Last night’s very strange dream was brought to you by a large glass of Maker’s Mark and two episodes of “Vikings”, just before bed.
Dad made a very brief cameo appearance. He was driving his truck and Tug and I were passengers. Dad pulled over to the side of the road so he could jump out and drop off a letter in the post box. Upon doing that, an old friend of Dad’s (a dwarf??) jumped in and put the truck in drive, then slid over to the passenger’s seat and sat placidly with a smile on his face.
I had to quickly scramble over into the front and take control of the steering. As usually happens when dreams go weird, the break wouldn’t work so the truck kept creeping forward.
From here on in it became…. something akin to Cthulu Meets the Old Testament.
As I was turning into Oakland Ave (near M&D’s home), a herd of prehistoric …. zebras ran by, almost crushing the truck. Then there were these things that looked like horses, of a sort, but they had eyeless heads on both ends and could move in either direction. Flying turtles with bloody vampire fangs, OZ monkey horde warriors, fish that walked upright and smoked Sherlock Holmes pipes… you name it, I tried to avoid being hit by it.
The street was choked with these things that looked like they had escaped from Noah’s Ark, running wild and free as if they had taken their bra off for the first time in their lives and realized how liberating Free Willy really was.
I wanted to make a left turn and head back to get Dad but the road was clogged with construction so all I could do was either go straight or turn right, and further away. I had hoped for one left turn available so I could get back to Dad.
My phone was Japanese so I couldn’t call him and I didn’t recall his phone number anyway. I just kept wondering what the hell I was going to say when we got back; would I wimp out and blame everything on his friend? Or would I suck it up and take the blame? No time to think! The truck wouldn’t stop creeping forward, no matter how hard I pumped the mushy brakes. Tug was sleeping soundly over the emergency hand brake so I couldn’t use that either. The stick was stuck in D and refused to budge, until it finally snapped off from my efforts. The dwarf sat silently all the while, with a happy smile on his face, taking in the scenery. He too refused to budge.
Suddenly a triathlon group of cyclists turned into the road and started screaming for us to stop (even though we had the right of way). When one bike finally squeezed past, there were two people on the bike; one and a half to be precise. The primary cyclist was an ordinary person in neon-coloured triathlon lycra, but there was another half man (as in nothing below the rib cage half man) strapped to the handlebars. He was waving a tourist group flag with a look of frustration and surprise on his face, as if he were acting as the pace car in a Formula One race that had gotten too far ahead of the pack and found itself unexpectedly in the lead position. His frustration came from navigating the construction, traffic, my truck, and of course the beasts that filled every available space.
I never got back to Dad.
But I did get to the bathroom at 3:30 am for a pee. What a relief!