UrsulaV (ursulav) wrote,
UrsulaV
ursulav

Had a weird and convoluted and-even-for-me-confusing dream which, understanding that dreams tend to be really boring for those not dreaming them, lies behind Mr. Cut Tag. It’s probably no wonder I had weird dreams–a squirrel went INSANE at about 6:15 and started making quacking chattering noises for almost twenty minutes before he got distracted. Annoying beasts.

Anyway, the dream. It started out with James and I having to kill some evil monster that was the pet of an evil-ish sorceror. Living in a dorm/office arrangement. Okay, no problem, we were thugs. So we go to kill it while the sorceror is gone, James wanders off doing something, and I slaughter this weird round-headed cheeping thing that shot evil telepathy rays (fortunately, drooling did not seem to hinder my sheet-metal shuriken flinging ability.) Woo. Then we discover, in one of those only-makes-sense-in-dreams moments, that we now have to be the sorceror’s roommates until the stagecoach arrives. (I warned you.) Since it’s abundantly obvious that I killed the thing–those are MY shuriken–I figure the easiest way to hide the evidence is to start a fire and burn the room down. So I did, sacrificing a good chunk of my luggage for versimultude.

So the sorceror and I are hanging around, but he’s starting to suspect things. He’s this whiny young I-am-so-angsty nerd, and whenever he gets mad, things ignite. Some dumb talisman of his is missing–a set of wooden coins with pyramids on them–and they’re in my luggage because I’m a souvenir taking idiot. So I wait until he’s out of the burned out room, dig up the coins, tell him I found them under the rubble. This does not appease him, and he starts moaning about his inability to control his powers and suggesting I keep my hair wet so that he doesn’t accidentally set me on fire because he’s pissed off.

Fed up by the oh-I-can’t-control-my-awesome-powers-woe-is-me schtick, I summoned up a positively elemental storm, lightning, pounding rain, the whole nine yards (and had a neat little chant to do it–”Wind and rainand ice and snow–” in a sort of “One and-a two-and-a three–!” cheerleading mode) leaving the entire area drenched, including the rather shocked sorceror, and yelled “Get over yourself already! We can all do that! You’re not special!” which was deeply satisfying, if of questionable accuracy.

Needless to say, I had to flee in rather a hurry after that–seems the rain was a one-shot affair–but fortunately the stagecoach had arrived. It took me to a bizarre little college-campus style city, with a street full of giant Mardi Gras floats. (The creepy ones with the big Punch-and-Judy heads.) Living in a cheap apartment, (the first one James and I had ever rented) I quickly discovered that the local gang of shapeshifters was trying to capture me for some reason. Fortunately, my dreams were harping on the same “shapeshifters with no imagination suck” theme that I occasionally go off on with the Wonder Twins. Idiots. If I can turn into mist, it doesn’t matter how huge and toothy you are, all I have to do is leave the window open and you’re screwed. (I could do mist, crows, and pigeons, myself.) There were a lot of 3-d aerial dogfight sequences of careening through bird-infested alleys as a crow/pigeon/thing of mist. Would’ve been a good video game. Annnnway, I finally discovered that everyone in the city except me was being controlled by these giant sentient Mardi Gras floats, who were pulling these puppeteer strings attached to people’s brains. I fled the city–again on the stagecoach–there were some epic Mexican stand-offs with the guns and the crossbows and so forth, and the shapeshifters had snuck a spy into the stagecoach to try and stop me from doing whatever it was I was going to do to bring down the giant sentient floats. However, he quickly came around to my way of thinking after I shot him. Somehow it all ended neatly, the evil floats were defeated, and I found myself at the base of a switchback-covered hill with the leader of the shapeshifters.

“I want to thank you,” he said. “What for?” I asked, expecting to be thanked for restoring his free will and all. “For sending that Bruce Campbell guy over to my gang. We kept him on. He’s the hardest worker we’ve ever had.” “But he’s not a shapeshifter.” “Who cares?”

And on that surreal note, I woke up and went…”Whoa.”

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.

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