It began walking across my grandparents open field, on Prairie Central Road, in Chilliwack, towards the highway with a friend Sarah. Trudging toward a barbed wire fence overgrown with blackberry bushes, we trod through grass half our height. The dull sky was grey urinated light streaks of rain, as we talked about random things through deep slimy puddles. Entering a large blackberry bush, we neared the last puddle before a slight embankment, which another fellow trying to cross. Though the other fellow seemed disgusted by the puddle, Sarah took the first step in, and then commented on something strange half way through the puddle, lifting up the bottom of her foot to show it to me, then recommended I cross. Something strange indeed, though not life threatening. On the final side of the puddle, looking up the embankment, we lay our eyes upon a shiny new Porsche Boxster S, rain droplets glistening on it's newly waxed body, and we had to give it a drive.

Struggling up the embankment required both hands and a bit of strength, but as we were climbing, the man behind us started to cross the puddle and shout at us that we must not drive it. That meant we must!

Approaching the organic machine revealed it's finely crafted beauty, inviting us to get inside. I in the driver seat, her in the passenger, I felt around for the keys, which were, sure enough, already in the ignition. To my surprise it started with a deep rumble, echoing through it's throat, then vibrating us like a massive beast reflecting my carnal desires flawlessly, as though it were breathing into me with every switch of the pistons. Almost too good to be true, low rumbling vibrations, aroused the ears, as the vibrating seats hugged my back. Sweet. I must take it for a spin.

Looking to the left I saw the owner of this machine struggling to get up the final steepness of the embankment, hanging over the top with his arms, yelling that we must stop, he became a faint dot in the rear view mirror, as the rumbling beast pushed us deep into it's seats with incredible force, we sped away.

Onto the highway, I turned left onto the on-ramp, spiraling 180 degrees, leaving us to face the east, as we jetted off with maddening speed, passing cars as short blurs towards the little town of Hope. Faster and faster, deeper into the seats we're pressed.What genius engineering would allow this?

Faster still, noticing that the road was wet and traffic ahead, we must slow, so I jammed on the breaks and the car spun rapidly, out of control for what seemed like minutes. The only thing on my mind was the safety of this machine and it's inhabitants. Out of body I watched the car spin on the road, back onto the road, barely crashing into the ditch separating oncoming traffic, it came to a halt, perfectly facing forward, I could tell from my out of body encounter that very minimal damage had been done. Amazing, though Sarah seemed to have turned into Cuba Gooding Jr in the process, and he urged that we must get the hell out of here if we are to escape prison and the wrath of authority which would surely follow as soon as the car's owner found a phone.

Deep instincts urged me to run like hell, and I had the perfect machine with which to do so, so I hit the gas with all my strength, and we were off.

Through my future dream imagos of Hope, spiraling through various overpasses, and transporting veins, we finally found a straight road, and sped forward with incredible speed, with no cars in sight.

The road we were on seemed to race into infinity, in the distance entering a thick evergreen forest, far below 2 majestic blue ridged mountains, behind which the sun beautifully set. I opened the rag-top, raised my head to meet the forceful wind, and adjusted my eyeballs field of view from about 90 degrees to 120 degrees, so that I could catch more of the view, and have the illusion of more speed.

Racing forever in a straight line, our minds were in a lattice of complete awe of the machine we were riding, the sensations of natural forces at this velocity, and the breathtaking scenery which began to timelapse. The sun set in a red glow, revealing the moon which rose up in it's place going the opposite direction. The moon orbited twice that nice, then the sun and evolving clouds again the next day passed as though days were seconds. Night again, moon again, day again, clouds again, as we slowly approached the massive mountains racing along at '2 million'.

A vision of 12 cop cars racing behind us suddenly dawned, from the perspective of a camera mounted on the flashing siren of the front car, pointing backwards, facing down so that the horizon touched the top of the visual field. The shot was focused on one car in the center, presumably the chief, alongside many other cars racing in formation, with the red and blue sirens of authority piercing the midnight silence.

They were about 12 hours behind us, so we must race on and hide, if there is any chance for escape.

Racing, roads, conflict, escape.

Coming upon what I thought to be Williams Lake, we turned left through a surprisingly large intersection, right into a short road, then left again into a small run down shack with a small overhanging garage, in which we could take refuge. Parking the car, beneath a janky old carport lined with firewood, Cuba Gooding Jr turned into a strange fat white man wearing weird clothes. Accepting the unexplained transformation, we ensured that the car was well hidden from overhead helicopters and not visible from the road.

Sneaking inside the accompanying house to steal some refreshments, we were confronted by an ugly kid-rock looking hick. With a skinny hunched posture, enormous beer belly, sporting a dirty old wife-beater, he glared at us with an oily face scabbed over from beaten pimples. Hocking a can of sugar water, he screamed for his wife with a gnarly voice.

He suddenly turned to run, though we tackled him to the floor. Wrestling to keep him from the phone, his hideous oversized wife called from the next room.

In a panic, we beat the sugar drunken hick unconscious, then hid in one of his closets. The house he was in had strange passages just behind the walls, connecting the rooms, and laundry shoots connecting the scantily constructed floors. We hid in the walls, and peered though the cracks of the wood and 2x4s as lights and authority figures scanned the dark hallways in search of us.

Suddenly fat wifely pointed to me shouting,

So one cop busted through the wall just to my left, to see me hiding. He reached his arm in and pulled me out. It was just the chief and his fat lazy side kick who was standing there, as a single light bulb swung from the ceiling, projecting their shadows across the walls. As the chief held my left shoulder, I fiercely beat both the cops with the edge of my right hand, until they were suffering wrath, yet still standing. With his right hand the chief was holding me, and in his left was a butterfly net, which he declared it was too small to hold me, so he passed it to his fat sidekick, who was suffering too much from my edged hand beatings that he became confused and lazy, handing the butterfly net straight to me in confusion. I grabbed the butterfly net, and then used it to beat the blubbery tissues in the cops faces to a bloody pulp, until they collapsed into the puddle of blood the floor, jolting in uncontrolled spasms. The chief lay in shock, staring at me with his one good eye and declared with authority that I come back. Struggling to raise their heads off the bleeding floor, I walked away.

Just then, my own fat sidekick emerged from the wall, and led me down the open hallway a few feet, then left into a small side room with a washer and dryer in it. He claimed to have seen hick's fat wife go down here, and led me to a laundry shoot covered by buckets, dirty towels and cleaning bottles. Lifting a white springy cover from the floor, he signaled that I quickly jump down the hatch.

I dropped through the laundry shoot, climbing onto an intermediate floor about 5 feet below which lead to another hole the same size of the shoot, connected to a small crawlspace. Through the hole, I dropped one more level down into the basement. Doubting he would fit, my fat sidekick made it through, and followed me through the basement and out a rickety door, where we came across the Porsche we had stowed away, though the entrance to the carport was blocked off by some boards, and an inspector was looking at the car.

I swiftly beat the inspector unconscious then climbed in the car to find the keys were still in the ignition. My buddy turned back into Cuba Gooding, who signaled to escape. We we tore out of there with a fierce rumble, leaving the place in a cloud of dust.

Suddenly, my partner suggested an alternate ending. Confused, he ordered me to return to the house, and he called up some of his gangster friends on his phone, who were already at the hick's house by the time we got back. This finale was called revenge.

The gang was preparing tanks of gas and homemade bombs to blow the house up while all the cops we had beaten were still in it.

Just emerging from his unconscious stupor, the hick who owned the shack emerged from his house, while me and some of my buddy's gangster friends were inspecting this construction shed, where there were saws and tools, and long boards laying on the wood-chip laden floor.

I picked up a long odd shaped 2x4s and thrusting it with one hand, butted him on the right cheek, where he stood about 10 feet away. He complained, but then another gangster in the shed picked up a piece and hit him in the face even harder, leaving an enormous gash on his left cheek. Staggering around for a few seconds, he approached us again, beer in hand, demanding we stop or he'll kill us.

I butted him harder this time on the right side of his forehead, then the guy to my left butted him with a board on his left forehead. I hit him on the right eye, the other guy in his left eye, again and again in his face, and his mangled teeth fell out of his face. His knees gave way, letting his body to collapse into a heap on the floor, where he fondled the bloody pulp which remained of his face with his dirty hands, stewing in defeat and prepared to die. We continued to beat him until his eyeballs mushed out of their sockets, and his skull was exposed through his unrecognizable face.

Just as we finished the dirty job, another guy on our left in the shack held up a bottle of gas, and declared the bomb was complete. We all ran to our cars, and prepared to run. It wasn't quite ready, but all the cops were still inside the house, beaten unconscious, or still looking for us.

Finally, the bomb was prepared, one dude threw it, and the house ignited in a massive explosion, as we sped off in the car, his gangster friends following shortly behind.

We were headed to an ultra celebration party, so I was excited and wanted to dance with some loud music. So I followed their cars to this other run down house, and got out of my car first, entering the door I threw down my shirt on a pile on the left, turning left through a doorway revealed the party room where about seven people lay around in drunken poses, staring at numerous televisions and listening to bad techno music on a little beat-box. My sidekick Dan was trying to get to sleep in a black sleeping bag on the floor, beside a dirty couch behind which two native people lay with a baby between them, who a plump Tonya Martini sat beside envying.

There was a mini bar to the left of them, but nothing happening, so I kind of vibrated my body to see if anybody was willing to have a party, but the room was dead. Dan was on the ground pulling at my pants, asking me if I had any spare hose to help him get to sleep. I declared I did not have any, and here the dream faded out into another state in which I reviewed the dream repeatedly.

Pre and post dream: Racing along prarie central and baily roads, listening to music in the porsche, avoiding cops and admiring the farmers fields and shiny colored lights illuminating them beneath low lying mountains, and a stary sky .

Imagery: Feilds, dotted, reflecting lines with low perspective, above which on the horizon red and orange dots litter the landscape in square patterns, below powerlines, mountains with occasionally glowing houses, the moon.

Colored dark grey colors on fields, blue glowing night sky, few clouds, moon, stars.... bit of orange in there, driving on road with powerlines above.

Reflection: Oh how pride in the beautiful machine turned our peaceful vibrational existence in overgrown fields into a shameful hideous mess saturated in death and suffering.