Monday, January 19, 2009

An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge

I had a dream the other night.

I am at Herkimer with all my friends on a summer night, playing shuffleboard and downing drinks. I look over and see Tate getting drunk with a girl on each arm. Right away this should have tipped me off that I'm dreaming. Instead, I'm thinking, "Get after it, Tate."

Suddenly the music stops and people cease playing shuffleboard to watch an ominous, dark green egg descend from the ceiling. It hits the floor and starts to crack open. While that one is hatching, a couple more drop. The first newborn emerges and starts unfolding and rapidly growing until it's around eight feet tall, and sure as shit, it's one of the long-skulled black lizard bastards from the "Aliens" films. Pretty much the worst thing to have to deal with without a gun. Basically UnFukWitAble. So this creepy asshole stands up and lets out a deafening shriek, then whips his tail across the bar and sticks JoeTime right through the shoulder. As JoeTime is always armed, he pulls out a knife and starts stabbing the tail, obviously. The infamous neon green acid blood starts flying, melting JoeTime's knife and arm while he feverishly continues his defense.

I could not make this up.

By this point we have total pandemonium in Herkimer. Everyone is booking it in all directions, waving their arms above their heads, throwing chairs out windows to escape and whatnot. I think the lights were probably flashing, too (for no reason). I am cornered by the shuffleboard table, nowhere near a door or window, so I bolt for the bathroom. Tate and one of the chicks (the one that was less hot) are right behind me. We get in, slam the door, and I put all my weight against it (which has no lock, not that the lock would last 3 seconds). I yell, "TATE GET OVER HERE AND HELP ME KEEP THIS SHIT SHUT!" just in case one of the aliens saw us go in here, or needs to take a dump. I crane my neck and see Tate standing by the sinks, making out with the chick. "TATE GOD DAMMIT WHERE IS YOUR BRAIN, GET THE FUCK OVER HERE AND HELP ME!" however he continues to make out with the chick. The awesome part is that the chick sees and hears me, and makes eye contact with me, but then just keeps making out—she literally chooses making out with Tate over preventing her imminent slaughter. I'm thinking, "How can you not be worried about the vicious space aliens outside this flimsy wooden door." I do a double take to verify she is not Sigourney Weaver, and she is not.

One of the aliens starts ramming the door, and I glance in Tate's direction again and start to say, "Nice knowin' ya, ya dumb son of a," but all I see is their shoes as they wriggle into an air duct near the ceiling. "DAMMIT!" I prop the garbage can against the door and leap for the open air duct thinking, "Oh god watch me be too fat to get through this thing and an alien bites my face off because of it."

I get in the duct and wriggle through what seems like a hundred yards of twists and turns. I am pretty sure the alien is behind me (I can hear echoes of hissing and drooling) but I don't even have room to turn around and check. I finally make it to an opening and I drop from the ceiling into a giant ballroom where it looks like some company is having a holiday party with a couple hundred guests. I start running through the ballroom screaming, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, THERE ARE SOME ALIEN MOTHERFUCKERS HACTCHING IN HERKIMER RIGHT NOW!" Out of the corner of my eye I see Tate and the chick standing by the buffet table, somehow all dressed up and filling cups at the punch bowl. "TATE, CHICK, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!? WHERE DID YOU GET THESE CLOTHES!? HOW DID YOU BOTH CHANGE SO FAST!? WHY AREN'T YOU RUNNING!?" Tate sets his cup down and runs his hands down his jacket lapels, telling me, "A player looks sharp, doesn't he?" I stare at him in disbelief for three seconds, "TATE THAT ALIEN IS NOT GOING TO GIVE A FUCK WHAT YOU'RE WEARING WHEN IT COMES IN HERE TO RIP YOUR FACES OFF!" He picks up his cup of punch and tells me, "We'll see," with a shit-eating grin. I look at the chick, stare at Tate for two more seconds, and then continue to bolt for the ballroom entrance faster than I've run since high school.

I jump kick the doors open (for no reason), turn the corner and tear down the sidewalk toward Lake Street. I glance over my shoulder and see about a half dozen aliens crawling all over the outside of Herkimer. One of them sees me, jumps off the roof, and takes off after me. However, I am so thoroughly terrified by these acid-blooded, steel-teethed, spiked-tailed, film-franchised assholes that I am able to outrun him. I would estimate that I was running about thirty-five miles per hour, feet barely touching the pavement. As I am running down the middle of Lyndale Avenue at two in the morning, a now serene, carless stretch of street lights hidden by tree branches, I wake up.

I was pissed off at Tate for all of the next day.

1 comment:

  1. Some philosophers suspect that the entire universe is actually the daydream of Michael Lansbury, although an opposing view is that the whole world is just YOUR dream, Mr. Flapawitzenheimer.