So, this dream is actually not so weird, compared to my other ones. Last night, I dreamt...
That I walked into a Target store. I was looking around for chocolates and found an aisle with security boxes. I opened many, only to find little to no candy inside. My best found treasure, were 3 pieces of M&Ms. Which I gladly ate.
I noticed there were smaller security boxes on the top row. I opened them with ease and found wads of MONEY. Just as I hid the money down my bra, Chuck Bass (Gossip Girl) slid next to me. "You know they're watching, right?", he said, in his sexy low-tone voice.
"Yeah, I know. Are you going to help me or what?" I replied.
He replied with a sigh. Good enough for me.
I opened the boxes, he kept a look out.
He spotted a security guard walking our way.
"Don't look now.", he says, without looking up.
I kiss him on his cheek, slipping the money I stole into his pocket.
"I'll see you outside."
I walked up and down some aisle to try to throw off the guard and finally walked outside to my car. I only waited a few minutes before seeing my friend James walk out from the store.
"Hey. Want a ride!?" I yell from across the parking lot.
"Thanks!"
I look over to my right. Two cars are being stripped to the bare car-bones as some hoodlums steal what they can.
"Just hurry up before my car is jacked up too."
As I'm driving, I offer him to crash at my place. He takes up the offer.
We stop at a fountain to kill some Locusts up a flight of stairs.
Not a notable battle. Just a few shotgun kills.
As we head back to the car, a man walks up to me and whispers,
"I know it was you who took the money."
As his last word left his mouth, I grabbed his arm and pinned him against the floor.
"Aren't you going to help me!?!", I yelled at James.
James eyes gleamed something fierce, almost, with fire in his eyes. He snapped out of it and held him down. We roughed up the man, good enough for him to be imobile.
I got up to dust myself off.
"I'll take it from here. Just keep a lookout, ok?" James breathed heavily.
I stood post a few feet away. Not a mouse to be seen. Not a leaf a-flutter. Nothing.
"OKAY. Let's go."
James tossed a black bag in the trunk and we sped off to the house.
He took down his things and I was about to settle to watch some TV when James asks if I would take out the trash for him. More specifically, if I may toss the black bag into the lagoon that was next to my house. I grabbed the bag, about to toss it, when a swarm of ambulances, FBI trucks, helicopters, Mrs. Correa (our school PSA counselor) and LAPD arrive in time to stop me.
"PUT DOWN THE BAG!!!" Mrs. Correa shouts into the speakerphone. I drop it on the porch.
They raid my house and grab James and push him down the stairs and 'round the porch. All eyes are on him as the publicly interrogate him. Their only burning question is,
"Did you do it?"
Silence looms over the crowd of people in my yard and on the street.
Correa steps in,
"James, I know you did it. Just admit it. Just do it. Say it."
James utters nothing.
I'm far too busy climbing the pole on my porch and do gymnastic and acrobatic moves while everyone's eyes laid on James sullen and silent face.
"Yeah. I killed him. He's in that bag."
