DREAM
NUMBER OMEGA:
This
one has me legitimately stumped. And as one last resort (in an age devoid of
dream interpreters) I publish it:
I
was visiting a Factory that specialized in the production of wax replicas of
Jesus Christ. Whilst wandering along an indoor bridge upon the sixth floor of
the warehouse, I was interrupted in my trek by a gray, alien figure with a halo
of lurid blue. The Angelic Being informed me that the proprietor of this
establishment had changed his sales strategy from the production of Imitation
Christ to the production of wax sex toys. Yet his suppliers of “Product” had
taken ill to this change of strategy, and knowing his unyielding nature they
had decided to send him a faulty batch, exposing his entire operation to
various Law Enforcement Agencies from Saturn who could detect the “faulty”
chemicals from lightyears away.
It
was at this moment that the Alien disguised himself. His halo transformed into
bull’s horns and he was himself made bovine in stature. He spoke to me with the
same voice as before, however, instructing me to take my leave of this place. I
did so, only later wondering if I should tell my new friend that the sudden
appearance of a Bull on a Bridge is nonetheless suspicious to human beings. But
I took my chances that he knew that all ready.
Outside
the factory, as the Sun was rising and the day fresh, I encountered an
abandoned bicycle beside a White Van. I considered borrowing it. I asked two
anonymous young men if it was theirs. They replied negatively and returned to
their task at hand: admiring a scarecrow. This figure was stuffed with auburn
straw, some of it jutting out of its chin, and its arms were rakes, its left
one pointing down whereas its right one pointed up. One of my new friends
explained that it had once been terrifying but that now it was comical. The
other man said that scarecrows of this stature are so poorly built that any
herd animal could tear it down if it saw red. I told them that it reminded me
of Jesus. They replied that once it had been built to do that, but that then it
was remade to emulate Heisenberg. I asked if they meant the Physicist or the
Meth Lord. They replied that they were Uncertain, and that it all depended on
how the Observer looked at it. I chuckled.
As
I pedaled away, leaving the men to deride the figure further, I passed a sign
overhead. It read “Imitatio Christi Industries”, yet a solitary woman was
painting over the initial “I”. As I passed under the bridge, I did not doubt
that soon there would be an entire overhaul, and that one way or an other “Imitatio
Christi” would be no more, whether by the device of its mysterious Proprietor (who
had probably commissioned the painter to paint over the old logo in preparation
for a new Company Name) or by the workings of Saturn. I figured this much: that
it was Saturn that had surely supplied the Product to begin with, because
Saturn was Satan, and the scarecrow bore an unsettling resemblance to Baphomet.
The Proprietor was merely being Used. His only escape, I realized, would be to
cut his losses and to perhaps run off with what little Unused Product he still
had. They might still be able to track him down. But if he puts it to good use
beforehand, perhaps they won’t. So I mused as I drove towards the Horizon,
free.
Dm.A.A.
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