From the Night Files: Strand Dream #174
It is evening. I am asked to go to the sixteenth floor to help bring down one hundred boxes of books as part of some annual competition. It takes no fewer than three different elevator rides to reach the roof where the boxes are stored. I do not question the logic of any of this.
Piles of Monopoly money are stashed in various denominations along the way. Apparently this is some sort of quasi-Easter-like hunt, and a small cash prize is given to whomever retrieves the most loot by the end.
I duck into an elevator with a hand-truck and arrive at the tenth floor of a pristine office building. As I exit, the doors close on my cart, mangling it and very nearly taking my arm off. I start to panic because I am being timed, by somebody, somewhere. A digital timer appears at the bottom right-hand corner of my vision, but I can't make out any of the numbers.
I crawl around on the floor looking through boxes and pull out handfuls of fake cash, and to my great delight, I find a huge cache of orange five-hundred dollar bills. Cha-ching. I feel ten again.
As I stand up to run down the stairs, a crack-addict levels a handgun at my chest and demands the loot. As I am abjectly poor, and Monopoly money is all I have in the world, I refuse. The crackhead shoots me in the chest, and I go down, whimpering like a small child. All is lost.
Or so I think. A fairly fit lesbian appears and trades gunshots with my assailant. Her hand is completely blown apart. I am not one to look a deus ex machina in the mouth, so I dart away as quickly as possible, money in hand. As I make my escape, I wonder how I was able to discern her sexual orientation in such a short, violent period of time. I mean, really, it seems rather irrelevant given the situation we were in. Nevertheless, I resolve that in the future, I will be nicer to all females clad in army-green tanktops.
When I reach the ground floor, I run directly into another gun-wielding maniac, who relieves me of all of my Monopoly money. I hand it over without issue, as I have already been shot in the torso at close range, and doubt my body's resilience.
. . . And that's about it. There was a bunch of other weird crap, like eating insect-covered pizza, and dogs biting me all over my body, but I think that's just residual issues from when I was abused for several years as a small child.
Fortunately, today I woke up without any large wounds, or at the very least, no new ones.
AAAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHH GET OUT OF MY MIND. I am going bat-shit insane. I need to get the fuck out of that place.
Monopoly money.
Piles of Monopoly money are stashed in various denominations along the way. Apparently this is some sort of quasi-Easter-like hunt, and a small cash prize is given to whomever retrieves the most loot by the end.
I duck into an elevator with a hand-truck and arrive at the tenth floor of a pristine office building. As I exit, the doors close on my cart, mangling it and very nearly taking my arm off. I start to panic because I am being timed, by somebody, somewhere. A digital timer appears at the bottom right-hand corner of my vision, but I can't make out any of the numbers.
I crawl around on the floor looking through boxes and pull out handfuls of fake cash, and to my great delight, I find a huge cache of orange five-hundred dollar bills. Cha-ching. I feel ten again.
As I stand up to run down the stairs, a crack-addict levels a handgun at my chest and demands the loot. As I am abjectly poor, and Monopoly money is all I have in the world, I refuse. The crackhead shoots me in the chest, and I go down, whimpering like a small child. All is lost.
Or so I think. A fairly fit lesbian appears and trades gunshots with my assailant. Her hand is completely blown apart. I am not one to look a deus ex machina in the mouth, so I dart away as quickly as possible, money in hand. As I make my escape, I wonder how I was able to discern her sexual orientation in such a short, violent period of time. I mean, really, it seems rather irrelevant given the situation we were in. Nevertheless, I resolve that in the future, I will be nicer to all females clad in army-green tanktops.
When I reach the ground floor, I run directly into another gun-wielding maniac, who relieves me of all of my Monopoly money. I hand it over without issue, as I have already been shot in the torso at close range, and doubt my body's resilience.
. . . And that's about it. There was a bunch of other weird crap, like eating insect-covered pizza, and dogs biting me all over my body, but I think that's just residual issues from when I was abused for several years as a small child.
Fortunately, today I woke up without any large wounds, or at the very least, no new ones.
AAAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHH GET OUT OF MY MIND. I am going bat-shit insane. I need to get the fuck out of that place.
Monopoly money.
posted by K-Smack at 10:29 pm
5 Comments:
Work dreams are the worst. The other day I dreamt that Abigail from the children's department got on the intercom and said "Attention please. All customers please put their books down and stand up. This store is too messy and you are not permitted to shop until you put everything back in alphabetical order." So that was one of the better work dreams, but then I still had to get up and go right fucking back to work!
RANDOM ACT OF EGREGIOUS INCOMPETENCE BY STRAND'S 'HIGHER-UPS' #273
So, Nancy loves her little leather filler section, right? She also loves renting books to all her fabulous TV shows and movies. Well, they picked some books for SNL (that's Saturday Night Live to you people with lives) on two separate carts. Follow me here: they left one cart full of old-looking books with a note that said 'SNL' next to another FULL cart of old-looking books. So these idiot employees think those are the two carts for the rental and send them out. Then, about four hours later, an employee finds another cart of books with an 'SNL' tag in the spot where the other one was FOUR HOURS EARLIER. And then a few days later, the managers, including you-know-who, come down and start bitching people out. Because, you know, it was THEIR fault.
Fucking people.
your postings make me want to kill myself.
My life makes me want to kill myself.
Re: Incompetence
And yes, Nancy and her pathetic sycophants disgust me as well.
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