I was living in a very large, very old, quirky sort of a country house out in the middle of nowhere.
I am currently reading “The Indian in the Cupboard” series to my daughter, and we just started book 4 last night, in which they move out to the country, and the house I imagined in my head as I was reading was almost precisely that same house.
My wife had gone out and the kids were trying to get me to let them stay up late, because they knew that once they made it past a certain point I was going to have to let them stay up even later, because I had to go into town, and for some reason I could leave them home alone if they were asleep, but if they were awake I had to take them with me.
Except for the part where I would leave them home alone sleeping, this is a fairly common occurrence. They never want to go to bed. Not sure why my wife was not there. Usually I am the one who is not there. Maybe something to do with her time at grad school? Unclear.
There was a knock at the door and it was my detective friend, who came to warn me about a heist that was planned. The bad guys were going to break in and steal “the beetle,” which was a rare and priceless artifact, from a display that was just opening up tonight downtown.
I watch too many movies and television shows.
Even though I had no training and was not a detective or police officer, I gathered my kids and went downtown, which was where we were going to go anyway if they managed to stay up late enough, because Bernie Sanders was speaking.
I’m pretty sure everyone has Bernie Sanders dreams now, right?
We had a very hard time getting into town, because every road and path was completely blocked with the huge swarm of people trying to hear Bernie speak, but eventually we managed to get to my church, so the kids went off to get ready for Bernie, while I got ready to check out the art exhibit.
Seriously. If Bernie is speaking somewhere, good luck getting through. We’re talking tens of thousands of people. This part is all true.
I walked up to the pastor’s office, which had been redone into a sort of museum exhibit room, with about 20-30 chairs facing the back, where the art hung on walls and sat on pedestals.
Our pastors, Dark Murmurs and Rumple Station, recently switched offices and now they look totally different.
A woman opened the door and let in the small crowd of people, including myself, and we took our seats, ready for, I guess, some sort of presentation. That was when the bad guys came in. The bad guys were Wesley, from Netflix’s Daredevil show, as well as two disheveled teenagers who looked a little unprofessional.
I binge-watched Daredevil as soon as it came out, and it was awesome. Wesley looks like this:
Wesley demanded the beetle in exchange for some sort of money, and when she refused he grabbed the woman who had let us in in a big bear hug and told his goons to take it. This is when I started wondering why a room full of 20-30 people sat and did nothing while three people just took what they wanted.
I have been seeing this in the news a lot lately, people on the DC metro or in other places just letting crimes happen.
Realizing that I had to do something, I stood up, grabbed Wesley’s gun out of his pocket as he held the woman, and then I shot him. He dropped, and I hit the floor. The other two kids ran to the corners, took cover, and drew their weapons, using the audience as cover. The other people never moved, either from fright or boredom. Hard to tell.
I don’t know why I shot the guy. Does he represent something?
As the bullets flew over the heads of the seated people, I managed to take out both of the teenagers. As they slumped down against the wall, I looked at my hands and started sobbing uncontrollably as I realized I had just killed three people. Three lives ended by my hand. It was at this moment that my kids burst into the room, cheerfully yelling “Daddy! Come on! It’s time to go!”
It was at this exact moment that Ruby burst into my bedroom, shouting cheerfully “Daddy! Come on! It’s time to wake up! Let’s go!” For a minute or two I just lay there, still immersed in the dream that had been so real to me only moments earlier. I told my wife about it, but she hates hearing about dreams (not just mine, yours too), so I instead thought it through, trying to figure out which part of my life each bit of the dream was from. I think I’m mostly done now, so I can move on. Thanks for listening.