I was coming back from the library, and had just checked out a couple of books, and a couple of CDs. As I came around the corner, I saw two people, two of the last people I would expect to see. There standing in the road, was Ray Davies and his brother Dave. I walked up to them like I knew them, and said, “Hey, look what I just got,” as I showed them the CDs I had checked out from the library.
The first was an older Kinks album called Sleepwalker. Nothing really too remarkable about that album other than it did peg me as a die-hard fan. It was the second cd that was rare and pushed me well beyond die-hard into the stratified air of the super fan. That album I handed to Dave, and he whistled Ray over to see; it was his first album, AFL-13603. Dave did not even recall the title.
Behind the brothers was a missile being prepared for launch. It was tall, taller than it really should have been. I walked over to a sky bucket, and was lifted up the side of the rocket. I rose above the level if the exhaust cones, to the silvery metallic skin. We were supposed to be performing some sort of maintenance on the spacecraft, so I patted the casing.
I was up as high as the bucket could reach, but still only maybe 1/10th the way up the height of the vehicle. I looked up as it towered over me, thinking this was an awfully big Atlas. As we eased back down to the ground, I again looked at the multiple exhaust nozzles; there were many tens, if not a hundred of them.
When I got back down on the ground, I said to Ray, “This is a very unusual Atlas rocket. It is well taller than a normal one, and has too many nozzles.” He followed me over to the base of the rocket. “See here,” I continued. “There are way too many exhaust cones. There should only be three.” Ray agreed.
Suddenly, I was in a room, high up on an outcropping of rock. Also in the room were a young Russian woman and her two or three friends. She was lying on a couch in front of me. The sweater she was wearing intrigued me; it was teased into a soft ball of wisps of wool, making her top more of a snowball than a top.
She asked me where we were. I looked down from our height, and I could see three or four fingers of land push out into the sea. In between two were various parts of a roof. These were there more to protect light and sound standards than the people below. I told the woman that was an open-air theater that was very popular. I think the Kinks were playing there later.
Though it could not be seen, even from our great height, I knew what was between the next two fingers of land: a space port. I told the woman that this was where rockets were launched from. In fact, had just looked at a rocket being prepped there.
I tried to reach out, and to touch the woman. I wanted to put my hand on her shoulder. I could not, I could not let myself do it.
We left in a Jeep Wrangler with no top or doors. One of her male friends was driving, I was shotgun. She and her other friend were in the back seat. As we sped along, we started being chased. I looked back and I could see it was Mexican drug runners. They were shooting at us, but they had no bullets; even at speed, we could hear the hammers of their guns striking down on empty breeches.
But then we stopped. One of the Mexicans walked right up to our Wrangler, leveled his gun and began shooting. Again, though, he had no bullets. I laughed. He said, “So, you think that is funny, eh?” and he shoved the gun into the small of my back and pulled the trigger.
I could feel the wind pushed by the falling hammer come out of the barrel and into my skin. Everyone in the car was frozen. I looked over and said, “I am OK.”
I woke up.