Dream Journal: April 2, 2016

I am part of a hit squad, comprised of some very bad people: drug dealers, prostitutes, killers.

We have been contracted by some other bad people to take out a woman target.

She is a diner cook by day and amateur drug dealer/prostitute by night, who had unintentionally pissed off the wrong people, and quickly gotten in over her head with the criminal underworld that I generally work for.

The hit squad of eight has bows and arrows, throwing stars, clubs, and guns – I have a katana.

We have cornered this woman in a warehouse, in a small office room which is at the top of a wobbly wooden staircase.  My closest squad mates are assassins Alicia Witt and Judy Greer (or at least they look exactly like Alicia Witt and Judy Greer).  “How are we going to do this?” they pantomime toward the narrow staircase.

Alicia Witt

Judy Greer

 

I have a sudden change of heart and turn on my companions, killing them all with savage and sudden efficiency.

I rescue the woman that I have been sent to kill and take her outside.  It is nighttime, but there is a glow to the east.  The sun will be up soon.

[I do not remember much about the appearance of the rescued woman: she was caucasian, slim, in her 40s, brunette, attractive – was not easily identifiable as an actress or anyone I know in waking life.]

The two of us commandeer a taxi cab and hit the freeway.  In the cab with us is an older Indian gentleman; mirror shades and three days growth of beard.  He wears a tan grid patterned shirt with sweat stains and brown slacks.

We get lost and turned around navigating the endless interchanges and ramps.  It is as if we have relocated to a freeway planet.  Nothing but concrete and asphalt.  The exit signs give street names and make mention of hospitals and libraries, but the ramps just lead to more freeways, overpasses, underpasses and ramps.

The sun burns in a cloudless blue sky.  The day is warm.  Air filled with the smell and sound of endless traffic, echoing from underpasses.  No music, no birds, just the endless thrum on tires over concrete and asphalt.

A white Cadillac bears down on us, heading in the wrong direction.  I get anxious the closer it gets, thinking it is another hit squad after us, after me.  But it passes us without incident.

After hours of this, we find the actual correct exit to get off the freeway and into the city.  It is the rundown section, full of squat, square concrete buildings; grey and tan walls littered with graffiti.

We park the taxi and take the Indian as a hostage.  He does not say anything as we lead him through an overgrown lot, through a broken chain link fence, and into a warehouse.  A person who looks exactly like Dan Fogler is inside, a drug dealer who has forty-two pounds of pot, but his car broke down and he’s got no cell reception.  I wordlessly kick him out of the warehouse.

  Dan Fogler

 

“Time to come up with a new plan,” I say as I head upstairs to the office.

There is a crash of breaking glass and suddenly I am back in the original warehouse.  The original hit squad is arriving, the same crew I previously killed.  They nod to me, cold smiles with pursed lips.  I get a strong déjà vu.

Assassins Alicia Witt and Judy Greer both give me a hard look.  “How are we going to do this?” they pantomime.  Again.

I slowly, silently, unsheathe my katana and wake up.

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