Insane, trippy, drunken, redneck gun nut dream - I dream I'm in the bedroom in the house I grew up in. My father is there, sitting in his underwear, like usual, at my desk. The room is filled with smoke. We're talking about something. My mom comes in with her book club, and they sit around the coffee table, either in chairs that materialize or on the big, blue comfy couch we had growing up, of dark blue number in Cape Cod plaid. They start giving me a hard time about when the next book is going to be out. My mom starts bitching at my dad about smoking. He starts bitching at me about my weight. I start bitching back about that time he bitched at me for losing weight, because high school football was so important. Shit gets real. My mom and her friends fade away. My dad comes back in the room, and tells me a secret to getting away with smoking in the house without catching a bitch for it. He stands beside my bed, and reaches to adjust the vent on the wall. I remember this guy has been dead for years. I reach out to touch him. He scowls and fades away.
Flash to my pickup. My brother and I are driving on east Loop 12 Ledbetter Dr. I think we're headed to back to East Texas from grandma's house, as that's the only thing I can think of. It's one of the routes we used to take when we lived with her and worked in the city, but would go home on weekends.
Only it's real time, not the summer of '99, and we're talking real shit. We're talking about his marriage and my move back to Athens and how I hope my fatass finally gets my shit together. Like I said, real talk.
We come to a roadblock, warning signs and flashing lights. There's a sign that says "VIOLENCE", only it's misspelled. We laugh, joking about only in Dallas would they cordon an area off and let the gangsters inside finish each other off. We follow the detour around. At some point, a car starts following us. It is a 70 Camaro, in Bondo gray, with blue ground effects and interior light. There is carpet on the dash, and a Crown air freshener, and beads hanging off the rearview mirror. It looks like a taxi in the Middle East.
My brother points to a dirt road into some woods. We take it, thinking we'll leave the Camaro in the dust. We have fun, driving through the woods like we did when we were kids. Bouncing around, crashing through the brush. The Camaro catches up. I have a Kahr K9 on my belt, and a spare mag in my pocket next to my .380. I pull the .30-.30 Marlin from behind the seat, and pistol bag with the Glock and the spare ammo.
The dirt road takes us to some nice homes, hidden alongside a river or elongated lake/ pond. I'm pushing the truck too hard, and I have to hit the brakes and make a hard turn as we come to a small cul-de-sac at the end. We laugh like maniacs. The Camaro is nowhere to be scene. We drive back down the dirt road celebrating our victory.
Our victory is short lived.
The truck runs out of gas.
We debate what to do.
The Bondo gray '79 Camaro pulls to a stop up the hill, revving its engine.
My brother jumps out of the truck with the .30-.30, and I grab the Glock, with it's extended mag, and the ammo bag, and take position behind the engine. My brother is out front, ready to meet them. Strong and brave and ignorant of combat. I yell at him to get behind the engine block with me, but he doesn't hear me. I "Martin Riggs" the Glock on the hood of the truck, and make eye contact with the driver of the Camaro. He makes the wrong move, I'm filling his face full of 147 grain hollow pointed BBs.
No fucking about.
The Camaro backs away.
We can still hear it though, rumbling through the trees.
My brother takes off, into the woods.
I follow, moving slowly. Hindered by disability and obesity.
Out of nowhere, Murphy shows up.
There's gunfire, and then my brother comes back through the woods, the rifle smoking in his hands.
We don't say anything.
There's a some gas in a can in the back of the truck, left over from mowing the yard, and I put what's left in the tank.
The next thing I know, we're at gas station, on the edge of the city.
Still headed home.
I set the pump, and look in the can at the Murph Monster cuddled up with my brother, who still isn't speaking. His eyes are watery, but he's stoic.
A kid, about 13, walks up. Baggy clothes, gang colors, etc. Wants some money. I don't have any money.
We do the MUC (Managing Unknown Contacts) dance.
He pulls a gun, a cheap High Point, and sticks it in my face. Gunfire erupts from a nearby nightclub, and I bash him with a coin sap.
There are different versions of what happens next. I was already replaying the scenes and doing AARs of them before I realized I was dreaming.
Version One, we haul ass out of there. The cops get my fingerprint off a .30-.30 shell, and I take the fall for my brother.
Version Two, the Camaro shows back up as I replace the pump and start to get back behind the wheel. People file out of it, with guns. We open up on them from the truck, just hose them down, and haul ass the fuck out of town.
Version Three, I replace the pump, and when I go to climb in the truck, my brother is dead. A hole in the head from the gunfire from the nearby club. A victim of random violence.
Sometimes our dreams tell us things. Sometimes they don't mean shit. I don't know which category this falls into. All I know, is I have a wicked, pneumonitic cough, despite the fact that I haven't smoked in over 2.5 years, and am going to unload all of my guns and wipe each bullet free of fingerprints. Just in case. No shit.