Night Run

My eyes popped open from my deep sleep. I looked over at the clock. It was 3:20 a.m.

The stress of buying a new home, changing jobs and being a literary success took its toll on my brain. 

After tossing and turning in bed for an hour and a half, I thought to myself, "Fuck it, I’m going on a run."

I quietly skirted out of my bed, tip-toed around the house to grab my running gear and quietly slipped out of the house.  

Like a chef walking into a meat freezer, a cool breeze hit my face and took my breath away. I stared in awe at the darkened Bath night.

“Where are you UFO’s?” I thought to myself. “Will I ever see you before I die?”

With that last thought, I hopped into the car, clicked on the ignition and slowly careened out of my driveway.

I pulled into Bath Nature Preserve around 3:50 a.m. for an impromptu illegal run (hours are from dawn to dusk). So here I was. The darkness enveloped the entire sky. The skitters and scampers of little forest creatures could be heard in the distance. But that was it. The air was still. I could see my breath misting in the cool air.

To be honest, I was a bit creeped out.

“Maybe I’ll just get back in the car and drive over to the high school and do a couple laps on the track,” I thought to myself.

“Pffft,” the little Eimer devil whispered on my shoulder. “Are you really going to be that big of a pussy?”

“Nooo,” I said to my evil doppelganger, then pulled a 180. “Fuck it, I’m already here. What’s the worse thing that could happen?”

I could die. Gulp!

Thankfully, I had my trusty Energizer Headlamp with four unique shine frequencies, including infrared lens. Yeah, it was dark, but I would be safe and sound as long as my headlamp remained on for my 3.5-mile night run.

"Right?"

I set my watch and took off down the dark grainy path. In the distance to East, I saw the slightest spit of  light from the Fairlawn shopping center. No sign of the sun trying to pull itself out of the darkness. Too early I guessed.

The trail took me through a field. 

I felt a slight tickling at my back and thought about the 'thing' from JEEPERS CREATURES. The thing that could fly in the air. The thing with the cowboy hat. The thing with the dusty MATRIX-like coat. The thing that likes to use people’s bones to create an altar.

Anticipating an aerial assault, I lurched my neck back and forth shining the light from here to there. No JEEPERS. No CREEPERS. 

I continued to run and cut off down a gravel hill, which connected to a rough the horse trail - a trail that was separated to the right by a huge pillar of pine trees and oaks and horse pastures to the left. I noticed a huge mansion, outdoor lights glowing in the distance. Yeah, I was in Bath after all.

I descended the hill and my near-sightedness kicked into high gear as I noticed a black spot down the way. The blur became the creature from XTRO, the alien creature that dropped from the sky and raped a woman with its mouth. A horror that still haunts me to this day. I ignored the lump of whatever on the ground. It may have hissed at me. I picked up my steps and glided by the creature before it could impregnate me with its nasty-eating orifice.

The horse trail careened up a hill. My breathing deeper and shallower, I huffed and puffed up a like the Little Engine That Could; the flashlight on my head bobbing up and down, up and down illuminating the ground in a wobbly, almost-BLAIR WITCH PROJECT-type of cinema verite.

I ran up a forty-five degree incline near the natural gas pump, one of six that lay in the Bath Nature Preserve. To my left, a strange formation stepped out of the woods, it looked to me like the possessed goat in DRAG ME TO HELL. I remembered the white eyes. The satanic look. The immediate hunger for human flesh. My heart began to race as I passed the creature that lay before me...

...only a deer.

It gave out a snort and took off into the woods. That’s when I felt my heart beating more than the required 200 beats per minute. The buck snorted, once again, and shot off into another section of the woods. 

I hung a left down an old grassy trail, which connected, back again with the main running trail, and approached an old wooden bridge.

In the darkness, it almost appeared like a moat bridge from CASTLE GREYSKULL inviting me to commiserate with the likes of He-Man, Man-At-Arms, Beast Man and, more importantly, She-Ra to discuss the political situations with Skeletor on Planet Eternia over a pint of mead.

Then, my mind immediately shifted to think the story of BILLY GOATS GRUFF; more importantly the troll that lurked beneath the bridge. "Could there be a troll underneath this bridge?" I thought as I clopped, clopped, clopped underneath the wooden slats, I overheard the stream gently bubbling underneath my feet. 

Then I heard a rustle. Then I did a 180-degree turn and high-tailed it off the bridge back to the trial and up the hill. I imagined the angry CAVE TROLL from THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, pulling itself from the wooden bridge, goblins by its side, as it ripped and tore the sides of the bridge and quickly reached the nape of my neck.

I yanked my head back. Nothing. I let out a sigh and continued on my journey.

About two miles into my run, I was getting into my groove. Heart beat at 180 or slightly higher, half a yard steps, even breathing and a nice 9:00 pace (hey, I’m not trying to break any world records, here). The darkness grew more ominous as I entered an overlap of trees and slightly into the denser forest.

I heard a faint rustle in the woods to my right. I shined the light into the weeds. Deep in the distance a faint shadow appeared. Memories of AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON shot through my skull. The scene where the man is heading up the escalator and scans down the steps to see the hulking werewolf slowly, almost casually, heading toward its prey.

Which reminded me of a story...

When I was a little kid, we had two sets of stairs in our house. The first set of steps ran up from the kitchen and pantry into the upstairs bedroom, which I shared with my brother. Every single time I walked down those steps I was convinced a demonic Gladiator Centaur with bow and arrow in hand was going to shoot out of the attic door, pull three of four fiery arrows from his sheath and, in a machine gun cadence, proceed to shoot them towards my back. Convinced this was going to happen, I always sprinted down the steps like a boy possessed.

The second set of steps headed down into the basement. The steps had openings beneath each step. No carpet, no wood, just functional steps. Going down into the basement was never a problem. However, heading upstairs, was a big problem. I was convinced that as I reached the sixth set of steps, the WEREWOLF from THE HOWLING was going to shoot his hand through the open slats, snatch my ankle and squeeze with all its might. Convinced this was going to happen, I always bounded up the basement steps like a boy possessed – as well. "Why do you do that?!!" my mother would always scream.

Back to the night run...

My pace quickened. My blood pressure felt like it shot up another 10 points. Goosebumps covered my entire body anticipating a strike from the beast in the woods. However, after another inspection with my trusty light, the shadow revealed itself to be a large boulder. Phew! Instant death diverted once again.

I careened off the bike path and onto a dirt, running trail past a gargantuan steel dragon. The JABBERWOCKY from Alice in Wonderland???!!!! No, only the steel pulsing of a gas well going up and down, up and down. Chugging gas from the ground up into its steel basin.

The trail careened into an even darker forested umbrella. Blackness covered me like a cold blanket of Death. I clicked the highest shine function on my Energizer Headlamp.

The crunch of my steps on the hard pebbles and rocks was the only sound echoing into the eerie, wooded terror land. I thought of the movie PUMPKINHEAD. The green creature spawned by hate from some section of hell. I thought about the CENOBITES from HELLRAISER, led by Pinhead, the unflinching psychopaths from Hades. The  things that wanted to tear your soul apart. I glanced over into what I knew was an empty, dried up bog. For an instant, I thought I saw the menacing creatures waiting in the woods. Waiting for me to slightly step off the trail so they could tear my body from limb to limb, ripping each and every piece of my body until only a puddle of blood remained.

I closed my eyes. “Just movies,” I said to myself. “Only movies.” I opened my eyes and the creatures were gone.

Again, wanting this run to be over, I quickened my pace once again as I set up another hill, which turned slightly into a concrete path before opening up into a field of wheat, or hay, or simply tall grass. I wasn’t sure. I ran into a plume of fog, which slightly cooled my body. It felt like I was running into a thousand deathly souls roaming the Earth.

For a moment I was expecting the creature DARKNESS from the movie LEGEND to come through the fog, through the smoke; inserting his scabbard hand into my heart and ripping it into pieces.

This was supposed to be a 30-minute repast during my day. It was supposed to be my relaxing three-mile run. Instead, it was my own personal internal hell. My own personal demons terrorizing my every step.

Which reminds me...

Sometimes during my run, I think about death. I think about possibly dying when I’m older on one of these trails. Will my body be found? Will it lie there and slowly decay for years and years? What will people think when they come upon it?

Sometimes, even during my day runs, I look back and imagine a black figure gliding effortlessly through the trail, 50 yards or so behind me, matching my pace, waiting, anticipating that moment when I trip, my heart skips, I have a stroke or I simply stop breathing.

Back on the trail...

I came around the turn and approached a ubiquitous shadow; a blurry figure walking closer to me. This was the time that I wished for my glasses, or contacts or the fucking Lasik eye surgery. Anything for me to focus on the image in front of me.

Was this my time? Was this my death?  Was that the GRIM REAPER from THE MEANING OF LIFE with his long scythe waiting patiently for me to finish my run. Waiting patiently to take me away from my family, my kids and my not-so-bad life?

“Excuse me,” the creature said. Only it wasn’t a creature.

“Huh,” I said startled as I slowed to a brief walk, then stopped in front of the man’s face. He was an older gentleman, about 60 or 65. A just-as-old golden retriever stood next to him panting a rather jolly pant.

“Do you know how to get back to the main bike trail?”

I nodded and pointed in the direction I came. “Follow this loop and it will take you back to the trail.”

“Thank you so much,” the man said petting the top of his dog’s head. An odd two-second silence whisked between us. My mind started again. I imagined a knife in his back pocket. I imagined the OLDER GENTELMAN from the movie LET THE RIGHT ONE IN. The guy who killed in order to accumulate fresh blood for his young vampire princess. I took a slight step back from the man and the dog, which looked a bit angrier from the last second I looked at him.

“A little creepy out at this time of day, eh?” asked the old man.

I nodded.

“Your mind can play some crazy tricks on you that’s for sure” he said.

“You’re telling me,” I said. “Be careful.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” the old man laughed and patted his loyal dog on top of the head. “That’s why I have her to protect me.”

I looked at the dog and through about my dog, Otto; a loyal Rottweiler-Doberman mix that was the best dog in the world.

“Well, have a good run,” the old man smiled and started on his way. “And thank you.”

“You too,” I said and headed off to my car.

During my half-mile run back to my car, I thought about the old man. I thought about the ghosts and goblins that tormented my mind. I thought about my life, my dreams, my family and my job.

I thought about all the scary things that this world can throw at you day in and day out. And all of the things on this Earth that can just as easily take you away from it all.

I thought about my mother whispering in my ear before heading off to school. “Heck, every time you step outside of your house, you can get killed,” she said. “Just think of all the ways you can die in a day...”

For some reason those comments have stuck in my mind.

Today, I was able to outrun and outfox Pumpkinhead, the Cave Troll, the American Werewolf in London, the grim specter of Death and other creatures lingering and lurking in the back of my brain.

Tomorrow, I may not be so lucky.

Maybe I’ll go on an afternoon run instead.

I just wanna bang on a drum all day

It was 8 a.m. (today actually)

As I opened the door to exit my home to begin my 35-minute commute to Beachwood, I took a minute, or two, to take in the natural surroundings around me.

A warm wind was blowing in from the west.

Trees were opening their leaves happily gasping for CO2.

A rabbit hopped around the field.

The clouds were white and puffy, like little fluffy feminine napkins.

The sky as blue as Windex.

It was then that my attention turned to a man, in full Lance Armstrong biking gear, peddling up the road. He was huffing and puffing but had a intense, yet content, look on his face.

"Must be nice," I bellowed out to the man as I tossed my laptop bag into the car.

The man looked over and smiled.

"Yep," he yelled back. "It is."

(sigh)

For the first time in my life I realized that this work stuff is definitely getting in the way of my free time.

Appletrees, Bonfires, Bath and Cidiots

While we were on our vacation, our backyard apple tree was knocked down in a wind/thunder/rain storm.

It’s a bummer because the apple tree itself, was a nice accoutrement to our backyard. It evened out the entire feng shui of the property. Plus, it was always the first thing that caught my eye when I looked out my kitchen window.

A neighbor and I cut down the remainder of the tree for firewood. My neighbor took his turn and cut horizontally into the base of the tree. Black ants poured out, like the scene from The Mummy when the scarab beatles attacked Indiana-Jones wannabe Brendan Fraser and made him scream like a little girl.

Since my neighbor is almost 60 years old, I had the unique pleasure of dragging the deathly remains of the apple tree to a burn pile.

Now, in Bath, Ohio, it’s illegal to have bonfires. Big roaring bonfires. However, I have only witnessed one summons from the fire department since I moved here in 2006. Some knucklehead across the street was burning leaves in his front yard on an Autumn Saturday morning, which created a blanket of smoke visible from the outer space.

So, this past Saturday night, I decided to light said pile of brush on fire. We didn’t invite anyone over. We didn’t buy stuff for s'mores. We didn’t haul a keg next to the fire and start drinking. We just lit the goddamn thing and watched what happened.

Prior to starting the bonfire, I poured about a half-gallon of gas onto the dry wood, just to ensure that we would have a successful fire.

After a big ‘POOF’, the fire took shape. And started getting higher, and hotter, and higher, and hotter. In fact, the highness and the hotness of the fire caught the attention of my neighbors who live in a cul-de-sac about a half-mile away from my house. It was a man and woman, and they both had beverages in their hand complete with red, puffy Catholic faces.

“Hey there,” the guy said. “We saw the fire and thought we’d come over and introduce ourselves.”

As I was shaking their hands, I already had my reservations about these two. Something shouted out ‘nosy neighbor worried about forest fire’ instead of ‘future friends’.

We started talking about life, liberty and the future of Bath.

“So, how do you like it here?”the dude asked.

“Pretty good, we moved in about…”

“Holy shit,” the guy interrupted. “Is that a gas can!” He pointed the red can that said “GASOLINE” on the front.

“Yeah, I thought I’d toss a little on the fire to, you know, get it started.”

The couple looked at each other.

“That’s a cidiot for ya!” the man said and they both cackled like hyenas.

I chuckled. “What’s a cidiot?”

“Oh nothing,” the woman answered. “Just our little term for city folks who move out to the country and try to do country things.”

The smile was wiped off my face.

“Well,” I said. “Technically, this isn’t the country. I mean we’re about a mile and a half from an Old Navy. And I grew up in the country (I did the fake parentheses with my hands) for 18 years of my life until I moved away for college.”

“Hey, hey, don’t get upset,” the guy said. “We was only joking. A little mineral oil, dry newspaper or motor oil will do the trick just fine.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said almost instantly forgetting his advice. Just to spite this guy, I already knew the next fire I was going to start was going to be with my good, ol' trusty gas can.

After a couple more minutes of conversation they moseyed along their way. Pointing at trees. Taking about property and other stuff that ‘country’ people talk about.

Don’t know what my point was.
Maybe it was my new introduction to the word ‘cidiots’.

Maybe it’s, as a get older and older, I’m starting to call people out on their bullshit.

Maybe I’m just sick of people that think they know everything, but – after they open their mouth and start talking for a couple seconds – you realize they don’t really know anything at all.
Now that I think of it, it’s probably the latter.

Recessions, Running and Roadpops.

If you regularly read this blog, you know that I’m an avid runner.

Back in the day, I used to keep a daily log of my overall mileage and times. Now – more or less – I run for the enjoyment and exercise not to mention the positive effects it has on my asthma and my mental well being.

But one of the most interesting things is I sometimes come across some interesting shit that you wouldn't normally see barreling 70 mph in the country with your Led Zeppelin blaring.

As a road runner, I’m always looking at the gulleys on the side of the road in hopes of finding the mother lode in the form of a diamond ring, a rich-man’s wallet, CDs or even a Netflix DVD.

Since Daylight Savings Time is in full effect and the snow has started to melt, I’ve noticed a spike in the amount of debris scattered in my neighborhood compared to last year.

In particular, I've seen a lot more beer cans. Busch Light to Labatts Blue and everything in between. I even noticed an unopened Samuel Adams bottle, which is a very rare find in any neighborhood.

My theory on this noticeable uptick is simple:

• Bath is a pretty well-to-do neighborhood. Lots of rich folk. Plenty of middle-class folk. And not too many poverty-stricken folk.
  


• More people, especially rich people, are extremely stressed out about the economy and their ever-depleting 401ks and stocks.
  


• More people are secretly gulping down said cans of booze and tossing them out the window before they get home so their wife or husband doesn’t find out how stressed out they are.

As I went about my run on Sunday afternoon and gazed at the endless formation of dead soldiers lining the road, I thought to myself that I would love to be a fly on the wall in one of those cars, trucks or motorcycles right before one of those cans were thrown out the window.

I wonder what was going through their buzzed-up minds?

ON A RELATED BATH NOTE: This past weekend I just noticed that someone moved into the house where Jeffrey Dahmer committed his first murder. I wonder if the real estate company mentioned this little nugget of information to the family when they sold them the place?

Living in the country.

As I stated before, I live in Northeast, Ohio, in a town called Bath.

Some may call it a suburb. Others may call it a township. Some may even refer to it as Akron.

All in all, it’s country.

No not farm country with cows, chickens and farmers firing up big-ass tractors two hours before daybreak.

No. No. No. No. No.

It’s country in the terms of other things.

Crowing roosters in the morning. Cricking grasshoppers late at night. Chirping birds throughout the day

Sparkly planets twinkling in the sky. The ability to catch a falling star from the corner of your eye.

The occasional shiny beer can clanking to the ground. Possibly from an angry husband who had to much to drink at Gasoline Alley, the local bar down the road.

Airplane lights blinking in the sky, going from east to west carrying a group of unknown people to unknown destinations throughout the world.

Police who know what it means to not arrest a local. Unless, of course, it’s completely necessary.

Warm days. Cool nights. Breezy weekends. The smells of nature all around. Both good and bad.

Rodents - in the form of skunks, mice and raccoons - scurrying around the dark of night pillaging garbage cans for uneaten scraps of dinner.

The smell of fresh-cut grass. Followed by the waft of an elephant ear coming from a local summer carnival down the winding two-lane highway of Hametown Road.

Whispers in the air coming from the headless, decaying corpse of Jeffrey Dahmer's first victim "Help me. Help me!".

Broken, beaten mailboxes. The remnants of high schoolers playing a late-night, game of mailbox baseball.

Barking dogs and meowing cats prowling around the dusk landscape. Pure instinct of which millions of years of evolution couldn’t erase.

Spiders, spinning their webs on the dewy grass of dawn in hopes of capturing lost insects.

The distant sound of basketballs echoing from Lebron James house. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. CLANG!

Plumbers. Contractors. Copywriters. Housewives. Celebrating the end of the day by sipping on cold beverages and watching the sun go down.

Yep. It’s the country.

Pure. Untouched. Real. Raw.

I love every bit of it.

But you know what I love the most?

The fact that I can take a piss outside no matter the time of day without having to look over my shoulder.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Now that’s pure country.

A Warm Run in Bath.

On my way home from work, I stuck my head out of the window.

Mid 60's with a slightly warm wind.

Perfect running weather.

I hopped out of the car, kissed the kids on the forehead, made a beeline to the bedroom and tossed on my shorts, t-shirt, running shoes and bandana.

In less than a minute, my gladiator outfit was complete. I was ready for a run.

I hit the pavement with full gusto. But, before I could take a single stride, my neighbor pulled up beside me in his riding lawn mower.

"Howdy," he yelled.

I acknowledged him with a nod.

"Almost Deere Season," he yucked pointing toward the green and yellow beast under his ass. "You ready?"

"Yup," I said slightly annoyed and pointed toward the highway horizon. "Well, the road's a calling."

The sky was blue. The birds were chirping. Chainsaws were purring.

Spring was in full bloom in Bath, Ohio.

I inhaled and took a deep sniff of my surroundings.

Wild flowers. Freshly cut grass mixed with gasoline. A dead possum thawing out on the side of the road.

Ahhhhh, the smells of paradise.

I ran down the hill and dodged a beer can thrown out the window from a passing Porsche. A baby boomer returning from a hard day of 18 holes, no doubt.

The can clanked and clacked on the side of the road until it came to a complete stop in the mud. It was Labatt's Blue. The best selling Canadian beer in the world. Good brand. Bad tact.

"Thanks rich Bath dude who likes to drink and drive," I yelled as I put up my middle finger. "You rock."

I concentrated on the road. I concentrated on my running. I took deep breaths and let them out slowly, just like the September 2006 issue of Runner's World magazine told me to do.

For a brief moment, the world was my oyster. I closed my eyes and outstretched my hands in a Christ-like pose.

The rays of the sun warmed my cold, rickety bones shaking away the six-month Northeast Ohio winter. The warm air blew through my slowly receding hairline. "Ouch." I slapped at a sting on my arm. It was a dead misquito.

The blood dripping from my small wound let me know that the season was alive.

As I approached the bottom of the hill, I heard a scurry in the woods, followed by cracking branches and splashing water. Four deers hopped out of a brier bush and sailed into the woods. I could have sworn I saw turds fly out of one of the doe's butt.

"Fancy that," I thought. "I scared me up some game."

The beauty of nature indeed.

I careened into the graveyard to greet the dead bodies and wish them a happy Spring day.

"Hello Martin Douglas," I yelled to his gravestone. "Born January 3, 1920. Deceased September 20, 1985. Sixty-five years on this planet. Not too shabby."

"Hello Dolores Baker. Born May 21, 1905. Deceased June 17, 1940," I yelled at another gravestone. "Thirty-five years on this beautiful Earth...wait a minute. That's how old I am!

Suddenly I got depressed. Only three more months until I pass Dolores up on the annual birthday scale. Suddenly I got happy again.

"Ha Ha, Dolores," I whispered out of the side of my mouth to her decaying body six-feet under. "I'm almost beating you in the game of life."

I continued the loop, looked up from the ground and, suddenly, stopped in my tracks.

There was a car. Parked near the woods. Away from the gravestones. Next to the stream. And it was running in neutral.

I looked around for an old man (or an old woman) with flowers in hand kneeling and blubbering over a loved one's slab of stone. I found none.

"Who could it be?" I thought to myself. "Who could be parked in my graveyard?"

I decided to forge ahead and solve the mystery once and for all.

As I approached the car, I heard what sounded like Pink Floyd's The Great Gig In the Sky blaring from the speakers. The car was also moving side to side. Side to side. Side-to-side. In a rythmic motion. Almost to the music. As I got closer, I noticed a faint silhouette in the car.

Someone, or something, was inside.

As I slowly tip-toed beside the car, I slyly turned my head to see what was going on.

A full moon greeted me with a vertical "Hello." It was a dude's ass bobbing up and down. Up and down in the wide backseat of the car. Beneath him, I assumed, was a woman. The painted toenails gave her away.

I looked around for dug-up graves. There were none. More than likely, she was alive.

"Well, well, well," I thought to myself. "This lad was laying some backseat pipe to his girlfriend in the middle of a graveyard."

They didn't notice me. They didn't miss a beat. They were doing their thang without a care in the world.

Ahhhh...young love.

"Carry on my good man," I shouted to the gentleman in the car. "Carry on."

I, too, went on my way.

Yet as I headed out of the graveyard I couldn't stop myself from glancing back at the car one more time.

That's when I noticed the bumper sticker.

"Go Revere High!"

Screw Deere Season. It was Parking Season. Spring had officially sprung in Bath.

Oh, and for the parents who happen to be reading this blog...

Blue Toyota Corolla. Ohio License Plate #GVW 365.

Now you know where your kid was last night.

Dream Review #4 - Zombie Picnic

I was a big-time director filming the final scene of this movie I wrote called Zombie Picnic, which took place at Bath Nature Preserve in Bath, Ohio.

It was a five-minute, unedited pan of the zombie picnic.

Basically, the zombies won and took over the town of Bath. To celebrate, they were, unintentionally, having a picnic and feasting on all of the humans at the nature preserve.

Picture this: Body parts being ripped apart. Blood flying everywhere. Zombies fighting over scraps of human brains. Humans screaming in agony.

Not tooting my own horn, but - with the sunset coming through the lens followed by the colorful flowers, picnic tables, soccer fields and the playground mixed in with the macabre imagery - it was a beautiful shot.

But something always went wrong. Some zombie extra would sneeze. A key actor would accidentally look at the camera. The boom mic would get into the camera shot.

We must have gone through the shot 10 times. And I was staring to get pissed.

In any event, we had one more shot before the sun finally set. I grabbed a megaphone from my assistant and yelled to the cast and crew.

"This is the final fucking shot,"I screamed. "Everyone better be on their A-game on this one or your all fucking fired!"

"YOU UNDERSTAND ME MOTHER FUCKERS!!!" I walked over to the cinematographer and grabbed the camera. "I'm shooting this one."

"ACTION!"

We filmed the five-minute shot to perfection. Every actor hit their cues. The blood spurted at the exact moment I wanted to. Zombies dug their teeth into the mayor's brain on cue. In short, the shot turned out beautifully.

"Cut," I yelled. "Good job everyone. That's a wrap. Go home." Everyone let out a cheer and started to leave the set.

Suddenly, my producer came running over to me.

"We didn't get the shot," he said patting me back. "Sorry."

"What," I screamed. "Why not?"

He pointed down to the camera I had in my hand. But it wasn't a camera at all. It was a severed head with a worm squirting out of one of the eye sockets.

I was filming the final scene with a zombie head.

"Fuck," I said. "Isn't there someway we can hook up wire to its brain so we can get the imagery?"

"I don't think so, sir" My producer siad. "Nothiing like that has been invented yet?"

"Goddammit," I screamed as I threw the severed head into the woods walked over to my trailer and did two lines of coke.

Then I woke up.


Links to my other Dream Reviews:

• Dream Review #1
• Dream Review #2
• Dream Review #3