I killed Clifton Collins, Jr.
In my dream, I murdered Clifton Collins, Jr.
A female talk-show host, whose show somehow moved outside and into the drive-thru of a fast food joint, asked her audience to look where Collins parked his car. It was apparent, Collins lived in his car and was a big fan of the show and the show's host. Collins' car was a blue, four-door sedan. Beat to hell. When the camera panned to Collins' car, he was removing items, reorganizing and attempting to make his moving domicile presentable. He was aware the host was speaking of him and was desperate to finish his labors so he could meet his idol. I was not in the show's audience--or in the drive-thru--, but I had a connection to the host and her guests.
Collins took me for a rival for the affection of the host. This jealousy brought him to my apartment door. I don't know why I would rent such an apartment. The rear was open to anyone who wanted access. It was a nice place, with lots of windows. The apartment had two doors that opened onto the hall. Collins knocked on the rear door.
I opened the door to find a Collins the size of a child. The top of his head reached the bottom of my diaphragm. When I opened the door, Collins said, "You didn't think I would find you, huh?" An empty boast--my apartment was within spitting distance of his beater. Collins looked up at me with a devilish grin and brandished what was, initially, a Sharpie (blue, I believe). When I looked again, the pen was a box cutter with a nasty hooked blade.
"You threaten me in my own home??" I screamed at little Collins. I relieved him of the knife and stabbed him repeatedly in the neck. Then, nothing.
Later--perhaps that same day--, I was cleaning up my apartment. I wasn't in a panic. It was all too surreal. I had just murdered someone. Instead of hemorrhaging from guilt, I was practically nonchalant. I tidied my books. I remember placing a large dictionary--one of those door stoppers--on the table at the rear of the apartment (where the public had access). I came across a wrapper from the fast food place. This was incriminating evidence--it was connected to the dead Collins. I tossed the wrapper onto the top shelf of my closet.
Knock. Two detectives at my door. Two of the worst detectives in the history of detecting. They asked no questions and left satisfied.
I collected an orange sack that was a trash bag. I retrieved the wrapper and another of the same. Now I was outside, descending two flights of stairs. Still nonchalant. One of my neighbors, outside for a smoke, caught me as I headed to the dumpster. What a colossal bore! Going on and on about his job. When two other tenants appeared, also for a smoke, I seized on the opportunity to escape my terminally dull neighbor.
I was crossing a flooded lawn--the result of heavy rains. I made my way to the dumpster. At this point, I don't believe I was in possession of the orange bag.
I killed a man. And I got away with it.
A female talk-show host, whose show somehow moved outside and into the drive-thru of a fast food joint, asked her audience to look where Collins parked his car. It was apparent, Collins lived in his car and was a big fan of the show and the show's host. Collins' car was a blue, four-door sedan. Beat to hell. When the camera panned to Collins' car, he was removing items, reorganizing and attempting to make his moving domicile presentable. He was aware the host was speaking of him and was desperate to finish his labors so he could meet his idol. I was not in the show's audience--or in the drive-thru--, but I had a connection to the host and her guests.
Collins took me for a rival for the affection of the host. This jealousy brought him to my apartment door. I don't know why I would rent such an apartment. The rear was open to anyone who wanted access. It was a nice place, with lots of windows. The apartment had two doors that opened onto the hall. Collins knocked on the rear door.
I opened the door to find a Collins the size of a child. The top of his head reached the bottom of my diaphragm. When I opened the door, Collins said, "You didn't think I would find you, huh?" An empty boast--my apartment was within spitting distance of his beater. Collins looked up at me with a devilish grin and brandished what was, initially, a Sharpie (blue, I believe). When I looked again, the pen was a box cutter with a nasty hooked blade.
"You threaten me in my own home??" I screamed at little Collins. I relieved him of the knife and stabbed him repeatedly in the neck. Then, nothing.
Later--perhaps that same day--, I was cleaning up my apartment. I wasn't in a panic. It was all too surreal. I had just murdered someone. Instead of hemorrhaging from guilt, I was practically nonchalant. I tidied my books. I remember placing a large dictionary--one of those door stoppers--on the table at the rear of the apartment (where the public had access). I came across a wrapper from the fast food place. This was incriminating evidence--it was connected to the dead Collins. I tossed the wrapper onto the top shelf of my closet.
Knock. Two detectives at my door. Two of the worst detectives in the history of detecting. They asked no questions and left satisfied.
I collected an orange sack that was a trash bag. I retrieved the wrapper and another of the same. Now I was outside, descending two flights of stairs. Still nonchalant. One of my neighbors, outside for a smoke, caught me as I headed to the dumpster. What a colossal bore! Going on and on about his job. When two other tenants appeared, also for a smoke, I seized on the opportunity to escape my terminally dull neighbor.
I was crossing a flooded lawn--the result of heavy rains. I made my way to the dumpster. At this point, I don't believe I was in possession of the orange bag.
I killed a man. And I got away with it.
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