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.
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