the end
They say that what you are thinking about before you go to sleep is what you’ll dream about. When I went to bed last night, I must have been thinking about the story about the AK-47 that I told you the day before yesterday. It was a weird dream. Here’s how it went.
I don’t know how I got there, but the first thing I remember is being in a warehouse building, and there were three of us, in a triangular pattern, pointing guns at each other. It was like the scene in the movie Reservoir Dogs, near the end where there are three guys standing there pointing guns at each other and a fourth, Tim Roth, lying on the floor. In my dream, there were only three of us, and here is what makes me think that I was thinking about the AK-47 right before I went to sleep.
First of all, I was holding my Glock 17C, in firing position, pointing it directly at Osama Bin Laden, who was at the point on my right, holding his Kalashnikov waist high, pointing it directly at me. On the point of the triangle to my left was President Bush with some sort of newfangled, short-barreled weapon I’d never seen before. It was small like an Uzi or a Tec-9, but it wasn’t either of those. I guess when you’re Commander-in-Chief they let you carry all the latest stuff. He was pointing his weapon down toward the floor, somewhere in between Osama and me.
I was somewhat concerned that Osama was pointing his gun at me and I addressed those concerns, but I recall my voice was kind of squeaky and shaky like it always is right before you kick somebody’s ass or you cut them up. I remember I yelled as loud as I could and summed up my argument as follows.
“Put that motherfucker down, you fucking camel jockey, or I’ll be sending you on a trip to meet Allah a little earlier than you planned!”
I didn’t realize that Mr. Bin Laden spoke fluent English, but he addressed me in very understandable terms, again, in very elevated volume.
“You can kiss my ass, you God-fearing son of a bitch! Your handgun is no match for this Russian bastard. You’ve seen what havoc your own countrymen have done with these things in fast-food restaurants from coast to coast in your ‘land of the free!’”
“I’m not fucking with you motherfucker!” I screamed back at him.
“Allah be praised, I’ll put you in your fucking grave!” Was his high-volume response.
“I mean it, motherfucker!” I yelled. “You fucking better bet I’ll do it!”
“You’re gonna eat lead, you bare-headed western bastard!” Replied Bin Laden.
“Gentlemen,” shouted President Bush, “I’m sure we can settle this without bloodshed. Put the guns down and lets talk this out.”
Osama gave a quick glance toward the President and smiled.
“George, my dear friend,” said Osama. “He knows the truth and we can’t let him carry it out of here.”
At that moment, I knew it was him or me, and despite the western morality of letting the other guy get off the first shot, I figured that it was now or never, so I squeezed off two rounds. The Glock has a very easy recoil and I was steady in my aim, so both shots hit Osama’s chest within half an inch of each other. His eyes bulged and I knew my shots had made their mark, but I knew instantaneously that I had had it. Out of reflex he hit the trigger of that Ruskie spray gun and filled the air with metal. The shots hit me like a White Freightliner and immediately I was on my back on the floor with my life expectancy measurable in seconds.
“Oh, my God!” I heard the President shout, as he ran across to the body on the floor. “My dear, dear friend.”
In my last moments of comprehension, I saw the face of the President as he knelt beside the dying man on the floor. I saw him put his hands behind Osama’s head and lift it close to his own.
“You were always there for me,” said the President. “I would never have gotten where I am without you.”
“I will be with the virgins, soon,” choked Osama.
“You’ll always be in my heart,” said the President.
It occurred to me momentarily that had I gotten off a clean headshot, I might have lived through this thing and been entitled to the $25 million reward. But, I knew, in reality, had I done that, I would have never walked out of that room alive, anyway.
That was when I woke up.
Some of you might say that I should be careful what I eat before I go to bed and others might say I should get the Kalashnikov off my mind. The truth of the matter is we live in strange times. There are a million stories in this world, and this has been one of them.
Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.
I don’t know how I got there, but the first thing I remember is being in a warehouse building, and there were three of us, in a triangular pattern, pointing guns at each other. It was like the scene in the movie Reservoir Dogs, near the end where there are three guys standing there pointing guns at each other and a fourth, Tim Roth, lying on the floor. In my dream, there were only three of us, and here is what makes me think that I was thinking about the AK-47 right before I went to sleep.
First of all, I was holding my Glock 17C, in firing position, pointing it directly at Osama Bin Laden, who was at the point on my right, holding his Kalashnikov waist high, pointing it directly at me. On the point of the triangle to my left was President Bush with some sort of newfangled, short-barreled weapon I’d never seen before. It was small like an Uzi or a Tec-9, but it wasn’t either of those. I guess when you’re Commander-in-Chief they let you carry all the latest stuff. He was pointing his weapon down toward the floor, somewhere in between Osama and me.
I was somewhat concerned that Osama was pointing his gun at me and I addressed those concerns, but I recall my voice was kind of squeaky and shaky like it always is right before you kick somebody’s ass or you cut them up. I remember I yelled as loud as I could and summed up my argument as follows.
“Put that motherfucker down, you fucking camel jockey, or I’ll be sending you on a trip to meet Allah a little earlier than you planned!”
I didn’t realize that Mr. Bin Laden spoke fluent English, but he addressed me in very understandable terms, again, in very elevated volume.
“You can kiss my ass, you God-fearing son of a bitch! Your handgun is no match for this Russian bastard. You’ve seen what havoc your own countrymen have done with these things in fast-food restaurants from coast to coast in your ‘land of the free!’”
“I’m not fucking with you motherfucker!” I screamed back at him.
“Allah be praised, I’ll put you in your fucking grave!” Was his high-volume response.
“I mean it, motherfucker!” I yelled. “You fucking better bet I’ll do it!”
“You’re gonna eat lead, you bare-headed western bastard!” Replied Bin Laden.
“Gentlemen,” shouted President Bush, “I’m sure we can settle this without bloodshed. Put the guns down and lets talk this out.”
Osama gave a quick glance toward the President and smiled.
“George, my dear friend,” said Osama. “He knows the truth and we can’t let him carry it out of here.”
At that moment, I knew it was him or me, and despite the western morality of letting the other guy get off the first shot, I figured that it was now or never, so I squeezed off two rounds. The Glock has a very easy recoil and I was steady in my aim, so both shots hit Osama’s chest within half an inch of each other. His eyes bulged and I knew my shots had made their mark, but I knew instantaneously that I had had it. Out of reflex he hit the trigger of that Ruskie spray gun and filled the air with metal. The shots hit me like a White Freightliner and immediately I was on my back on the floor with my life expectancy measurable in seconds.
“Oh, my God!” I heard the President shout, as he ran across to the body on the floor. “My dear, dear friend.”
In my last moments of comprehension, I saw the face of the President as he knelt beside the dying man on the floor. I saw him put his hands behind Osama’s head and lift it close to his own.
“You were always there for me,” said the President. “I would never have gotten where I am without you.”
“I will be with the virgins, soon,” choked Osama.
“You’ll always be in my heart,” said the President.
It occurred to me momentarily that had I gotten off a clean headshot, I might have lived through this thing and been entitled to the $25 million reward. But, I knew, in reality, had I done that, I would have never walked out of that room alive, anyway.
That was when I woke up.
Some of you might say that I should be careful what I eat before I go to bed and others might say I should get the Kalashnikov off my mind. The truth of the matter is we live in strange times. There are a million stories in this world, and this has been one of them.
Or my name isn’t Dick Clinch.
posted by dick clinch at 2:02 PM
2 Comments:
That’s one weird dream. Funny how you seem to remember the conversations in the dream though… By the way, your blog is rather addictive. :)
It's designed to draw you in and hold you like heroin does.
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