The Riven Dreams of a Crazed Web-Writer, #3

(From October 7, 2016)

This was a long one, so I wasn’t quite able to remember the early parts. My high school para-professional and I attended an alleged Riverdance performance, although given it took place before an audience of zero (aside from ourselves) in the middle of an oddly-tall high school auditorium, I have serious doubts as to the performance’s credibility. I’m unclear who this was unidentified third-party was, but some guy wound up on stage with the dancers. Attire: yellow “Beauty and the Beast” gown, spiky gelled hair, ridiculous drag makeup (I know true drag queens have excellent makeup, that’s part of the problem here). This person seems to have been invited onstage by the dancers, but stumbled near the end of the performance.

The dancers, like true professionals, broke off all movement in order to yell at the person in drag for “ruining the performance.” How one stumble qualified as ruining things I’m not sure, but I wasn’t having it. Armed with Diamondback, I stepped up to counter-harangue, telling them that they shouldn’t invite audience members onstage if they want a perfect performance. They counter-countered with some bullshit about all the money they spent on their giant curtain made from a patchwork of house-sized squares (Avant-Garde BS if you ask me), as well as the bucks put towards costumes. After arguing with them to no avail for a few minutes, I used Diamondback to perform a Vergil-esque teleporting multi-cut, slicing absolutely everything backstage into thousands of pieces. I greatly enjoyed this; I rarely get to be awesome in my own dreams. This is definitely a self-image thing, since it’s becoming more frequent as I become less insecure.

For some reason they thought I still cared about their opinion at this point, and they basically told me I was a piece of shit. After a brief sequence in which I sprinted back to my place of residence at several hundred miles an hour over a very, very long bridge (there are personal universe/lore reasons for my being able to do this which I cannot reveal at present), my para-pro and I took a drive through what must’ve been alt-Kansas (nothing but barren grasslands all the way) until we reached a cliffside installation overlooking the sea. This unexplained choice of retreat put me on edge and (in light of my absurd abilities) made me suspect that the government was involved. Dream-me figured that if the Fed were going to try something, he’d at least let them have a crack at it, and decided to roll with the coming events on those grounds.

In the event, the only person at the installation (which seemed to be made entirely of Avant-Garde solar panels) was the serial killer from Prison Break who always betrays everyone. In the dream he was my para-pro’s Uncle Jerry, raising some serious questions about human longevity in this dream world (or growth rates, as the case might be). The inside of his “house” was an impractically huge mansion, entirely white and austere aside from carpets the size of Mosel barges. The ceiling between the first and second floor was composed mainly of ornate grating, color indeterminate. One of the things we did after arrival was check the solar panels, now transformed into columns. If the dream had specified we were UNDER the solar panel room and these were some kind of energy-transfer conduit, that would’ve been workable if still stupid. This would also have done wonders to explain how I didn’t see this giant goddamned mansion when we first arrived.

After some time just derping around in one of the upstairs rooms, I heard the middle of an exchange between the para-pro and Uncle Jerry cut off by a single gunshot, which we should’ve seen coming. In spite of minor time-power usage, I was unable to get downstairs in time to save the para-pro. I did manage to outmaneuver Jerry by waiting for him to come upstairs looking for me before I jumped over the railing (the only one of my superhuman abilities I remembered, it transpired) and running into the weird solar panel room. I grabbed a magnum (because everything worked on Goldeneye 64 rules now) which held a wholly-unrealistic 8 shots. At this point Jerry arrived with his own magnum and we had a sidestrafing duel. His autoaim seemed to be malfunctioning since he never hit me while I got every shot. I was not, however, able to line up headshots at this time.

After I ran out on the magnum, I switched to an SMG I don’t remember acquiring; Jerry did the same. He did actually manage to get some hits in at this point (they were good, I guess), but ultimately I whittled him down with just a few rounds left. Of course he did a stupid creepy serial killer laugh as he fell. If dream-Me hadn’t forgotten Diamondback this could’ve been a hilarious rehash of a demon fight from another dream, and we’d have instantly cut Jerry into a zillion pieces. It could even have become a running joke, like One-Punch Man always thinking he’s found a worthy opponent before winning with one punch.

I then found the para-pro’s body and took his phone to call his sister. The dream ended just after I told her the bad news. Dream-Cul was distraught enough he forgot he could run at several hundred miles an hour and seemingly didn’t need to eat, and so was actually concerned about how he’d get home from the installation.

Say something, darn it!

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