Not much to report on the wild dream front. I’ve had a couple that are already forgotten. The closest to wacky involved me heading to a shooting range to do a little target shooting. It was a redneck cluster-fuck of an operation that appeared to be built in a standard steel shed. I picked up a Glock 9mm at a rental window and was led to a target room where a variety of real humans dressed in psychedelic lycra speed-skating suits slowly moved across my target field.
“Go on, shoot!” Goaded the owner. Bearded, baseball cap, red houndstooth lumberjack shirt. I couldn’t.
“There are PEOPLE out there. I just want to shoot targets.”
“They knew what they were getting into when they took the job,” he insisted before leading me to another shooting bay.
“Where are the targets,” I asked? Larry pointed to the center of the room, where Darryl and his brother Darryl were wrestling with some kind of metallic stand, an approximately 2″ galvanized steel washer, and a welding torch.
“As soon as they get that welded on the tripodyou can try threading a few shots through the washer.”
Great! I’d be shooting at a metallic object, attached to other ricochet-inducing equipment. What could possibly go wrong?
The dream fizzled to an end. Maybe the Statins aren’t to blame? Maybe I’ve adapted? More likely this is the calm before the weird.