Some time ago I had a strangely intriguing dream. It has never returned but I remember it often. Here it is for the reader's Freudian analysis.
George rang the bell. She opened the door in a bathrobe.
“You’re early.”
“Where is it?”
“You’re early.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t have it.”
“You lying bitch.”
He pushed inside and made a quick survey of the apartment.
“What have you done with it?”
“I stuck it up my ass.”
“Okay.”
He went to the kitchen and came back with a butcher knife.
“I think I’ll have to do some exploratory surgery on a lying bitch’s ass.”
“That’s not a funny joke, George.”
“You’re partly right; it’s not a joke,” he said. He ripped off her robe; she was naked beneath it. She screamed and wrestled away from him. He slashed at her but missed and she ran out the door, still screaming.
She ran naked down the street alongside the parked cars, crying, “Help me! He’s going to murder me!” A car door opened; she ran smack into it and crumpled to the pavement.
Sipping a drink on the patio of a nearby restaurant, Martin saw the woman collide with the car door and knock herself out. He was astonished because she was the woman he had been hired to keep under surveillance, and he had been about to mosey down the street toward her apartment building. Shouldn’t have ordered that last drink, he thought.
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