The dream keeps rewinding behind my eyes. Can't shake the infernal thing. Attempting to understand why it's making an uncomfortable ball in my stomach. Sour yolk floating in my gastric juices.

I am convinced that my dreams are more twisted during the afternoon. A characteristic of the daylight filtered through my eyelids marinates the whole process. Salmon hued background illumination in the unconcious triggers the bottled imps. Pops their corks and they spread like scrubbing bubbles.

The dream.

Sitting at my desk, actually frantically standing, moving from each of my three computer screens. The surroundings are completely nondescript. It seems I am occupying a temporal floating space of an office representing all white collar hells. Or that my vision is forcibly clamped down so that I am only allowed to perceive my work station.

Ingrid appears behind my monitors, with an assistant in tow. What gets my attention is a paycheck that is thrown in front of my face. Sliding across a spreadsheet. Eighty-nine dollars and no cents. Ingrid taunting chuckles.

Interruption. A few words on Ingrid. The absolute worst slave I have ever endured, she was the direct managerial force I had to struggle with while working it. It was a printing shop, and she was the task master. Nasty cunt. She would literally swat and pinch people to get their attention. Air obliteratingly shrieked every word that slithered out of her throat. She was originally from Trinidad. Horribly fist fucked the English language. "I bop you on head" was her favorite encouraging tool. I used to call her personal pidgen "Ingrish".

She once said something so pure. When I say pure I mean unrefined diarrheal ridiculousness. It was so purely definitive of her wafting mouth stench that it's almost beautiful in it's gobliness. In response to someone suggesting that one of her underlings was getting the best of her she blurted "No! I too smart for she!". I too smart for she. Just allow that phrase to play on like a clumsy chorus in your mind. You will eventually be struck with uncontrolable giddy laughter.

Interruption ceased. She laughs at my paycheck of eighty-nine dollars and no cents. Immediately I am struck with panic pangs of broke ass chumpitude. I can feel my life crashing in on me.

Somehow I figure out that I have another jobby job that pays well ( the living world jobby job ). I rationalise that the eighty-nine dollars and no cents is just supplemental. But, Ingrid does not know this.

She tosses down two billing statements. Somehow I owe a sizeable sum to a bank, red borders on the notice, obviously it's drastic. Secondary notice from the same institution about processing fees owed on the same account. Ingrid says she will call the bank and tell them I will be unable to pay.

She states that she will contact a lawyer to investigate my sabotage of another printing company. A place I was apparently farmed out to do work for, and subsequently mucked up the works so they couldn't compete against us in the market. Which I didn't do, but I will be used as the sacrificial scapegoat for.

She picks up my notepad. Mocking my meticulous attention to detail. Saying it's all useless cause my work "no good for any people". Tosses it on the ground and chuckles again at her assistant, feeling proud of her cuntinations. Squinty eyed she looks at me as if she believes she has destroyed my life and it's the best thing ever.

I calmly place whatever I was working on, down on the desk. Walk up to ingrid. She maintains her glee. I right cross open hand smack her in the grill. Knocked her out the frame. Honest donuts, I struck her completely out of the dream. Last bit of Ingrid I remember seeing were the soles of her shoes flailing in the air, sinking into the void of the edges of my dream.

I pack up my shit and bail. I know that I had just put in my two second notice. Her assistant mentions coming with me to freedom. I hustle to a freight elevator, always checking over my shoulder for shadows.

Transported to a mezzanine. Appears that I am living in the warehouse style product floor of a Staples or some other such home office supplies megamart. Palates of stacked reproduction paper cases make up my walls. Empty overturned crates act as my night stand. Candles flicker as my only source of light, other than the residual ceiling spill over from the flourescents of the warehouse aisles.

Missy Elliot is being pushed in a wheelchair by Ludacris. She has an azure jumpsuit on with sparklies throughout the fabric. Matching dazzle Kangol. Ludacris is smirking devilishly. Missy Elliot parks in front of me. I am perched on my sheet on the cement floor, my bedding. She tells me that they are not going to prosecute, but when I spit on one of her peeps, she has to spit back. Ludacris has to take a leak on my head.

"Full bladder's worth?" I plaintively ask. Ludacris begins unzipping his fly with way more joy than I would like to see in the man's face. I ask if I can at least explain my actions first.

I am allowed. I unfold the whole tale. With each blow to my person in my retelling of the events I get more and more emotional. Find myself genuinely welling up and exacerbated. Increasing amounts of halted speech and air sucking in, like when you are trying to speak while bawling. Ends with me freaking out about the insulting my notepad, since I do more work than any of the other ass scratchers back there, making more money for the company than any other slob. Wind up being consoled by Missy's henchman who is no longer Ludacris, and Missy seems to have vanished as well.

They vow to repair the injustices done to my dignity......and I wake up discombobulated. Rattle my head. Unable to trust my sense of touch. These can't be sheets that I am running my fingers on. I look at my windows as if they have any answers.

Finally understand that I am awake. Look outside and see my neighbors snowy cat chasing rain rivulets coursing down their apartment window. The world is active, and I am able to tell myself that my life is real again. That I don't have eighty dollar job shackles locked around my ankles.

I am still shook. Probably mostly due to my pain from slaving on the overnight shift. However I don't trust my existence today. Think I am gonna encounter Ingrid taking a mega crap in my shower. Shrieking "where toilet paper dumb head?!?" And then having to deal with washing blood off my tiles, disposing of a body and covering up a murder. I'd probably go completely insanse if there were actually people that wind up missing that taco stain. Tied down being spoon fed pharmaceutical laced applesauce. Just wouldn't be worth the rage.