Dreamtheatre I guess a week of solid horror fiction will do this to you Anyway Dreamtheatre time START: Preface - a black dream within a dream of a "succubous" that takes the shape of what you most fear that comes out of a wierd tree in a bogged down and swampy version of a ghost property near my house. Fade in on me brushing my teeth or something in a dark bathroom looking at the mirror. I finish up and look at my teeth. The canines are swelling and becoming livid and porous. (No, not a dog wang but I made the connection too). I hear a loud crack and somehow all my upper teeth and part of my upper pallete fall out and into the drain. There's some kind of low angle camera shot of water running by. Then an up-from-the-drain shot of me grabbing this bastard hunk of my head. There's a few scenes of me running around insane. Apparently, a doctor lives at my house and can fix me up... but hell I need to go walk around town first. So I'm mandering around my town, a slightly different version anyway, tongueing my decimated mouth and I run across a BHunter I know... or something... I can't get the roles right. ..so then I walk past a cemetray and my ma' is out riding a motorcycle down a dirt road near the cemetary, or rather a section line. Then I hear a bunch of punks of motorcycles and dirtbikes and.... snowmobiles..... (in summer) So I end up tearing some kid off his ATV as he flies by and rip off his helmet and have a gun to his head. I change my mind and ram the magazine well into his eye. In a superimposed kind of news report I learn I broke his eye socket.... good, **** him, riding a snowmobile over a gravel road. YEAH! Quick shift to me standing in an ally explaining to the RXR FRIGHT team that I need to go to the hospital. FRIGHT is smoking a cigarette and saying it's weed. RXR is just smoking and looking very.... accusatory, but happy about it. She says it's not weed and FRIGHT hs problems. They're both sitting on top of old fashied galvganized steel trash cans. Wierd.... I smoke one up but it doesn't make my mouth feel better. WAHHHH! Off to...... some kind of kindergarten/gym/psychiatrist office to write notes to school/the bh/ck5 to say I need to go to the hospital. I can't seem to write proper. I think about Can Can. Suddenly it's night and I'm loading up a extended cab 1988 Ford F150. I seem to be taking out a stereo and replacing it with manly manly gear. I'm loading up with my least know quasi hunter Vann. He's being a total badass cool guy. Some other kid I knew in my day stops in and wishes me luck. We ride! Now I'm at a different property I used to own, different from the ghost property, walking down the road at night in lead. I have my left hand out and am feeling an invisible dog jump and gambol. I seem to have collected all the BHunters who are marching behind me. As we hit a certain point in the road the wind blows the afterimage of the ghost dog away and I get some sort of Grendel (does anyone have a copy of that book, Beowulf?) monster eating my arm. I end with a blackout pumping bullets into some kind of bee tree... So, in summation, I still am liking my olives.