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I Get Kicked Out of a Matrix Clique

July 22nd, 2003

I walked out of a brownstone apartment building onto a street corner in a city like Boston. Across the street was an italian bistro/deli type place. I was wearing all black — black jeans, black leather motorcycle jacket, black boots. In each hand I had an M5 submachine gun, a la quake, and I had some extra clips taped together a la the stupid drug runners from Clear and Present Danger. I turned, and watched four other people emerge from the building: three guys and a girl, all clad in Matrix-style monochrome garb and heavily armed. One of them, skinny and all in white, had two long, thin, curved swords in plastic sheaths, and I said to him, you ought to get a belt to hang those on. He agreed somewhat indifferently.

The girl was the leader. She had red hair and was hot. They were planning to raid the bistro across the street, but for some reason I only thought they wanted to go there for lunch, and then go elsewhere to do their violence.

One of the guys, thinking about the getaway, asked if any of us could fly. Perfectly normal Matrix question. Everyone shook their heads. I said, I can. Sometimes. I thought, but didn’t say, When I’m dreaming. The kid said, That’s not good enough. We need someone who can fly all the time, and pick people up.

Oddly, It didn’t occur to me at all that I might be dreaming. I fly, yet I don’t know I’m dreaming.

We stood there on the corner for a minute in broad daylight all trying to fly. I got a good six inches off the ground and stayed there for a minute. Not great, but better than anyone else. Look, look, I said, I’m levitating! They looked grumpy. I think this is because I wasn’t really a part of their group, and they didn’t want my help. I landed, and tried again. This time I shot up like a pro, whipped like a gale around their heads, then took off down the street. I was watching them to see if they were impressed, but they just went into the bistro like they were glad to be rid of me. But again, i only thought they were going to lunch. I flew once around the block, bouncing off gutters and balconies and roofs of other brownstones (the city started to remind me of the North End, which wouldn’t be entirely discrepant with the storyline). I saw a bagel place, wanted to go there instead, but figured I should stick with the others. So I landed, and went into the bistro.

They weren’t there.

For an instant, I was the red-headed girl, or was with her at least. She was with a huge, ominous, Dark Lord-type villain who had some sort of mind control over her, a la Paul Melko’s story ‘Skin’. He was forcing her to kiss him and talking about how big his dick was. Then I pulled back and was myself again, in the bistro, watching as the red-haired girl repeatedly and brethlessly kissed this man-shaped lump of dough or marshmallow, as the bistro’s owner stood by yelling at her that she was going to have to pay for that.

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