Maybe
I should stick to reading romances before bedtime. I suspect that reading mystery
novels probably isn’t the best way to relax at the end of the day.
The
other night, I stayed up way too late because I wanted to finish reading a serial
killer novel. Actually, another character with homicidal tendencies also popped
up in the story. That one was a surprise— and not a pleasant one.
Later
that night, or, more likely, very early the next morning, I had a dream about the
second murderer, the one who wasn’t a
serial killer. I’ll call him “Dewey,” but that’s not his fictional real name.
I
dreamed that Dewey had kidnapped me and one of my friends. He threatened to
kill us if we made the proverbial false move. Dewey drove us to a humongous
industrial complex where he forced us to apply for assembly line jobs at a company
that manufactured some of those widgets hyped in “as seen on TV” ads. To add to
the weirdness, the interviewer looked a lot like someone I had worked with back
in the Late Jurassic Period.
I told the interviewer that the creep lurking at the back
of the room had shanghaied my friend and me. I repeatedly asked the interviewer
to call the police, but he ignored my pleas. He kept chattering away like a wound-up
robot, expounding on the requirements for the job and complaining about Obamacare.
Then he asked, “If we hire you, will you go to the company picnic?”
(Yikes! I actually was asked that question during an
interview, but it wasn’t a picnic; it was a Christmas party. And, yes, I was
hired. And, yes, I went.)
I was desperate to ditch both Dewey and the interviewer.
One scared me and had a gun and the other seemed insane. Fortunately, stupid
Dewey had neglected to confiscate my cell phone. So I went to the ladies’ room
and frantically scrolled through my contacts list. Instead of calling 9-1-1, I searched
for a certain individual’s phone number. I found it and poked the number.
And then I woke up.
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