I am a hitman, an assassin for hire — although who it is that is my boss is unclear.

I am in a parking garage drifting on the ceiling using some sort of ancient ninja magic, when I spot my target pull up below me in a black sedan with his bodyguard. The target is Asian, with long, black wavy hair. His bodyguard is also his driver, bald and also Asian. I am not Asian.

Still below me and unknown of my presence, they exit the vehicle at the same time, both wearing sunglasses and both carrying weapons. I choose to pounce on the target first, which I do, effectively disarming him and shooting him with his own weapon. The bodyguard quickly rolls under the vehicle, but that is no problem, as I simply aim the gun under the car and kill him too. I grab his gun, as well, jump in the sedan — I can hear approaching sirens — and take off, searching for the exit of the garage.

I find the exit, but it’s a manned exit, and I just can’t bust through like the movies, as the only way out is blocked by steel gate that only opens after you pay. It is here I discover that I must be in Japan, as the Asian manning the exit is Japanese, only speaks Japanese and there is only Japanese Yen, a garage ticket stub and my target’s driver’s license on the visor above me. After some brief discussion, I hand the employee the stub and some money, the gate rises, and I tear off so fast out of the garage, the car leaps from the exit ramp (I see the vehicle launching in front, then rear and finally side angles, all in slow motion, of course).

After the car is on solid ground, I drive through the city avoiding the police that are after me. I see this all transpire far overhead, as if I’m a bird. Or helicopter. It’s easier that way. It takes me a few tries, but I finally understand that mowing down hundreds of pedestrians and police officers is not the way to get me out of this trap, I need to change vehicles. So, after about the third attempt, I dump the black sedan for a white one and when that gets too hot, I get myself a red coupe (which I jacked from some poor pizza delivery guy who had left it running on the curb). That is the one that will get me to safety, I’m sure of it.

Shortly after I swipe the red sports car, the cops are hot on my tail again. I cut a right off a busy street and spot my chance for escape: A ramp. I see the ramp will launch me to a busy five lane highway below, but I know I’ll be okay. I’m a good driver. I floor it, hit the ramp at God knows what speed and launch into the air, again in slow motion, again with various angles.

But things get fuzzy, wavy, watery. Whatever you want to call it. A voice says: Where you want to go and where you end up are always two different things.

Another scene starts to come into focus. I am on a huge bed, possibly king size. The sheets — which I belive might be silk or satin, though I’ve never had the urge to want such sheets — are in a disarray, shuffled by the obvious act of sex that is happening. There is an Asian girl on top of me. I don’t know if I’m a hitman still or not, but I believe at this point that is irrelevant.

The voice repeats: Where you want to go and where you end up are always two different things.

And just before what’s happening becomes clear, I hear something else: the sound of someone walking up my steps.

My eyes bolt open, I am suddenly awake. I had fallen asleep watching Sister Street Figher. Everything before was a dream, but now there is potentially real danger.

I jump out of bed, grab the only four foot post that is not secure to the frame and check out the house. It dawns on me that at some point during the night I had shed my boxers, and now I was walking around the house naked with a bedpost-for-a-weapon in hand. I imagine this is a site to behold.

After determining everything was secure (aside from the basement which I did not check, fuck that) I reward myself with some lemonade and a handful of razzberry M&Ms from the last bag that I had hoarded when they were still available.

As I head back upstairs to try to go back to sleep, I am tempted to kick Mr. Jingles who sits at the top, staring at me. It is no doubt his fat ass that was creeping up the stairs, awaking me from my dreams of assassinations, fast cars and Asian women. But I don’t. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. So I give him a hard look, which he barely acknowledges before turning his attention to the wall, grab my laptop and get all of that dream down before I forget it. The first song I hear when I turn on the radio is Lunatic Fringe by Red Rider. That’s some kind of sign that things are a little tweaked this late night / early morning.

I learned a lesson here, kids. That lesson is to fall asleep watching female kung-fu. There is a potential of having some stellar dream action.