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Dream State – Lip balm the murderer


This was not a pizza dream.

A serial killer had gotten around to killing some friends, a horrible thing when I ran across San Francisco’s Polk Street looking for a futon shop. 

I had gotten a phone call from the police.  I was the killer’s next target, they surmised, although there was no rhyme or reason to their assumption.  The police said that I was the person best suited to stop the killer. 

They demanded that I hide under a thick white futon.  When the killer approached, I was to slather lip balm all over his thick, rubbery mouth.  This was his kryptonite, he said.  This was how I was to kill the killer.

As I ran along past Washington and Polk Streets, I began to think of the killings.  All the victims, along with this future victim, were friends.  We were close enough to be family.  Why did the police not realize this?

I finally found a futon shop and sat down on a bed for sale.  The sales staff stared at me, and they already seemed to know why I was there.

“Suck it up and catch the murderer,” they screamed. 

I told them that I found the serial killer’s pattern, and perhaps the police would listen to me rather than insist that I offer myself up as a sacrifice.  After all, I did not have the accuracy to target some killer’s lips to apply the balm.

I woke up when my dog licked me on my ear.

Happy this is the last day of baseball, when so many races are to be decided.

Dreams are so weird.

(c) Slow Suburban Death.  All rights reserved.


Published inDreamSan FranciscoShort Stories

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