…speak up! so I say…
" 'Allo, 'allo! And 'ow is everybody, hmmm?"
Just then, a large Irish hound (and his dog) walk in. His lips are badly chapped and he asks me…
where he can find a “chemist” so he can get some lip balm. As I pull off my SCUBA mask and take off my flippers, I tell him I think there’s one around the corner and will show him to where it is. I then reach down to give the dog a friendly pat but it suddenly snarls at me. I back away and move toward the chapel exit. I next hear the sound of a loose dogleash being dragged across the floor, a dog growling, and the man with chap lips saying, “Balor, no!” I don’t bother to turn around and run into the chapel men’s room. I quickly shut the door behind me and lock it at but the dog keeps trying to get in. I decide to escape out the bathroom window so I climb out into what I think is the front lawn of the chapel but instead turns out to be…
…the entrance to Yankee Stadium. [New York Dopers, help me with this.] I can afford a ticket, and have the time to wacth a game, but the Yankees are playing the Tigers and I don’t care much for either team. However, when I get to the seat indicated on my ticket I’m surrounded by sexy young women, Yankee fans all, who are quite careless abnout fastening their clothing properly.
The Tigers are leading 4-1 going into the last of the 6th. I excuse myself to use a restroom. I open the door, but inside I find…
…a bedroom, lit by the late afternoon sun.
The warm light reveals a young girl, about 8 or 9, on the bed, crying. She is a tiny thing, with auburn hair and a lovely face. I ddecide I would’ve liked to know her mother, who just may be an extremely beautiful woman, if it was her genetics that produced this lovely child.
I notice I am now in a regular outfit of jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers. The little girl is dressed similarly.
Between her sobs, she looks around and sees me. Recognition flashes across her face and her crying stops. Wiping away her tears and smiling, she says, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve been waiting fo you.”
“So am I,” I respond. “So, you know me?”
“Of course, silly. You’re the man I met in my dream last night. I thought you had died.”
“Don’t worry, Thalia,” I say, wondering how I know her name. “I will never leave you.”
She runs from the bed and leaps into my arms, hugging me tight. She is shivering, but it isn’t cold.
I put her down and she takes my hand, leading towards another door in the back of the room.
“Come,” says Thalia, “We must hasten to meet the others.”
Smiling at her word choice, I allow her to lead me through the door. Once beyond the doorway, we both find oursleves in a large, empty rom. Seems normal, but the most disturbing artwork covers every wall. There is no doorway or window on any wall, but their is a staircase leading up.
Thalia and I follow the stairs and enter…
…the citadel of heaven. It is populated with hosts of angels, who all seem to be singing “Hallelujah” with Jeff Buckley’s voice.
I am rooted to the spot, but Thalia takes off her shoes and walks forward. I realise she has wings, long, feathery, silver-white wings. She spreads them and flies to join the angels.
“You’re leaving me!” I yell.
“It’s your dream,” she sings.
I find I can walk, after a fashion. The girl and her angels are flying higher and higher above me. I know I am reaching the end of my journey.
This is heaven. This is…
…a police crime-lab. Thalia invites me to roll the prints on her left hand. I do, and she opens a computer program with fingerprint software. She shows me what keys to use, and what links to click on. She rolls my left hand and uses a scanner to compare it to her own. For my prints, the message “person unknown” appears on the screen. I key in my name on a screen form and the message “entry accepted” appears. Thalia scans her print page and it gives a full dossier on her, as Thalia Penelope Hoffmann, born October 2, 1977. I try to square this information–which she prints out for me–with what I observe about her. I had reckoned her in the bedroom to be eight or nine, but this doesn’t square with her dossier. “Well, remember, this is a surreal story.” I nod. Now, the game is over–the Yankees won 7 to 6 in ten innings–and all the Yankee fan women I met in the stands appear. Thalia says good-bye and goes on her way as the female Yankee fans carry me through another door, into…
…a swimming pool of lime Jello. The young women and myself are all completely nude. They begin wrestling with each and with me, hands groping various body parts and naked bodies rubbing against each other.
Now, this is MY kind of dream!" I say to myself, as one particular girl, who I had been desiring since I first saw her at the game, comes over to me and emraces me. She is only about 5 ft tall but has the most incredible figure I have seen in ages. Perfectly shaped, about 44DD breasts with silver dollar sized aereola and protruding nipples, a tiny waist not much more that 20 inches, bubble butt and a soft tuft of auburn pubis hair. Her skin is creamy white and her long straight hair is auburn, too.
She looks up at me with her bright green eyes, our nude bodies pressed tight against each other and says…
“You know, honey, we can skip the doors for a while. I’d like this moment to continue indefinitely.”
“So would we!” cry out the other women in unison. I look around. These women, apparently ages 20 to 40, are of all sizes, races, and variations within the normal range of adult female human physiques–if that makes sense.
Considering how many women are there–I figure about three dozen–I sense the physical fun I’ll have with each of them will take a while. Then I notice a clock on the pool area wall, giving the time as 3:30; I glance outside and the sun is high in the sky, unusual for early December. Then I glance at the clock again–and as I look at it, its hands vanish.
Fine, I thought. This is timeless. I have actually spent maybe 2 or 3 seconds musing about this and “skip the doors” for a while as I give my undivided attention to the 36 women I’m frolicking with in the pool of jello…
…Don’t eat jello for a while, guys, it’s got all sort of other stuff in it now. Exhausted, I now notice it is August and I’ve made love to every woman there, in every way possible, several times and never once had to eat, sleep, or anything else. It is a dream, after all. (For details on the sex, see [this](http://www. disney.com) site.
I must have fallen aslep, for i awake to find myself in the room in which I had found Thalia. Beside me is the first girl from the Jello incident, Samantha. Who I now realize is Thalia’s mother.
A phone rings somewhere in the house…
…and Samantha faints. Without explaining why.
I follow the sound of the phone into the bathroom just adjacent to Thalia’s bedroom. Opening the heavy ash door, I am battered by a wave of steam coming from inside the room. It feels like a sauna in here, I think. Flicking on the light, I find that the bathroom is completely barren, save for an antique Victorian bathtub draped by a maroon shower curtain. The ringing appears to be coming from behind the curtain, so I pull it back, step in, and…
…find myself in Cote de`Iviore, about the 17th century, if I’ve read the signs right. Large, square rigged ships line the harbor’s docks, and hundreds of natives, some clothed in amazingly bright colours, some naked, all shackled together, are being herded onto the ships as though they were cattle.
Slave trading, I think to myself. A man in a low roofed, shabby building beckons to me. I try to ignore him, but several large sweaty men grab me and lead inside to him.
The man, speaking flawless modern English tells me…
…“I know who you are and what you want. You can’t have this.” He picks up a five dollar bill from his desk and waves it at me. It is almost totally decrepit, but I can read the serial number. (Guess what it is.)
Feeling an extreme sense of panick, I wrest myself free and run to one of the ships for no readily apparant good reason. I drop through the cargo hatch on the deck into the hold of the ship.
But, as my feet land on the floor with a loud thump, I notice I am not in a slave trader’s ship’s hold but rather…
in a classroom. I scan the room and see the students all appear to be about 20 years old so I figure I must be at some college. Suddenly, I hear a mature male voice (likely, the professor of the class) asking me if I’m ready to give my oral report on the development of slavery in the American colonies. I turn to face professor and see he’s a 75 year old Jesuit priest with stooped posture, a white crew-cut, and an intimidating demeanor. Of course, I panic because I haven’t attended this class all semester and know nothing about having to do any oral report. Nonetheless, suddenly remembering a place I was earlier, I say, “Picture yourself in 17th century Cote de`Iviore. Large, square rigged ships line the harbor’s docks, and hundreds of natives, some clothed in amazingly bright colours, some naked, all shackled together, are being herded onto the ships as though they were cattle.”
Then, I stop dead. My throat gets dry and I suddenly have a stinging pain in the back of my jaw. I stammer, “and…uh…um…er…”
“‘And’ what Mr. _____? Remember 80% of your final grade depends upon this oral report.”
Resorting to falsehood, I tell him,“And I just remembered I have some visual aids to go with my report that I must’ve left in the student lounge. Can I go back and get them?”
“You have five minutes,” the priest says.
I run out of the classroom into the hall. I then follow the hallway and go out the exit into…
…in a classroom. Ooooooh. deja vu. I scan the room and see the students all appear to be about 20 years old and dress very oddly so I figure I must again be at some college. Suddenly, I hear an impersonal female voice (likely, the professor of the class) asking me if I’m ready to give my oral report on the development of selfsufficiency of the Martian colonies. I turn to face professor and see she’s a mechanical construct of approximately human stature, with a small stamp proclaiming “Intel inside”, and breasts which are most certainly fake. Of course, I panic because I wasn’t aware we had any Martian colonies and know nothing about having to do any oral report. Nonetheless, suddenly remembering a documentary I had once seen, I say, “Picture yourself in a bulky, foul-smelling, government-supplied space suit. A large, geodesic greenhouse dominates the landscape, and hundreds of rocks. Rocks of all sizes and shapes. And dust. Umm… Lots of it. Lots of red dust…”
Then, I stop dead. My throat gets dry and I suddenly have a stinging pain in the back of my jaw. I stammer, “and… uh…um…er…”
“‘And’ what Mr. _____? Remember 79.37455% of your final grade depends upon this oral report.”
Resorting to falsehood, I tell her/it, “And I just remembered I have some holographic aids to go with my report that I must’ve left in the student lounge. Can I go back and get them?”
“You have 5.364 minutes,” Prof. Intel says.
I run out of the classroom into the hall. I then follow the hallway and go out the exit into…
a red brick courtyard. I immediately recognize where I am is “Red Square” on the campus of the University of Washington. (However, I wonder to myself why a Jesuit priest would be teaching there.) I decide to go to adminstration building to drop the two classes that I hadn’t bothered to attend. As I walk across Red Square, it starts to snow. Then, a cold wind begins blowing and I brace myself. By the time I reach the pedestrian bridge over 15th Avenue, the snow is falling at an unrelenting pace with hurricane-force gales. I can’t even see an inch in front of my face so I guide my hand along the bridge’s railing when I cross. At the end of the bridge, I carefully make my way down the slick steps to the ground below. However, instead of seeing even the dim lights of any cars or buildings, there is nothing but the color white all around me and the only sound I hear is the howl of the wind. I reach out my right arm to feel my way through the blizzard. After stumbling around for what seems like an eternity, I feel a woman’s hand grab mine and pull me into…
…the office of a hospital administrator. She is Cora Phipps, according to her name tag. I look at the name sign on the administrator’s desk: Noel Ferragamo, Ed. D., Administrator.
“You’ve been chosen to supervise operations in one ward of the hospital. You may pick Emergency, the Jail Ward, Pediatrics, or the Gynecological Unit.”
I stammer briefly, but decide…
…on the E.R. I’ve enough of kids and trim for a while. Besides, E.R. is such a cool show. The two-named woman places a phone call, speaking in Esparanto. For some reason it sounds like Pig Latin.
“Oink, la santum snort. Oink oink ergo sum.”
Then she looks back at me and I realize she has fangs. Big fangs! And her hair, which I had thought was dreadlocks, was actually loads of tiny snakes. For some reason, I am now sssporting a massive erection and jussst want to work over thisss rather buxom, though sssslightly disturbing woman.
As I move towards her, I pass through the room devider that had previously been a doorway, but had been recently remodeled in a major way.
“Would this be enough to affect another change?” I silently think to myself.
Well, it…
opens up to a temporary wooden corridor (the type that’s set up for pedestrians alongside construction sites). It feels very cold. The woman with the fangs and the snakes is there and tells me I can’t supervise the ER because I am obviously an imposter who doesn’t have a medical degree–or even a B.A.! (Which reminds me: I still have to go the ad building and drop those two courses.) “I’m sorry…This was just a mix up,” I try to explain. The Medusa-woman takes out her cell phone and calls security; I bolt down the wooden corridor which turns out to be long and have many twists and corners like a maze. I then come to an intersection of wooden corridors. I look to the left and see bright light at the apparent end of the hallway. I look to the right and see a dimly lit corridor continuing for who knows how long. I decide to go…
…up. I just noticed an access door right above me and some 1X4’s furred out from the wall a bit to make a ladder.
So, up I go. As I remove the access door, made from 5/8ths inch plywood, cut to fit the opening, flickering light shines through. I find myself climbing up onto the floor of a NYC dance club in the early 80’s.
“W. O. R. D. Up!” is blaring from the Polk Audio FVM90 studio monitors. *Nice system, * I think to myself.
A girl walks up to me, two drinks in her hands, one full, one 2/3rds full. Offering me the full drink she says, “Why do I always have to wait for you?” It was Samantha, from the lime Jello pool party, mother of Thalia.
“How did you know I would come?” I inquire of her.
“Simple,” she says, smiling. “You can’t get enough of me.”
Taking my hand, she leads me to a corner booth. As we slide into the booth, I notice that we are now surrounded by silence, even though everyone is still dancing wildly.
She kisses me and me eyes close, savoring her taste and the memories it calls to mind (and body). She pulls away, biting my lower lip gently, her hand on my thigh. I open my eyes and gaze into hers. In my periphial vision, I see that we have been switched again.
We are no longer in a surreally silent night club, but rather…