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Run, Rita, run!

Thursday, May 4 2017 Views: 177

Night-time, seaside road with several houses on a hillside, facing the calm sea. The last house in the row is a safe house, though safe from what is not specified. Several people, including Peter and Methos are hiding in one of the big dusty rooms; it’s apparent that the building has been uninhabited for a long time. I’m watching the events unfold as a disembodied presence at first and alternate between indoor and outside scenes.

Outside the streetlights are on and the visibility is good. The building is being surrounded by debt collectors that look like typical gopniks, there are some 7 or 8 men and two women, all dressed in sports clothes. They’re unloading guns and explosives to go in attack on the building.

Inside the general air is to kill themselves before gopniks can do it. Peter and a young blonde woman sit on the side of a hole in the floor. He’s has a grenade and lets it go off holding it between them. The explosion takes their upper bodies off in a bloody mess, but their legs are still dangling down in the hole. The time goes backwards, and Peter says that it hurt like hell and decides to press the grenade against his head next time. Methos sits on the back of a dusty armchair and watches it happening with a smug look. He is barefoot.

Outside Rush rides a motorcycle downhill towards the house, but seeing the debt collectors, turns and flees down the street. Gopniks are shouting and firing single shots at him, but without looking back Rush lifts up a whetstone, holding it so it appears that he is flipping them a massive finger.

Then it’s morning. I’m a fragile and innocent looking blonde woman dressed in a blue blouse and black jeans. I approach the building where half a dozen gopniks stand armed, but both women and two men are dancing on the empty street. It resembles a barn dance with lots of twirling, stomping of feet and bows. I go inside the house, humming and smiling, and looking totally non-threatening, so the debt collectors don’t even try to stop me at first. I ascend the wide stairs and reach the vast landing where a guard with a minigun is posted, aiming at the door behind which the safe house residents are hiding. There are several holes in the litter-strewn floor and that I round carefully.

The guard just watches me, smiling stupidly and only starts to protest when I reach the door, but it’s too late – I’m already in with everyone I’m determined to save. They’re looking out of the window at the debt collectors who are about to release a demon hound. Even Methos looks doubtful now with his immortality in danger. An unfamiliar man in a suit tells me to find Eric and gives me the directions.

He’s barely finished when I take off and run. It’s spectacular – the guard with the minigun is shooting at me, but he’s too slow and the bullets keep hitting the wall behind me on my way downstairs. Outside the debt collectors are unmuzzling the demon dog – it’s an ugly black-and-red creature that looks like a cross between a Doberman and a crocodile. It has short stumpy legs and I know it won’t catch me.

I run north down the S-lane. Then it’s suddenly night and I stop at railroad tracks. There are three rails, the closest obscured by a fence on my right. I have to either listen and wait for the train or poke my head around the fence and risk it being ripped off by a passing train. I do the latter and barely manage to pull back when a passenger train passes by, casting patterns of yellow light from the windows.

Then it’s daytime again and I’m scrambling up a steep sandy slope holding on to tree roots, to get into a dark forest when I hear my pursuers behind me shouting: “Release the hounds!”. I run as fast as I can and get to the cabin I’ve been looking for. Inside there is an old woman who gives me a white phone that only has three buttons – two red and one orange marked with a white E. I press the orange button and wait. I absent-mindedly walk into a storage room, thinking that it would be quieter there to talk. The phone doesn’t answer.

I hear a noise and see that one of the hounds has gotten into the house and the old woman has hit it over the head with a vodka bottle. The hound looks disgusting, like a yellow staffy, but bloated and misshapen. It’s getting up and growling, and I kick it in the head. It seems to melt into a boneless heap of meat as it passes out, and looks wildly out of place in the space between shelves filled with jam and pickle jars.

Additional Comments:

5 hours of sleep; running in the dream as usual when I try to 'sleep faster'.

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