April 30, 2011
Dream! Eat Your Children Well

A manager at my j*b (let’s call him Fred) calls me at home on a weekend to ask a favor.  He needs his Clown Thesis, which he left at the office.  He can’t go get it because his baby is sick.  This makes sense to me, so using Dream Magic I transport myself to a house in Brooklyn, which I intuitively know to be his.

His wife answers the door which gives me pause; if she’s home, he could have done his own errand.  She asks me to come in, Fred is upstairs and they have some questions for me.

I find Fred in the dining room, visibly distressed.  His wife complains that she has to roast a chicken, but has no idea how.  “Do I leave it in the plastic, or what?” she asks me.  I advise against it, but suggest she not panic if she already started, because she can tell Fred it’s crispy skin.  She is relieved and goes away.

Fred, with tears in his eyes, informs me that he has to pass a drug test and needs some of my pee.  “I don’t have any for you,” I tell him, “But I brought your clown thing.” 

Fred begs me for clean pee.  Never in my life have I had less of an urge to urinate.  I simply can not do it, and I’m uncomfortable being pressured.  I look around for his sick child, but there is no evidence of children in the house at all.  Unpleasant knowledge begins to dawn.

"Where are your kids, Fred," I ask him.

"I wrapped them in plastic and put them in the fridge, to extract their clean pee," he says.

Horrified that Fred’s wife has roasted her own children, and alarmed by the desperation in Fred’s eyes about the urine, I urgently leave his residence. 

The dream changes, and I find myself at a birthday party for a fictional advertising mascot, the Tire Horse.  I am presented with a commemorative keychain shaped like a strawberry, and am overjoyed.

The end.

  1. simianidiot posted this
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