I was in a secret island that the US government tried to hide from the public.

On the island lived some sort of very human-like race that had been found from Mars during a Mars flight and brought to Earth. Exactly why they had decided to cover it up was not known, because the race was entirely harmless - they looked like humans, dressed like humans, and had learned to speak different human languages. They just were somewhat care-free and stupid by Earth standards.

I went to the local cinema. They were showing some sort of movie in which people were watching a Battletech movie and the giant warmachines leaped out of the movie. The watchers - all these Martians - fled to other parts of the movie theater in the movie, just as one of the tanks drove over a land mine and the explosion threw it just over the shoulders of these people.

Some special forces unit of US army visited the island. They arrived on a high-tech drop boxes; The boxes fell on earth, were slowed down by rockets, and when they touched down, the soldiers rolled out of them, forming a perfect formation. The uniforms were perfectly clean and neat and each of the companies had different color of beret. I heard one of the "outsiders" talking with the officer who explained what these Martian people did there.

Later that day, I was eating in the cafe and talking about stuff with a nice older gentleman. After he left, I saw the price list that was on the wall: All sums were in some oddly-named currency, and there was some sort of comment that "euros are accepted, exchange rate..." and then some insane sum = insane sum formula. (I thought it would have been easier to figure out the price difference if they had used smaller sums.)

At one point, I was in car with these foolish creatures. We had stopped, I had switched to the driver's seat, but I still had tons of stuff on my hands. I was trying to get rid of them, until I noticed the car was moving backwards down the hill. I hit brake as fast as I could! I told them what the hand brake was for, and they thought it was interesting - but they kept commenting on my driving skills, nevertheless.

Meanwhile, a professor came to see the island's doctor. He said that he had come there on a submarine, had knocked out this captain Nemo who had kept him as his prisoner, and now needed to get some way of contacting the civilized world. The doctor commented on how some government agents (apparently?) had attacked him and also almost damaged his spine, but he decided to fetch the weird radio widget from the back room. The radio - if it was a radio - had some sort of computational (encryption?) system in it that was based on small cylinders hanging from two long golden rods that spun around, and the cylinders were arranged in form of binary code.

Yeah, again the previous day's stuff had their effect: I watched The X-Files and started reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Land mine? Princess Mononoke, the movie I watched before going to sleep. The older guy in cafe / professor's explanation? Must be from Sunday's episode of The Prisoner.

I sit in a well-appurtenanced room, like a library in a mansion...I recline...half-sprawl...across the couch, and my professor is talking to me about literature...he wears glasses perched on his nose...but they are odd insofar as they have no nose pads...instead, he has a rectangular piece of rubber...yellowed beige, as though a piece of rubber tubing...it drapes across the bridge of his nose...and I realize he looks like Guy Pierce in a gray suit.

He lectures me on books, and I become frustrated...I don't know why...I lash out at him, telling him he's a fool, an overeducated moron making up for his own talentless stupidity with knowledge...he lauds Solzhenitsyn because Solzhenitsyn is all the things he pretends to be...he will never change the world...he isn't brilliant, isn't special...and I see myself reclining on the couch from outside myself...I'm wearing a checkered red/black silk robe and black slacks, with hair like Tyler Durden's...

And my professor grows furious at the verbal assault...it's true, and he knows it...and I see him grab a whiteboard off the wall...it's large, but light...aluminum frame, sharp corners...wide grooves in the aluminum...the board flexes and twists in his hands as he swings it into my head...but it is no longer my head...I watch the scene from outside it...and the man he hits looks like Guy Pierce, and his scalp is bleeding, and he's suffered brain damage, and it occurs to me that THIS is what happened before Memento began...

And I am driving.

My car, a '77 Caprice, reddish-brown...my car.

I don't really have anywhere to go, I want to park the car...but it's low on oil...there is a case of oil in my trunk, but I don't want to use it...I should drive to my parents' house...and I'm in their basement, but there's no oil...my landlord might have some...he's not home; I rummage through his things...no oil...I don't want to use mine...it will wait...back to parking.

The car is big, bigger than I remember it, bigger than it should be...the curb in front of my house...cars are parked there...I have to parallel park; my brakes aren't working properly, the car keeps rolling, I'm terrified; can I stop before I hit the car behind me? PANIC...the car stops, I try to move forward, the brakes don't work, PANIC...I stop, back up, the brakes don't work, PANIC...

I walk back to my car from wherever I have been.

There are people around it...five or six people, acting happy...partying, almost...they're putting things on my car...paint, and soap...tying cans to the bumper...the rear window says "just married"...I'm not getting married...I'm as single as ever...the car is white fading to pale blue starting just behind the hood and moving back...why are they painting my car? I yell at them to stop...one man, shorter than myself, dark-haired...vaguely Italian, perhaps...light blue shirt, open at the collar...friendly face...but I'm angry...he looks at me quizzically, as if wondering what's wrong with me...I shout as loudly as I can, but my voice seems muffled...it doesn't have the force it should...I begin swearing, using the vilest language I know...calling them names, making my best effort to be truly insulting, not just vulgar...trying to make an impression...and failing...it's like the air is dead, my voice sounds like it does at a concert, being drowned out by sound, dulled, damped...but there is no other sound...they're not listening...I shout louder, but my voice doesn't get louder...my lungs are tiring...my throat is getting sore...the man in the blue shirt is just watching me...everyone has turned to watch me...

6:32 AM *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP*

I fumble for the clock, hit the snooze button and try to make myself memorize the dream (I always mean to keep pen & paper near the bed, but I always forget).

A few notes: I do, in fact, drive a '77 Caprice that leaks oil, and I do carry a case of oil in my trunk, though (so far) I've always been willing to use it when I'm low. I was driving my car a year ago when the front brakes failed (I was also driving my dad's '67 LeMans five or six years ago when its brakes failed). In neither case did I run into anything. I've never read Solzhenitsyn, but my glasses are missing the left nose pad.

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