Blow Dart Meat Slap

“Honey, I just woke from the darkest dream.”

“I believe it. You were snorting.”

“No.”

“Yes. Tell me.”

“We were on our honeymoon-”

“That's your subconscious telling you how much of a catch I am,” she interjected with a smile.

“You'll probably want to wait and hear what else it thinks about you. Also, it was like you had that ready to fire at me at any moment.”

“Maybe. Did you know you mumble in your sleep sometimes? I find it enduring when you mumble. It's like the words in your head are held captive during the day and are forced to strategize an escape plan while the guard is asleep. You know, because you're such a quiet person when awake. It doesn't bother me you're so quiet. It's just what I know about you.”

“Okay. So, honeymoon on beach chairs and lounging under umbrellas on an exotic beach somewhere tropical. It was cliché. I was shielding my eyes from the reflection of the sun on the bleach-white sand. I complained about it to you and asked if Clorox sponsored this stretch of beach. You looked up from your book and then went back to reading.”

“Sounds like something you'd say.”

“So next thing I know we are walking out towards the shoreline. An unspoken connection rings in my head to the beach scene I imagined while reading the first chapter of Jurassic Park. The scene that didn't make it to the movie. Anyways, the water is still and I watch a few sandpipers dig with their beaks. I get really abstract in my thoughts and see the world from underneath the sand looking upwards as their tiny beaks penetrate into this now inverted world. I think it was my subconscious telling me that you are fertile.”

“Nope,” she says firmly.

“I snap out of the bird thought with the beach having transformed and resembling that beach we went to out on the coast in Oregon. I can't see more than 20 feet out on the ocean through the darkness of low clouds. The wind is soft and moist. To our backs, clouds are rolling in across a barren landscape and we spatially lose track of where the chairs are. It's hard to determine if the sun is out or not. I can hardly make out a figure walking towards us in the mist but I can see that his clothes look like a bad Hollywood film on aboriginals. Tattered wash rags and crap. He gets closer and the clouds instantly disappear as he opens a velcro pouch from his board shorts and takes out a syringe of heroin. The bright sunshine is back.”

“Wait. How'd you know it was heroin?”

“It said heroin down the side like he had taken one of those label guns to it. So he asks if we want to buy any. I tell him no and he walks off.”

“Cool story.”

“So the guy comes back after some time. I'll try and hurry this up if you have somewhere better to be.”

“Sorry. Voldemort is trying to kill Harry and I'm way too into this book,” she explains.

“This aboriginal dude is back with another syringe of heroin and this time he doesn't take my answer of no very well. He produces a blow dart tube thing from behind him like he was anticipating me saying no. He loads the gun with a dart of heroin and brings it up to his mouth. He takes aim at you and I'm frozen. I feel his breath as he takes in air. I contemplate the amount of pain I would suffer if somehow I ended up blocking his dart with my hand. I'm watching his eyes on you as he follows your movements like a hunter following his target; factoring in all courses you might take in escape. His cheeks puff and the sound of the dart impacting your bicep is disturbing. It sounded like when I prep the chicken for grilling. Meat slap. I freak out as I see the plunger push all the heroin into your body. In an instant you collapse and I'm stuck with the dilemma. Do I chase and beat the life out of this crazed local or do I watch as you overdose? Like what the hell could I possibly do? I can't suck it out.”

“What did you do,” she asks.

“No idea. I woke up.”