The Deadliest Poison Known to Man

A Quake/The Stand/Resident Evil dream. I do hope this does not become a common genre.

The young cast of the Daily Show and I (which happened to be composed of such people as Brian Sheehy, Matt Lucas, Todd Miner, etc, all clad in very spiffy blue suits), were wrapping up filming in the basement of a high school, sitting around chatting making jokes. I was lamenting internally that they never found my stuff funny enough to air. Oh well, humor is subjective. Eventually we wrapped and proceeded upstairs, into…

A post-apocalyptic world of dead bodies and living dead. The school was now also a subway/railway station, and was crowded with frantic, desperate, armed people on the verge of madness all trying to get the heck out of dodge, who as time progressed were just as likely to shoot you as the enormous undead thing that was chasing you. Aside from my overdressed high school fellows and I, there was an evil white-and-raven-haired seductress a la the Nightmare Life-in-Death, a lithe and youthful Ben Vereen in a cream-colored suit, and an assortment of cops, national guard members, and monstrous drooling alien/zombie things.

People were falling or dying or dropping their guns out of sheer clumsy terror left and right, so there wasn’t much trouble arming oneself. The trouble was that many of the guns were low on ammo or power, and had only minimal effect on the monstrosities. I watched the young cast of the Daily Show picked off one by one. I went through the contents of several pistols, an mp5, and a long white pump-action tube thing loaded with deer slugs that I knew to refer to only as a ‘boom stick’, all with little effect. I encountered one beast in the high school gym that I had to hit three times right in the throat with the boom stick before it went down.

It was thus that I found myself, the Nightmare Life-in-Death, and Ben Vereen cowering together at the door to the gym while three or four half-mutilated monsters dragged themselves inexorably towards us across the basketball court. All I had left was a pistol with three rounds. Daylight called to us from outside, but we were afraid to leave. Inside were weapons and other people. Who knows what waited in the light.

Ben Vereen looked about to piss his pants. Life-in-Death was advocating the “Let’s have sex before we die! Please?” theory of post-apocalyptic strategy, and I was contemplating a dash for the far end of the gym to loot the pile of bodies there for ammunition, when the beasts reached us.

Life-in-Death screamed and disappeared. Ben Vereen went down like a sack of meat, and a beautiful chrome-plated pistol came into my hands, which I could tell by the weight was fully loaded. The beast was occupied with tearing Ben out of his cream-colored suit, so I stepped lithely over them and ran, looking for other living people.

All of a sudden I was running blindly through the poorly-rendered, poorly-lit underbelly of a quake map. Erin was leaning over my shoulder asking what I was doing now. “This is the same game I was playing before,” I said. I picked up another mp5 with half a clip, unloaded it into a few more beasties with minimal effect, and ran on. I sprinted past what I thought was some kind of mutant and or undead dog, ran up some stairs, and turned to fire on it, knowing I couldn’t hope to outrun it.

“Destiny!” A woman’s voice shouted beside me. Life-in-Death ran past me to embrace the ravening mutant dog, which turned out in fact to be a very friendly and endearing black lab puppy named Destiny, who could see the future, and seemed immune to both the grasping claws of demons and the flying lead of madmen. He led us through the subway station to a dwindling knot of survivors on the upper level, then ran barking off to some other good deed.

Granted a momentary reprieve, I sat down to review the contents of Ben’s chrome plated pistol. Imagine my surprise to find it contained far more than simple 9mm rounds. It had four different compartments inside, containing bullets ranging from .22 to .70. I was bewilderedly attempting to figure out how a little pistol could possibly fire a gigantic mortar round like that without killing its wielder when someone in a white lab-coat leaned over my shoulder and plucked one of the .70 rounds from my hand. He twisted it open with a flick of his wrist, and revealed the clear vial of white powder contained inside. “This is the deadliest poison known to man,” he said, and it was immediately taken for granted by all that it was.

Looking around I noticed two gazes that to my eye looked decidedly mad: those of the man in the labcoat and George Clooney. I could see in their eyes that they wanted the poison. Who knows what for–to get rid of everybody but themselves. They advanced on me. I backed off, frantically trying to reload the gun. They followed, until we had left the other survivors behind. I was sure they were being eaten even as we spoke. So it was me and these two madmen. And the sun was coming up–the real sun. I had to do something, quick.

To my own shock and disgust, I yanked the cap from the vial of deadly poison, and with a jerk cast a pinch of it into labcoat’s eyes. He gasped, blinked rapidly, and fell to the ground in convulsions. Clooney gave me a confused look. I repeated the gesture. This time I spilled a little of the powder on my hand. It burned. Clooney’s eyes were red, like he would cry at any second. I felt bad for him. And for me.

I woke, to immense relief.

Frantically Writing a Plot

Dreamed I was frantically writing a plot for a play that would go on at the end of the day. It was a wonderful fantasy plot, full of heroes and heroic deeds and exotic settings. And I was in an exotic setting: a Vegas of sorts, a lavish vacation place, where the Bordewieck family had gathered. Lisi was helping me with the production. But there were too many scenes. Every time I finished, I always remembered one more. I had begun the task with the hope that it could be completed; as the night wore into morning I began to lose hope, and when I awoke I was glad to give up.

Radical Psycho Machine Racing

I am sitting beside Matt Lucas in a large green SUV. We pass through a gate with a banner overhead that reads “Bouncing Mountain Racetrack” or something like that, where Matt gives a ticket to a man at a window. Ahead of us, I see three other enormous SUVs clearing an incredible gaping hole in the road, plummeting a great distance to the ground on the other side, and careening around a corner. How the hell did they do that? I am thinking, as Matt guns the engine and we approach the same chasm. I am astounded to find us hurtling through the air and plunging to the ground with seemingly no destruction of shocks or our fragile flesh. Apparently these are magic roads that sponge down like balloons when hit with an SUV-sized projectile.

We careen around the corner, and clear another jump. As we land, I lean out the window and put my hand out to see what the ground feels like. It is indeed fake ground. Astounding! What incredible expense this strange amusement park must have gone to! Another jump. I do it again. I fall out the window onto the fake asphalt, and Matt tears on away up the raceway without seeming to notice. Guess I should have figured that would happen.

I plunge into the mountain jungle beside the track, where I find a fake trail layered in fake snow with fake vines hanging down on which to swing over fake mud pits and the like. I come upon one such vine clearly labeled in white paint: “Suicide Swing”. The ‘mud pit’ beneath it looks suspiciously deep, as though it is composed not of mud but of some kind of breakaway foam. I suspect that it conceals a passage to another part of the park. I stop, considering.

A pair of older women come along in fanny packs and sunglasses and matching white and purple running suits. I say hello. I do not mention the words on the vine. They pass me, and disappear into the mud pit with a wail.

What the hell, I say. I jump in.

I land with a plop in a large, colorful movie theater lobby. In one of the nearby theaters an educational seminar of some kind is being held, which Erin and many other Columbus ladies are attending, as well as, inexplicably, Mark Massaro. Whatever the subject of the seminar, Mark and I are eminently uninterested. Discovering a debris-filled crawlspace beneath the back row of seats, we squeeze down inside and occupy ourselves collecting up the change that people have dropped. There are some interesting things hidden down there. I find not less than five hash pipes and one healthy stash, buried out of sight among bits of trash. I leave them be, having no need for such objects and imagining their owners’ unhappiness at coming back to find them gone. Massaro, however, has no such qualms.

The seminar ended, everybody files out except for me and Mark, who go on digging for nickels. When finally we get up to go, I discover someone has inadvertently cleaned up the documentation handed out to me prior to the seminar. I am somewhat distraught, but having found at least the book I was reading (The Stand), I give up the search and decide to retire to my hotel room.

In trying to find my way to the elevators, I cross paths with a park employee whose job it is to stand in a window display and come out to sell things to people. I steal his seat, and he shouts at me. I apologize. He goes back to selling things to people. Spitefully, I pick up the chair from the window display and hide it in a backroom. He comes after me.

I am hurrying through the maze of colorful storage room corridors, which seem once to have been used as seminar rooms, starting to get a little crazy since they seem to have no end and there is no stairway or elevator in sight, when suddenly my glasses fall apart into three pieces. The enraged employee and two of his co-workers catch up to find me sitting on the floor trying to put them back together. He yells at me, but when I tell them my sad story, they take pity and try to help me put my glasses back together. I shrug them off and burst into tears.

Witch Nemesis in Lover's Form

Thoroughly interesting post-vegas two hour nightmare.

Everyone in my neighborhood, including the purpuras, yosh, andy lucas, several of udi’s friends and others, were all involved in the production of a massive and complex rpg/performance art piece in a horror vein, involving eerie magic powers, ridiculously cool costumes and recurring serial plotlines that we developed as we went along.

It took place on various stages: the purpura house, the dark streets and yards, a giant vegas-like subway station with white tile and escalators, the rundown stage and auditorium of westwood high school.

At times there were spectators: sisters, parents, Erin, sitting in the creaking wooden chairs, or following us at a distance through the grass. Sometimes they applauded.

There were costumes and special effects: dark cloaks and purple top-hats, thin staves and curses. A blurry soundtrack by rasputina, shifting in and out of our attention, in the hands of Holly somewhere behind the curtain. Flight and magic spells and monsters. Puppet strings. Ravenous things stumbling in the shadows.

One of them, tiny and dark and vindictive, was hopelessly in love with me. She tried to undermine my control, to betray the threads of our own story, to twist it to her design and by the story make me love her–but it only made the story more complex, more spontaneous and more beautiful. I could see in her eyes that it was real. She loved me. I thought of her as author, my equal, a balance for my own vampiric presence in the tale I spun–a witch nemesis in lover’s form. I shunned her–but I let it go on. I let myself believe her intrigues were part of the structure of the story’s creation, but I knew they were really a part of the story. It was an evil thing of me, a selfish thing. She was my creature.

When I woke, it seemed I had been asleep for days.