Part 2
Before he could find a name for himself, another person appeared this time a sudsy woman. Not an ordinary woman, but a Louisiana Purchase-sized gal, big enough to have her own atmosphere. Her face looked like it was formed by an allergic reaction to the rest of her. If her Prince Charming kissed her and he turned into a dead frog, she'd still be getting the better of the deal. Like the others, she was vaguely translucent, although to see entirely through her would require an X-ray machine attached to the Hubble Telescope.
“There you are, whoever you are. Who are you?” she thundered.
The big guy answered quickly and emphatically, “Unfortunately, I think I’m you.”
The little guy followed. “Then I must be you.”
Then they all turned to me. “Who the hell are you?”
At that point, I wasn’t sure about anything, but before I looked for a picture ID, I said, "I'm me."
They all nodded their heads in agreement; the gigantic woman's head kept bouncing up and down like a medicine ball with a kangaroo inside. With each rise of her head, another person would appear in the room, as would other pieces of furniture; in some cases, they were one and the same. There was a convertible midget who opened up into a full-size person. The room was soon cluttered with people fiercely debating the value of fennel seeds as compared to jet flight and the amount of spit required to spread mononucleosis underwater. The big guy, who by now was close enough for his body odor to meet my bad breath, thus causing a hideous-smelling stormfront, turned to me and spoke slowly. "Am I dreaming?"
That was it; I was dreaming. If that was the case, then I could wake up. "Slap me," I said to the guy.
"I'll do better than that. How about I slug you?" With a fist that turned into a head, he head-butted me in my glass chin, which knocked both me and his fist unconscious.
When I woke, the place was dark and stuffy, clogged with strange people looking like they wanted to be my personal serial killer. Suddenly (that means faster than I can make up an excuse for impotence), two huge guys, each one getting larger than the other and back again, unfolded a skinny Chinaman into a wicker chair. They changed their mind and made him a lazy boy recliner, then grabbed me and forced me to sit in it. They didn't even have to tie me down. Before they could find a rope, they noticed that I was caught on one of the chair's springs. At least, I hope it was a spring— I couldn’t tell if the folding Chinaman was crying in pleasure or pain.
The bigger guy started to spit or talk. I don't know which one he meant to do because neither made the sound attributed to the other, which sounded like it came out of a water-logged violin. He finally managed to splash out, “What are you doing in our dreams?”
Before he could hit, spit, or make me answer by strumming on my vocal cords with his elbow, I questioned him. "What makes you think this is your dream?"
"Yeah, what makes you think this is your dream?" The Chinaman chair repeated.
When someone is about to pound the hell out of you, it's not smart to answer a question with a question, not even if you’re part chair, which I was beginning to think I was. He hit me this time with a fist big enough to be a middleweight boxer. After he was sure I felt the blow and before I could bleed on whose carpet I was standing on (which wasn't mine because it didn't creak), he hoisted an answer in my direction, “Because if it was yours, that would have woken you up!”
As the thug’s pal, who was momentarily bigger, raised his fist, each finger turning into an angry soccer mom, and the furious mommy mob could make contact with my face and do damage that I'm sure would have qualified as it being totaled, I answered, "You're right. I should have woken up."
He slammed the brakes on his fist, which caused skid marks in the air and caused a few soccer moms to throw up on me. Pal number one, now the larger of the two, hosed me clean with fresh spit while he spoke. “Then, what the hell are you doing in my dream?”
Pal number two said to Pal number one, "Who said this was your dream?" Then, without any prodding, the other people clogging up the room began to ask similar questions or ones their mates didn't like.
My two guys were less patient with themselves than they were with me. They started punching each other. An instant later (which is shorter than a moment, but longer than suddenly), everyone in the room began fighting. It was a ruckus, wilder than anything I could have dreamed. Even through their madness, they managed to pick out only my pieces of furniture to hit each other with.
Since almost everyone was paired up, I was left stuck to my Chinaman chair, hoping I could free myself from him before someone discovered that there was still a piece of my furniture left to destroy. I managed to detach myself by slipping off my pajamas, which I don't remember putting on, and I'm sure I haven't worn them since. The Chinaman, free of me, stood up folded and somehow threw himself into an additional person, an antagonistic antique armoire guy, who had accused him of scratching his finish. The Chinaman was on target and hit Mr. Armoire in his glass drawer (so to speak), and he passed out.
I ran to my bedroom and was about to close the door when I heard a voice, definitely feminine, definitely sexy, and definitely not friendly. "Put on the light and close the door," the sexy voice said (words I'd never heard from a woman in my bedroom unless she was leaving), So I did as she ordered.