Ok, wtf? Now I'm an action hero?

Whoo boy, it was another one of those impressive, full-length dreams last night...

So at the end of my recent trip to the United States, wizgeneric & s.o. dropped me off at the British Airways check-in desk. For some dream-logic reason, the check-in desk is actually in Market East Station in central Philadelphia. Right between a Starbucks and a guy selling "pretzles" out of a wooden cart. So. I'm standing here in the queue for check-in and I'm rifling through my bags for no particular reason other than to establish that if I have left something behind, it's far too late now to do anything about it.

What is less than obvious is that before I left to come to the United States, some friends and I held up and robbed a bank truck at gunpoint in northern France, making off with around $50,000 US dollars. I have about $1000 of these in my pocket, in fifty-dollar bills. Or, rather, I should have. After hearing a news report on the WizG's car radio, I had elected not to spend any of them. But counting the notes in my wallet, I realise that I have. And they're being tracked. Crap.

So here I am standing in the check-in desk, fumbling trying to separate out two pairs of Beyerdynamic and Sennheiser headphones because I somehow know that the Sennheisers will give me away. It's as if I can hear the intelligence officers' radio service broadcasting distinguishing features to the grunts I am now convinced are prowling around the station looking for me. Then I look down at my feet because I have stubbed my foot on something next to my hold luggage.

What appear to be two assault rifles in cases. What luck. But I'm sure I didn't have those when we packed the Volkswagen.

The grunts are behind me, suddenly, I know. Worse still, they've seen the headphones. I stoop to my knees, grab my new black jacket, zip it up, and check the rifle cases. One contains a big shiny silver thing with a shoulder-butt and a little label that says it's a pulse rifle - whatever the hell one of those is - the other is a hand-cannon with a ridiculously long double barrel.


From thereon, things get kind of hazy. I'm turning around, standing up, with the hand-cannon in my arms and the incriminating Sennheiser headphones around my neck, and look up to see three agents in trenchcoats (really, could my dreams be any more cliché?) staring at them. Watching them, I fan out the banknotes, and then toss them into their faces. I'm away, running through the Starbucks and knocking over a barrista. Normally I run about as well as a moth gives head, but today I have no problem. Not even with a firearm in either hand.

I've also clearly had some firearms and combat training, because the air around me is erupting with small-arms fire and some sort of terrifying sonic weapon that leaves Matrix-like traces in the air; and I'm returning fire from the cannon. The barrel of the sodding thing must be about ten inches long, so clearly the dream has done nothing for my penis dimension inadequacies. I must confess, I didn't get time to check.

By this point we're legging it directly out of Market East to end up outside the Greyhound terminal. Or at least, that's what ought to be here, but instead directly across the street we have a cheap hotel and directly next to that, a little Episcopalian church with a very high belltower. That'll do nicely. Bam.

Inside and up the tower, switching to the cheerful silver rifle. I appear to have run IDKFA at some point because the thing shows no signs of ever needing to be reloaded. It is at about this time that I realise that in addition to shooting big red bolts of glowing plasma, it also shoots concussion grenades. Boink, they go down the staircase, and then make dust fall from the rafters. Wham.

As I advance up the bell tower, its structure gets forcefully perforated by what seem to be blasts of superheated air that practically vaporise the stonework and would presumably do a pretty good job on my body, cool jacket or no. It's at this point that the dream loses all contact with reality, when I find a pair of sunglasses in my jacket and put them on. Thank you, ma'am.

As I reach the top of the belltower there is a deafening clang as the bell is forced out the side of the tower, where it falls more than eighty feet to the street below. This happens, I discover, because the pursuing authorities have lodged what looks like a torpedo through the windows at the summit of the belltower. It is decorated like a Chinese firecracker in gold and red and black and has the trade-name Axolalotl picked out on it. It is ticking. I suspect when it detonates, I will be very, very sorry if I'm still around.

Climbing to a window, I attempt to scale the tower and the roof, but it's seriously hard work and all the lead has been stripped from the tiles. I hear someone shouting my name and look around: Beat Takeshi is parked below in an AMC Pacer and waving at me. I vault gracelessly to the ground and leap inside the back, poking out the enormous rear window and take up firing positions. "Ok," I say uncomfortably, realising that I've torn the crotch of my jeans, "Go."

Beat starts his engine and takes off towards the Delaware. He drives with a true maniac's disregard for the red light, and insists on playing a tape of Greek mandolin music very loudly. At some point around the Hilton at Penn's Landing, I hit my head very hard on the roof struggling into the shotgun seat, and forget much of what comes after.