Warhead playing at the high school, and somebody in my circle scored tix! (Warhead seems to be a band my psyche made up for this dream.) We are there, the volume is loud, but someone needs to get something from his locker. Why do I hang around with these high-school kids? Through labyrinthine hallways we make our way; I run in to Mike Gudziej, we exchange manly handshakes and I tell him how I always enjoyed his presence at my campaigns, would he like to play in the new one? We are all smiles. I see LML too, but I have nothing to say to him, nor he to me.
'Round about now is when I remember I am crippled. I drag myself along with the rest of my group, by my hands, or swinging my useless legs as I handwalk desk to desk. They must have served us breakfast before the show, because I push my tray of pancakes and hash browns and institutional scrambled eggs before me, picking as we go. Some punk in a leather jacket has sneakily positioned himself beneath a bank of lockers as he tries to break into one of them. None of our business; we move on. Then we are into the labyrinthine passageways between the walls of the labyrinthine halls... More punks in leather jackets are hanging around, looking suspicious, and I wonder if this pack of gamers and math geeks is safe here; but they flatten themselves, spread-eagled, against the walls as we pass. Mission accomplished, we head back to the auditorium. I catch a brief glimpse of the vice-principal of my day, now the principal, Mr. William Cannici. I hope he doesn't see me here! Oh, hey, where's my ticket?
- / +

I was Inspector Gadget's son and had forgotten I had ever been anyone else. By which I mean there was zero Jessicaness to my mind and I had the whole range of thought and memories such a person might have. They are gone to me now.

Something had happened and I had done it. Destruction. I was going to be in trouble. It was my own fault. Inspector Gadget walked up and I showed him part of what I had ruined. The blue door. Even as I showed him, I made it worse - the instrument in my hand jumped to life and tore another ragged path through the paint.

He looked at me with disappointment. How did this happen? Not disappointment in what I had done. In what I had not done.

I don't know. I looked at what I held and it was nothing more than a screwdriver.

Inspector Gadget whipped out a giant buffing wheel and turned it against the door. It whirred briefly and a circle of paint was cleanly gone. Underneath was the boy leaning back floating, eyes shut against the sun. I looked at Inspector Gadget and for a moment I had a flicker of knowledge outside the dream.
I might be someone other than this man's son. He might be someone else. In another story, we might have been different characters to each other. He might be telling me something.

Inspector Gadget said nothing but he did give me the smallest smile as he walked away, taking the buffer to work on the other door. Do you have a tool?

I only had my screwdriver. Then use that. I did. I started stripping away the paint I had gouged, revealing more and more of the picture I was supposed to have been looking at in the first place.

Later, when I was in the woods, Douglas Coupland said to me,
I camped for a week to write this book. That's all I did. I sat with myself until I was talked out. It was difficult, but it only took a week of difficult, as opposed to your way.

My Previous / Next dream log.
Dream logs for April: 4th, 14th, 17th, 22nd, 27th.
We (my family) had bought some minature ornamental porcelain cannons that were about 6-7 inches long. These cannons were not identical as one was more bulbous in its chamber region than the other. Also the well fed one was distinctly more curvaceous at its lip (the end of the barrel?) than it's lacklustre and waifish twin.

For some insane reason I wanted to fire these cannons. So I brought the two cannons into the kitchen and placed one of the miniature cannon balls that came with the set into the thinner of the two cannons. I pointed the cannon diagonally so it would fire through the kitchen and out to the hallway.

The floor plan of the house in my dream nethack'd
The hobbit hits!

-----------                        +---------------------------+
|.Living..|                        |Key: && = Fridge           |
|. room ..|                        |     ~  = Cannons          |
|...........|-------               |     '  = proposed target  |
|&&.........|##'|--|               |     // = Curtained doorway|
---//////----###|-<-- Staircase    |     !  = sink             |
|...........+###|--|               |     @  = you are here     |
|.Kitchen...|#<------ Hallway      |     h  = hobbit           |
|...........|###|--|               +---------------------------+

Booyaa the Dreamer          St:17 Dx:13 Co:18 In:9 Wi:10 Ch:8  Neutral
Dlvl:1  $:0  HP:16(16) Pw:2(2) AC:6  Exp:1
I lit the cannon's wick with a match and then waited for it to fire. The explosion wasn't anything spectacular. So unspectacular that I fired it a couple more times it and from what I recalled it seemed to hit the target with alarming accuracy. Grinning I called my friend Byron and told him about the cannons.

Byron seemed very enthusiastic and wanted to see these "bad mommas in action" (sounds like a bad pron film about pregnant women don't it?). I told him the less plump one was a bit lame and I thought he could probably stand in front of it and catch it's payload. Before I hung up on him I said that I would like to test the "fat" one before I brought them over.

I had a gut feeling (aka Spidey Sense only without the black lightening surrounding my head!) that the plump one was going to be more dangerous. Therefore I had devised a simple game plan; I was going to light the cannon's wick, run into the living room and shield myself behind the fridge. So as I struck the match I was distracted by something Jo (my sister) said. *snap* The match had broken. I cursed at how difficult lighting the cannon would be with only half a match (why I didn't just get another one I'll never know). So I lit the wick and after a short tussle with the curtains that blocked my safe exit to the living room I finally took refuge behind the fridge.!

With my back pressed against the cold metal of the fridge I began to breath heavily in anticipation for the explosions that would occur. I must have waited for what seemed an eternity and began seriously doubt if it was ever going to BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! My heart stopped! I began to shake uncontrollably with fear as the explosions got progressively louder. Soon everything around me was shaking and I began to wonder if the house was going to collapse.

After what seemed an equal amount of time to that of the anticipation the cacophony of war had finally come to a ceasefire. However I wasn't willing to go back to the kitchen because I could still hear the wick sizzling. The damn thing could go off again. Jo sticks her head around the fridge and says the cannon has stopped already. Before I could stop her she heads off to the kitchen.

I run after her and see that the cannon had landed in the sink. To make matters worse it had now transformed into a personal coffee maker with steamer (the one you use to froth the milk for a cappucino). The hissing sound I had heard was the streamer releasing its steam. I threw some cold water over the streamer and sure enough it stopped hissing. Jo showed her temporary tattoos that she had got from the blast of the cannon.

I found this bizarre since I didn't think cannons behaved in this manner; firing sharpnel yes, stamping tattoos no. Then I turned to face the wall that adjoined the kitchen to the living room; the entire whole wall was full of blancmange pink and blood red splatter marks. I thought to myself, "Shit that's going to take forever to clean!"

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.