dark_towhead (dark_towhead) wrote,
dark_towhead
dark_towhead

Deadlands Session 25 and Nightmares Galore

So, last night we had a rousing, emotionally searing episode of the Deadlands game. An apocalyptic finale is on the way, possibly closing in faster than I had planned on. There was much of misery and more of woe in the game (along with plenty of character development), but the saddest note was that hntrpyanfar has finally decided that her Ph.D. takes precedence over game night... While I heartily agree that this is important, it's still a bummer.

Then, my sleep last night was filled with nightmares galore. There are three that I can still recall (to some degree):

In the first, a close friend (who was a mix of Harrison Ford and my Dad) turned out to be a spy, betraying all my and hntrpyanfar's secrets to some awful organization. While my wife was none too surprised by this revelation, I was completely floored and soon had the distinct knowledge my entire world was crumbling (well, being dismantled by unstoppable outside forces). All I could do was cry, and cry, and cry. I had no strength to do anything else. Ugh.

Then, the scene transformed into a bizarre Predator movie thing, where my group was expecting me (who is more the Shane Black/Hawkins guy than the buff Arnie guy) to get killed. I was trying to fight the monster off, but it had an arsenal of whirling saw blades on robotic arms that it was trying to use to spill my guts, while my "buddies" just kept watching, waiting for me to finally give up. hntrpyanfar was also present, and was recruited into a very bizarre "girl squad" for a second monster, which was forced to walk through jungle overgrowth beyond exhaustion (ala the Bataan Death March) to avoid being harmed.

Then, the scene shifted to a Victorian style country club house, where a big to do involved the arrival of author Joyce Carol Oates. I didn't have any of her books with me, so I decided to run back to our home (just a short jog away, actually). Of course, rushing through the beautifully landscaped gardens earned me quite a few stinkeyes and shouts that I wasn't supposed to be running. Well, I slowed down, but I was in a hurry. I knew the line for JCO would be hee-UGE, by the time I returned and I really, really, really wanted my copies of Rape: a Love Story and Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? to be autographed...

Eventually, I got back to our home and started looking for all my Oates' books, but I could only find a couple of them [neither of the ones I desperately wanted; in fact, one of the ones I could find -- an analysis of transitional poems in the King James Bible(?) -- made me wonder why I owned it in the first place; then I said, "If it's Joyce Carol Oates, it must be good," and realized it was a bargain book...] in the shelf by my bedside. Then I realized that the others were out on my living room bookshelf, buried behind stacks of To-Be-Read books. I had to lean in, stepping up on this weird molding to reach the blasted things, and when I was trying to get back out again, I slipped, fell backward and whammed my head on either the floor or our hexagonal table. All I knew for sure was, I heard an awful crunching noise, and then I could not feel my feet (which were bare and asphyxiated blue), could not move anything below my nose, and there was an awful warmth spilling down the back of my neck (a mix of blood and cerebrospinal fluid, I was sure). I knew for a certainty that I was dying, and I was alone, and it was awful.

I've never been happier to wake up than I was this morning...
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