IN THE BELLY OF THE SQUIRREL
O.K. – so “they” have released some nasty toxic agent inside that bus over there.
Military types exit, as a medical/scientific team, all dressed in white protective lab
gear, enter. They are gentle people; I think of them as moths, as they seem to almost float
into the bus, and are mildly translucent. The “bad guys” are retreating up a hill, into
the woods.
It becomes clear now that this is a Central American country. Suddenly
the retreating bad guys turn and start shooting and firing rockets. HOLY MOLEY!
A few bystanders and myself duck for cover behind trees and boulders.
The baddies roll a bomb down the hill that is cleverly disguised as a squirrel; a HUGE
squirrel! It comes to rest directly under the bus. We gasp in horror and shout “NO! NO!,
terrified that all the moth lab people are still inside the bus. Amazingly, the squirrel bomb
scurries away into the brush and doesn't explode. A discernable sigh of relief is heard
among us.
El Presidente Little George Bush appears and is attempting to give a speech, to take
credit for something that did or didn't happen, but he fumbles and stumbles his words
and is impossible to understand. I walk up to Bob Hope, who is in a younger version of himself,
standing on a balcony overlooking the drama and attempted presidential speech,
and declare to him; “LITTLE GEORGE BUSH IS A FUCKING IDIOT!”
Young Bob Hope
(on the road to nowhere) is dumbfounded.
I turn and walk away, somewhat satisfied.
7-17-02
* * * *
Left Jabs
The manic, pimply faced skinny guy driving the big old white station wagon
was a "vampyre chaser" by profession. I had no idea what he did with one when,
and if, he caught up with it. Maybe he just pulled over to the side of the road and observed
it in action, like those storm chasers do.
Anyway, he had pulled over to the curb in the dead of a rainy, desolate night, rolled down his window
and told me to get in. I did, and as soon as I had he sped off, apparantly somehow alerted that
"a chase" was on. As he raced down the road, I recall that he said something to me, something that
was rude and disrespectful (of what I have no clue) in a pimply, manic sort of way.
Without hesitation, I landed five rapid and forceful left jabs on and about his person. In the midst
of the third or fourth, I woke up, punching the pillow. Fortunatly, I was jabbing with my left, otherwise
the angel sleeping next to me would have had more than just cause for kicking me in the balls,
and out of bed.
I was unable to connect with the vampyre chaser when I reentered dreamville.
That was probably a good thing, although I remained curious about "the chase".
7-14-02
(c) A.S. Leeper, 2002