilated pupils, would hazard a guess that the ladies are fluent in the art of fucking loose one’s exoskeleton to the power of five.

Had Sesame Street sacked the Count and recruited the harem’s finest instead, then I’d be done with numbers and onto morse code by now. I gathered many a fond memory thanks to Jim Henson and his marvellously mystical workshop, but not a solitary one concluded with a knee tremble. Well there was that one time when cookie monster got a little frisky after one too many “homemade brownies” but I signed a legally binding agreement never to mention that unfortunate (but strangely erotic) episode publicly. That said, I can’t be held responsible if someone leaves an incriminating photo lying around can I? Let’s just say that cookie chomping isn’t the only thing starting with “C” that can give your jaw muscles a thorough workout.

“What’s that? Come closer you say? Well I really shouldn’t but if you absolutely insist”

They didn’t of course. That’s just wishful thinking on my part but someone’s got to break the ice as even the most comfortable silences have their limits and my dick isn’t tugging itself. That reminds me, what does it mean if you dream about sex anyhoots? I’m fully aware of the cryptic translations to many a dream act but, unless I’m woefully mistaken (and that isn’t unheard of), then engaging in the horizontal nasty pretty much does what it says on the tin, dreamscape or no dreamscape. If I can’t count on something universal like sweaty coitus to translate identically to slumber, then you may as well shoot me now as I have no intention of living in this diabolical world for a moment longer.

Tis no time to be cagey, tis the time for grabbing myself a fistful of Donnas and thoroughly pounding their paddocks like the stud that I know full well I’m not. By the time I’ve finished with these sexy strumpets, they’ll know precisely who I am and, once the inevitable laughter has subsided over my negligible stamina, I reckon I’m in line for a fair few digits for the old black book. Not that I intend on calling these honeys afterwards as international call charges are extortionate and that inflation is a bitch on full heat I hear.

Perhaps I shall just allow my wandering hands to do any bargaining on my behalf as they appear well enough versed on all local hotspots thanks to a youth not nearly as wasteful as folk informed me it was. Ten ample bosoms + as many curious fingers = the kind of happy days that even Fonzie couldn’t dream up, not on my watch anyhoots. You can take your admittedly delightful Cossack and shove it where Chachi will never find it Arthur as I’m a full calendar week to the good here.

Or so I thought. Whoever is responsible for the low-key lighting in this harem should be given their marching orders with no severance as these hags are far more ropy up close and I’m not best pleased with the funk of death being omitted from their clearly overworked thyroids if I’m being entirely candid. I highly doubt any one of these wenches has a social security number and I’ve not been this flaccid since I last watched Cabaret so it looks like copulation is well and truly off the menu.

Come to think of it, I’m growing ever more suspicious that there’s a running theme going on with me amounting to nothing more than digestion fodder as the tender kisses of yesterminute have now been replaced with what feels worryingly like full-on biting. Five inch-sized chomps and my once proud girth will be left resembling a nub and I don’t relish my testicles being deemed profiteroles as a palate cleanser. What would Iron Maiden do if Eddie wasn’t on hand to kick these bitches to the curb like the stockpiled excrement they are?

You’re darn tooting they’d run for the hills and that bizarrely conjures an image of Bruce Dickinson and Julie Andrews in doggy position, while Christopher Plummer tosses his salad on the bough of a nearby oak tree. Is there any end to the evil that men do I ask you? I’m no clairvoyant but I am a trooper and know the number of the beast only too well. Holy smoke, I’ve been from here to eternity but never before have I felt such a stranger in a strange land. The question here is can I play with madness? Infinite dreams are all well and good but, just because you birthed a wrathchild, does that give you any right to bring your daughter to the slaughter? For the greater good of God, I’d better take heed when the wind blows and find my way out of the silent planet post-haste. Be quick or be dead right?

What I’m saying is, my heart just isn’t in this. These ladies have been ever so accommodating and I’m sure they’ll find five husbands to lavish them with attention provided they master how to cast a spell of paralysis, but regretfully I must bid them adieu as false advertising is a particular bugbear of mine and these haggard Harriets are nothing whatsoever like the brochure suggested.

Besides, while my faulty Sekonda still flat refuses to offer any kind of indication as to the time, I reckon I must be approaching the eight-hour mark by now and feel like performing some morning stretches. Of course, I still have to fathom out a route out of this hell hole, but it’s hard to do that when simmering in a cauldron on a low heat and I could do with a little me time after all this danger-tinged excitement. I do hope they don’t take offence to my swift departure.

“GET HIM GIRLS!”

So they can speak English then. I feel frightfully cheated and have a good mind to take it up with their pimp daddy. That said, survival appears to be the order of the day here, and I’m starting to suspect that I’d be better served cutting my losses and skedaddling before they get any more clingy. I suspect we have now moved over into nightmare territory and, if I was in any doubt whatsoever, then the license plates on their broomsticks really are a dead giveaway.

At my current rate of knots, I’ll have that chiselled six-pack in no time, as my getaway sticks have been provided one helluva run-out since first nodding off and my pursuers are nothing if not persistent. Whoever had the bright idea of installing nitrous canisters on their vehicles deserves to be brained as there appears precious little I can do to prevent them gaining ground and, in typical dream fashion, it now feels like I’m running through an imperceivable broth.

Any word on that poo mom? Not looking to apply any pressure but now would be a good time for a bout of explosive diarrhea old girl. I can’t be expected to keep up this momentum for much longer and don’t relish joining the eye of a newt and toe of a frog in their hot-pot. With little forthcoming in the way of unforeseen bowel movements, it looks like I’ll be required to think on my feet once again. After all, this is my dream and, therefore, we’re playing by my exclusive rule set right? Time for that overactive imagination to pay up on its dividends methinks. Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts.

Well blow me down with a feather and make it duck down, it only bloody worked. Unless obscured by passing clouds, there appear to be a grand total of no witches whatsoever in my vicinity and I believe that is known as dodging five bullets in unison. Not since Pulp Fiction have I witnessed such a feat of divine intervention and it feels only right to celebrate my eleventh hour escape with a tasty burger. Speaking of which, I’ve emerged next in line at McDonald’s drive-thru, and happen to be feeling a gutful of fast food after what I’ve been through. Better crack on with placing my order before the Witches of Yeastwick catch ten cashew-shaped nostrils of my whereabouts.

“Can I take your order?”

“Yes. I’d like a triple thick shake please…”

“Chocolate, strawberry, or banana?”

“No butterscotch then?”

“What are we, Ed’s fucking Diner? No, we’re all out of butterscotch. Fucking butterscotch”

“Alright, keep your hair on. Gimme a box of six nuggets, actually better make it twenty. Oh and large fries”

“Will there be anything else sir? Can I tempt you with our big mac?”

Tempting but they invariably end up coming up short on the dimension front and I’m not sure that yet another crushing disappointment would be advisable right now.

“That will be all thanks”

“No big mac then?”

“What am I talking yiddish? No, I don’t want a fucking big mac”

“Well there’s no call for that kind of language sir. I’m only on minimum wage you know. Would you luck me to fetch my supervisor? Randy, be a dear and spit in the McNuggets will you?”

“Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for and I’d never ordinarily dream of using such expletives in open conversation. But it has been quite a day and I…”

“Cry me a river sir. Please make your way to the window while we process your order”

“And you’ll call off Randy?”

“Cash or charge sir?”

“Cash. But hold up…”

“Thank you for visiting McDonald’s”

He’d better not hock a loogie on the batter or else the only payment they’ll see will be hell. Thankfully I have the correct change in my pocket and all that is left now is to hang about in this eerily vacant lot for the carhop to retrieve my order. If it’s Randy, I’m gonna punch the pimpled prick square on the hooter for potentially tampering with my poultry prior to delivery. That said, should I focus all available attention into forging my own path, then I should be able to conjure up a Hooters waitress right?

I think I’ll name her Mindy. That’s right, a double-jointed pig-tail sporting, cherry red pouting, dimple endorsing, Chupa Chup sucking, bubblicious blowing, knee-high sock wearing, wet t-shirt donning, slack jaw boasting, oestrogen overflowing, thorough medical passing, cock teasing, same cock pleasing, complimentary hand job offering, roller skating bundle of bimbo should do it. Too much to ask?

That is precisely what I’m talking about and if only things were that easy then I know which dip I’d be choosing for my nugget. Alas, judging by the ominous figure advancing on my position as we speak, my pretty reasonable request doesn’t appear to be being granted. Now if I were to compile a list of my five most fearsome mortal enemies, then this particularly shady character would undoubtedly feature. You’ve now met Rhonda McDonald so I guess it’s about time I introduce you to her pops Ronald and you would be more than justified in noting that daddy’s little angel got all the looks.

Nice touch with the quarter pounder necklace but, that aside, I’m sure you’ll agree that it would take more than a few shots of absinthe to make this smiling assassin look any less freakish. Moreover, I’ve made his acquaintance once before and was damn fortunate not to wind up on his ingredient list. Would you put it past McDonald’s to grind up the bones of humans and use the resulting mulch to pack out their patty? Well then more the fool you as I know precisely what plays out behind closed doors and, what’s more, Ronald’s the one orchestrating that shit. He also happens to be rather persuasive when peddling his tasty treats to the masses and banks on catchy slogans and jingles to lure unsuspecting cash-strapped families into buying into his vile rot.

Don’t even think about telling me that you’re tempted by his McFlurries as that’s his gateway drug and, before you know it, you’ll have your entire fist down your throat clutching for those killer carbs before they stop your heart outright. Meanwhile, woe betide you if he manages to get his greasy little fingers on you as he’s always looking to recruit and likes to get in before the similarly tyrannical Colonel Sanders can come clucking.

“Got your order”

“Thanks but I think I’ll pass”

“What’s wrong little man? Eyes bigger than your belly?”

“Something like that. Now if you don’t mind, I have some…erm…videotapes to return”

“But I added a little extra zing just for you”

“And I think your friend Randy already beat you to it. Look, I’m not interested okay”

“Balloon?”

“What am I six? No I don’t want a frigging balloon. Actually one wouldn’t hurt. What are your range of colors?”

“Red!”

“And what if I have to wade through a lagoon on my way home? Do they float?”

“They all float”

“What am I thinking? No Ronald, I’m putting my foot down. No cheap-assed balloons, no questionable fast food, and categorically no complimentary hand jobs. Jog on clown”

“I’ll do no such thing…”

This could be bad. I’ve prepared myself for the worst and I’m reasonably assured that entails having my intestines threaded through my eye sockets while Ronald uses any available slack to skip rope with, laughing maniacally through the entire transaction. That said, I owe him the courtesy of at least hearing him out I suppose.

“…as I have my bicycle on hand for any return journeys. Toodle pip”

Well would you look at that, he only went and got the message. I’m flabbergasted as I could already smell the chloroform and would’ve sworn blind he’d attempt something despicable. Instead, just a jovial ta-ta and off he has trundled, no questions asked. It’s about time something went my way as I was starting to suspect I’d succumbed to some kind of ancient gypsy curse. The threat now appears to have passed as this cantankerous clown has returned to his chamber and is looking well and truly beaten at this point. Couldn’t possibly trouble you for a yeehaw could I?

“One more thing before you leave”

“You name it Ron”

“SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIENDS!”

I do hope his entourage doesn’t include The Hamburglar as he embezzled twenty bucks from me way back in 1985 and his debt has been accruing interest ever since. Even if he decides to pay up his arrears, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that he caught me at the ATM entering my pin number the other day and wouldn’t put anything whatsoever past such a rapscallion.

Nope, I’m pleased to report that is a negative. However, I’m far less thrilled to announce that things just went from hella bad to hella worse in the time it takes five shoehorns to slide out of the same number of size twenty-sixers. Clowns are one thing and that Ronald is pretty much a nightmare walking, but klowns are a whole different matter entirely. My gut instinct here would ordinarily be to scarper but, having already done so twice already this evening, I’m just not sure I have the remaining puff for yet another ad hoc marathon.

Fuck it, I gave things my best shot, and need not hang my head in shame for falling at such a critical hurdle as it’s the competing that counts right? If nothing else, we’ve had some fun and games haven’t we? Don’t try telling me that you haven’t had your money’s worth as I don’t recall charging admission for this rambunctious ride and there comes a time when we just have to accept the inevitable. If they’re feeling generous, then perhaps they’ll just cocoon me in cotton candy and, should that be my punishment, then feel free to stuff your cheeks and remember, it’s sweeter where it’s warmer.

And just to be clear, yes that is a tear I’m shedding, and can you blame me? After all, I’ve been dragged from pillar to post, serenaded poorly by a rancid shrew, humiliated publicly by way of botched piano recital, sworn profusely at by a back-biting brute, bedded by nobbled necromancers, diddled out of my pocket change at a drive-thru, and what have I got to look forward to? I’ll give you a clue, it’s long and pink and shoots out custard at a devastating velocity I hear.

Anyhoots, it has been a pleasure and an honor serving alongside you Grueheads, but this is the part where I bid you all a fond farewell and accept my bitter fate. I’d love to report that I have some meaningful final words to impart but, after such a horrendous run of misfortune, I’m drawing a blank on anything remotely uplifting. Thus I shall spend the remainder of my time whimpering in as pathetic a manner as possible and just pray that it buys me a last doors sympathy vote. One more thing before I commence the histrionics, can anyone else smell burned bacon?

I do hope that’s not who I think it is. I mean, it would make sense right? Given that I’m quite clearly dreaming all this, those razor-sharp talons preparing to thread my eyebrows could only belong to one master and his appearance right now would be the cruelest icing on a particularly unflavorsome cake. I dare not glance around as my reward for doing so will no doubt entail being cut into ribbons after some typically inane one-liner. However, I’ll never know if I don’t ask so here goes nothing once again.

“I’m guessing a short back and sides is out of the question?”

“Well that depends on which way you look at it”

Affirmative. I know that rasping tone only too well and, unless Gilbert Gottfried finally passed his apprenticeship, I’d say Springfield’s most heinous haggler just entered the fray.

“I know who this is but, just to clarify, would you be so kind as to introduce yourself formally?”

“But of course. HERE’S FREDDY!”

You see what I have to contend with? Just when it appeared that things couldn’t possibly grow any more FUBAR, some smart Aleck alerts Freddy Krueger to my presence in dreamland and I get to look at his muculent mug while exhaling my very last.

“That’s it. I’m done. Do as you will you crispy coated fuck”

“Why, uh, why should we fight? We’re old friends, you and I. Remember?”

“Maybe once but that friendship dissolved when you made Freddy’s Dead”

“I was under contract”

“And that’s my issue Fred. You see, it was only ever about the money for you wasn’t it?”

“That’s not fair. I did it for the…”

“…souls of the children? Spin me another one loser, you sold out like a bargain basement bitch and you damn well know it”

I may be way off base but, unless I’m pitching a shuttlecock in this field of dreams, I do believe I’m giving as good as I’m getting here. Could we be set for a titanic struggle the likes of which forty frightful winks have never before captured? I’m talking of a tall tale you can tell to your grandchildren in years to come. A bruising exhibition of two-way origami to capture the imagination of future generations of dream dwellers the world over. A good old-fashioned all you can snipathon. Or am I about to have my larynx slashed wide open and die gargling?

“Plucky one ain’t cha?”

“No. I’ve just had a gutful of getting shafted”

“Shafted? You ever been flame grilled by an angry mob?”

“Granted no, but you bought that shit on yourself Krueger”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that you’re deliberately attempting to hurt my feelings”

“You’re joking right? Since when has a collection of deep-fried nerve endings constituted as feelings?”

“I’m ever so sorry. Tell you what, why don’t we just bring it in for a hug?”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you? And I’m guessing I might be feeling a small prick. Isn’t that how this goes? Spare me the foreplay will you and just get this over with”

“Your wish is my command”

So there we have it. Thousands upon thousands die in their sleep every year and, in a mere matter of seconds, I will become little more than another faceless statistic. Having dedicated my whole life to horror, it actually seems rather poetic that one of its modern flag bearers will be the one cutting me loose. At least I haven’t had to suffer the indignity of being decked by Leprechaun or fisted by The Gingerdead Man. Nobody deserves that kind of uncomfortable humiliation.

But what’s this, is that a flushing mechanism I hear? It is you know, looks like mom couldn’t hold that turd in any longer and, mercifully, I’ve been shaken free from my phantasm and returned unscathed to the comfy confines of my boudoir, in the nick of time no less. I never doubted her for a second, from the very first grazed knee, she has always been on hand with those band-aids when I’ve needed patching up and her latest act of parental guidance may well earn her the long overdue spray of roses I’ve been promising her since Mother’s Day.

Well this time she has outdone herself and saved me from the most gruesome demise imaginable. Indeed, that may well be the most game-changing bowel movement she has ever taken and I simply have to rush out and show my gratitude. Needless to say, I’ll wait until she washes her hands first, as I’d imagine rushing in with both nostrils flared could well prove just as fatal as playing rock, paper, scissors with Krueger. But I can’t allow another solitary second to pass without letting her know that she’s my own personal Wonder Woman.

“Mom?”

“Just finishing up here. Give me one moment”

That’s an insane amount of air freshener I can hear being sprayed about frantically. Must’ve been one helluva white-knuckled ride. Never mind that, here she comes, the lady of the hour.

“You may want to give it five minutes before you go in there”

“It’s okay, I don’t need the toilet. Just wanted to say thanks”

“For what?”

“For everything you do. I don’t know where I’d be without you. I love you mom”

“Bless you sweetheart. I love you too. Not sure why you’re telling me this at 3am in the morning but thanks anyway”

“It doesn’t matter. I just wish there was more that I could do to show my immense gratitude”

“Well there is one thing you could do”

“You name it mother dearest”

“Remind me to put toilet bleach on my shopping list in the morning. We’re all out”

“Consider it done. Night mom”

“Goodnight poppet”

If only she knew. I’d be chopped liver had it not been for her last-minute intervention and never again will she have to ask twice for me to mow the front lawn. Right now however, I still have a few hours until the sun rises, and shall spend it wide awake methinks as I don’t wish to push my luck. That said, I am growing a little sleepy after the evening’s ludicrous exertions, and I’m not getting any younger so shouldn’t entertain throwing an all-nighter on account of one bad dream. Which is all it was right? Perhaps just a quick power nap would suffice in keeping the wolves from the door. That’s odd, I swear those creeping vines weren’t there before.

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