I was stumbling east down Sherbrooke Street, out of my mind on drugs or alcohol or medication. I was sort of aware I was acting like a crazy street person, with odd pauses and poses. I passed by the record shop on the corner and decided to go in and finally buy a Feist album.
Inside, after wandering and browsing a bit, I was distracted by a video screen. Someone had taken some animation of a character running through red hallways, and set it to a dub mashup of Evil Nine's Crooked and something by Slick Rick. The animation eventually gave way to something else, but I was distracted by my realization that I was only wearing a towel wrapped around my waist.
Only a few blocks from home, I decided to walk. But I was accosted by a beautiful girl with long, dark hair, who I apparently knew. She took me on a different route that led us to a strange set of streets, with quaint European baroque buildings, but constructed in Lego colors, like some kind of theme park. She had already rented us a room, at the narrow end of a Flatiron-shaped hotel, and sent me there. The entire room was bed -- narrower at the foot than at the head -- but with windows on three sides the view was amazing. She arrived, immediately stripped, and we had a lot of sex.
We received a notice from friends and went to meet them -- a tall, thin guy who looked a bit like George Orwell, and a blonde with short hair and a squeaky voice. We got in our car and headed south, into the national park. Orwell was driving, and the blonde jumped on the other girl and I -- more sex. Then sleep.
We were woken up by the blonde, who was now driving. She had turned the car around in a panic, because something had gone wrong where we were heading, though she didn't say exactly what. Orwell took over driving again, and the blonde's panic didn't stop her from pushing the other girl and I into sex again. We got to the unmanned park gate, and headed back to the hotel.
The lobby was run down as though it had been abandoned for years. It was also full of zombies. They would see us, lunge at us, then determine we were not fit for eating, which led to the conclusion that we were also undead now. This suspicion was confirmed by Zombie Barry Corbin, sitting in the corner.
We were making peace with our new status, when suddenly something occurred to me. I knew Barry Corbin had a variety show in New York. He also didn't look like a zombie; in fact, a few of the zombies looked and acted pretty much like normal people.
I went up and challenged him directly: your show staff would know if you were a zombie. So either this is all a hoax, or we're some special type of zombie who is resistant to decay and retains their consciousness, which implies eternal life. So which is it?
From the look on his face, it was evident I had uncovered what he was trying to hide from us. He stammered and hesitated. Then, before he was able to confirm which option was the case, I awoke.
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