I was running, running through a city of stone and ice and they were behind me and I couldn’t get away and I dodged into a building and slammed the door behind me.
“Excuse me,” said a creaky voice from the other end of the room.
Panting, I listened to the monsters dribble by outside. “Yeah?”
“Are you 21? Because this is a bar.”
I looked at him with desperate eyes. “Look, whoever you are, I’ve got a 10-story-tall glob of smelly stuff chasing me around the streets. I don’t care about drinking.”
He looked suspiciously at me, and the white walls dimmed to a foreboding red. “Hmm.”
Something was distilling into being in the center of the room; I peered at it. Limbs appeared, thin and gray and numbering in the 30s. “It’s the stick monster!”
The door bust open behind me and I was overwhelmed in a sticky mass of goo. Just before everything faded to black, I heard the man behind the bar yelling. “Hey, hey, hey! Stop right there!”
I blinked and looked up at him; his snarling face was only inches from mine and I could feel the spittle as he shouted. “You’re doing it again, idiot!”
His voice filled my ears, his face filled my vision, his breath cascaded over me. “You’re opening with a dream!”
Gasping, I sat up in my bed—at home, alone, and safe. All a dream. It was all a dream.