Blue_Opossum

Morning of November 28, 2015. Saturday.



Yet again I am seemingly living in Cubitis, or at least in a version of my Cubitis bedroom (though there is not much furniture whereas the room had been crowded with furniture prior to my move), though I am also aware that I am married and living with my family as they are now, yet somehow, I perceive that I may only be around twenty years of age.

It seems late at night or a couple hours before sunrise, perhaps. All of my lights are on and the room is bright at first (unrealistically bright, in fact, though the scene is very vivid). However, there is eventually a strange mood, a sense of someone being outside in our front yard, and my lights go out at this point - though there also seems to be a bit of light and movement outside, perhaps from a flashlight shining through the curtains or a brief flash of the light from a police car (perceived as approaching from the north). I am wondering how this happened. Perhaps someone shut off the power from outside - yet I also get the impression that I may have mentally caused the power to go off of as an act of self-preservation. I decide to move away from all the tall windows so that my shadow is not seen to anyone outside, which is a bit illogical, as my shadow would have been more likely seen when my lights were on (typical skewed dream “logic”).

I carefully go to the middle west window and look out and see an unknown male (perhaps in his thirties) and another male to his left who may be his son. There are a couple backpacks lying on our lawn to their right and some of their apparel seems militia-related but not all. They are standing near the center of the front yard. They do not see me at any point. A strange event occurs. The older male fires a bazooka at our roof and I am aware that he is doing this because he is angry about our satellite dish and communications technology and I get a strong impression he does not want me or anyone in my family to communicate with anyone. He does not seem to want to destroy our household, just stop us from giving accurate information to people as well as preventing us from getting information from people or the outside world in general.

I go out to the carport and casually say hello to them after writing down the license plate number of their car (parked adjacent to the highway past our front yard), which is six digits in all and begins with a “three”, though I did not hold the number in my mind long enough to remember what it was now. It was “three” followed by a space, followed by three numbers (possibly 467), another space, and two more numbers (possibly 92). Somehow, I take it to actually be a telephone number such as one seen in a so-called infomercial (even though again, there are only six digits).

They walk into our carport, seeming uncertain of what to expect, but come into our house. The older male sits in an armchair (facing south and to the left of the implied carport door) and his son sits perpendicular to him to my right (facing west) as I am facing north, looking directly at the older male. The room and layout becomes unknown. It still seems to be implied to be my bedroom, but the carport door actually seems to lead to a hall at this point. (It is so typical of dreams to change layouts of a house at different times, as I had just used that door to go out to the carport and back into my room and now it leads to a hall.)

I very quickly pick up my large Olympic barbell (almost without thinking, as it had been leaning to my right against my chair) and jam it into his mouth (still remaining seated in my armchair and he in his across the room from me), all the way to the back of his neck, it seems. He is still alive but cannot move or speak and his eyes are bulging in utter fear. Although his face is generically human, it is too oddly rendered to be a real human face (typical of some dream types and scenes). His teenage son is very worried and remains seated and does not do anything even though they had brought their weapons into our house. He pleads with me not to hurt his father to any greater extent. I tell my wife Zsuzsanna, who is walking easterly by in the (fictional) hall, to call the police, even though I get a vague sense they may not like my “mistreatment” of this criminal, though that concern is not wholly emergent at any point.