Cupid's Revenge

by Melanie Jackson

  Thomas found this to be funny. I, on the other hand, knew that this would likely enrage them. As I watched, the soldiers threw down their rifles and came running at us brandishing swords which had appeared from nowhere. Obviously they didn’t share my sense of humor.

  I suppose this is as good a time as any to explain a few facts about the Dream Police and their operation within the Narcoscape. First, their official function is to police the Narcoscape, keeping dream raiders— which they consider me to be— from traversing multiple dream canvases and thereby supposedly siphoning off dream energy, or polluting the Narcoscape and in other ways causing emotional devastation and mayhem in dreamers’ psyches — yadda, yadda, yadda. I suppose that someone has to perform this function, but suffice it to say that these guys are no friends of mine. Second, no one is exactly sure who pulls the strings of the NarcoNazis, but it’s widely assumed that they get their marching orders from somewhere amongst the loose association of dream authorizers my family calls The Absolutes. Whoever or whatever it is that runs the NarcoNazis, they have substantial power within the Narcoscape and they wield a large portion of it via their Dream Police. Alone, Thomas wouldn’t have stood a chance against them.

  Finally, it’s also worth mentioning that these guys aren’t actually out to kill anyone, not outright. Instead, they’re out to imprison one’s dream essence, bring the dream-self to trial, and expel the dreamer from the Narcoscape—sometimes for a few days, sometimes forever. This last sentence is of course tantamount to murder since no one can live for very long or with any quality of life without dreaming. I for one had no intention of falling into their hands, nor would I leave Thomas behind to face his fate alone.

  I wished passionately that Josh was there. My husband and I had been a great team. He would create the diversion and I would rush the package home while everyone was dazzled by his sleight of hand. Now I had to play both roles.

  “Thomas, have you ever wanted to be a gopher?” I asked nonchalantly.

  “A gopher? Like a real one, or in a cartoon?”

  “Either. But I need a yes or no, Thomas. Are you up for this or not?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose,” he said with a broad, foolish grin. “I always did like Looney Tunes.”

  With a wink of my dream essence, the dreamside equivalent of wiggling my nose or crying “Shazam”, we became gophers. I immediately started to burrow my way under the stone wall and soon sensed that Thomas was busy doing the same. Arriving on the other side I continued to burrow underground at a fast pace. There’d be no popping my furry little head out of the ground until I was out an exit or safe in someone else’s dream.

  Dead ahead I heard a thud and felt something heavy penetrate the ground.

  “Thomas?” I shouted down the tunnel. “They’ve blocked the exit. Go right!”

  My warning came too late. Thomas wasn’t digging deep enough and I heard a loud bonk from behind as Thomas hit his head on the bottom of the new wall. He swore in cartoon fashion, then we were off again, this time side-by-side, burrowing rapidly toward the tree line and the safety beyond.

  Having no intention of being denied their prey, the Dream Police were soon back on our trail forming themselves into a huge mechanical beast that pounded its way through the stone wall (this was just for effect, because they could have as easily willed the wall away) and then began punching into the ground with some kind of pointed stake. The massive mechanoid followed our collapsing tunnels, stomping on the raised earth with huge metallic feet in a feeble attempt to squash us before we could get away. Surfacing a few feet from the tree line I assessed our chances of escape. Not good. They could stomp faster than we could dig.

  Trying to keep things as cartoon-like as possible, in the hope of not terrifying Thomas unless I absolutely had to, I exerted my dream-essence in the direction of the metal beast. A huge steel foot transformed into a giant orange carrot that landed a few feet away from me and snapped off harmlessly. Thomas had surfaced too and feeling cocky, he decided to take a large bite out of the carrot stump with the set of preposterously huge buck teeth he had provided himself. This sent the mechanoid hopping away holding its damaged vegetable appendage.

  *@#!* exploded into the air above us. The mechanoid had not been provided with a voice and this was its only way of cursing. Thomas snickered, still thinking that this was play. It only looked funny because we were in his dream space and he had decided on a cartoon environment.

  Now is a good time to mention a few things about dream manipulation. We all do it in our own dreams to a certain degree. It’s just that some of us are more adept at it and more creative in our manipulations because we are aware that this is what we are doing. I’ve had a great deal of practice over the years manipulating the Narcoscape for fun and profit, and often to facilitate my escape from the Dream Police. What surprised me was Thomas’ ability to consciously manipulate his dream. Novices usually weren’t that good first time out. I wondered if there might be something special about him. Some people are born with latent abilities that can be developed with proper training.

  Still in Thomas’ dream canvas where he had a reasonable amount of power, we had succeeded in redirecting the attention of our pursuers for the moment but we had yet to deal with the dream membrane that separated us from the next canvas and what I hoped would be an unguarded exit. This is a simple procedure when one has the time for delicate manipulation. We didn’t have time for delicacy though, so instead it would involve me plunging through the membrane, which I can do very easily as long as I apply the mental equivalent of brute force, and then dragging Thomas’ sorry ass after me. The membrane was protean and would close up after us without any harm to the neighboring dreamer as long as our entrance wasn’t witnessed and we didn’t tamper with the dreamer’s basic reality. The problems would begin when we had to interact with what we found on the other side. Although I had already traversed the next dream canvas on the way in and found it safe, no work of art remains the same for long. There was no knowing what we would be facing and how much the dreamer might fight against my dream manipulation.

  “Ready?” I asked, looking into Thomas’ cute, whiskered face as I grabbed a hold of his paw with my newly transformed hand. “It would be better if you let me handle the dream manipulation when we get to the other side, okay? And don’t be freaked out if things look weird.”

  “Squeak,” Thomas answered through massive front teeth.

  Jumping through the dream membrane, I felt the familiar sensation of satin sheets being dragged across my naked body. There was then a slight sucking sound as the last of my body passed through the gap. It was followed by a gentle pop. I like the sensation but I know that many others do not. Of course, there was a strong tug as Thomas hit the membrane and panicked at being pulled through the curtain. Hauling on his paw with all of my might, I wondered if he had transformed himself again and I was dragging a fifty pound sack of potatoes through quicksand.

  I paused for a second to catch my breath. No, I remembered the quicksand dream now, and it was much worse. I just needed to pull harder. Bracing my feet, I yanked with all my might. Thomas came through the barrier with a much louder pop, and it took a while for his face and other features to snap back into human shape.

  “Ow! My teeth hurt,” Thomas complained.

  “Yeehaw!” A shrill voice screamed before I could answer.

  I looked over my shoulder and sighed. Things were about to get athletic and Thomas didn’t have long to adapt since we were now in the middle of another dream.

  “Hang on!” I shouted as we were spun up into the air and dumped onto a pair of horses.

  Most people would find it somewhat alarming appearing in a new dream, mounted on horses running at a full gallop. Fortunately, although I had never ridden a horse bareback before, I had been incorporated into this dream as a fully qualified rodeo rider.

  “Howdy partner, Wyatt Jones is the name,” I heard in a comfortable drawl from beside me. Looking to my right I saw a
man who was undoubtedly the dream owner, also running at a flat out gallop. He had a long walrus mustache and wore a dirty hat and bandana.

  “Howdy, Nicodemus Smith is my moniker,” I replied.

  “I think I’ve heard of you, young lady. You must be the one they’re after,” he said, nodding over his shoulder. “The whole damn injun nation is ridin’ up on our asses. Never seen that before.”

  Springing onto my feet and performing a kick-flip so I landed in my newly imagined saddle facing backward, I observed the Indians galloping through the dream membrane, hot on our trail though wearing a strange mix of costumes from various tribes of the Plains and South West.

  “Damn.” I had hoped we had lost our pursuers. Since one of their primary functions is to prevent tampering with dreams, they themselves will often avoid dream canvas contact, let alone inter-dream transit if at all possible. I guess they really wanted me bad. Or they really wanted Thomas to stay behind for some reason.

  Becoming concerned for Thomas, I looked to my other side to find that he was having the time of his life, galloping along on an old paint, swinging a lariat in the air, though there was nothing for him to rope. I could only imagine what he was making of all the crazy colors appearing in this dream. Doing another kick-flip, I once more faced forward to see that we were apparently racing after a steam locomotive upon which we were closing fast.

  “You head on after the train,” Wyatt Jones yelled to me. He pulled a giant revolver. “I’ll head back and slow down them injuns. I think maybe a cattle stampede would do it.”

  “Thanks, partner! I won’t forget it.”

  Having no better plan in mind, I kicked my booted but consciously unspurred feet into the sides of my mount and received an amazing power burst as the horse surged forward in response to my silent plea. Our host was helping us get away. In no time at all, I was swinging from my mount onto the engine of the puffing train and reaching out a hand to help Thomas aboard. No Hollywood stuntman could have done better.

  “Yeehaw!” Thomas screamed as I pulled him onto the engine. “I’d never have thought of this, but from now on I’m a cowboy dreamer,” he added. “And check out all the wild colors. It’s like a psychedelic dream. That Wyatt guy must be nuts.”

  “Or eating magic mushrooms.”

  Seeing that we were pulling safely ahead of the NarcoNazis who were lost in a sea of rampaging cattle, I shared a laugh with Thomas before picking up a shovel of coal to stoke the fire in the hope of even more speed. Feeling a surge of energy with every shovel full of coal that I threw into the tinder box, I was vaguely hopeful when I leaned my head out the window to check on our lead.

  One look was enough to assure me that our poor steam engine wouldn’t be fast enough to escape the NarcoNazis. The cattle had been turned into prairie-dogs and a streamline, diesel locomotive was gaining on us from behind. It was painted flat black and had a flaming skull mounted on the front on the engine.

  So much for remaining within the proper context of the dream. It looked like the Dream Police were out for blood this time. I began to feel genuine alarm. Not for myself. I had a sort of emergency, dial *69 and get-out-at-once escape route I could use. But that would mean leaving Thomas behind. He had adapted well to this dreamscape but I didn’t think he had enough understanding of The Narcoscape to get home on his own, even if I convinced the Dream Police to follow me and leave him alone.

  “What are we going to do?” Thomas shouted, hanging his head out the other side of the train. “They’re gaining on us! Should I shoot them?”

  At that point I was convinced that the Dream Police would do anything in their power to stop our escape. What remained to be seen was just how much power they had. I had never tested the limits before.

  “Don’t start shooting. So far, they’re just mad at me.” I hoped this was true. I handed Thomas the shovel. “I’m on it. Just keep out of sight, shovel the coal and make sure we don’t run out of track.”

  Thomas went to it with a will and I think that on some level he understood that it was our determination that fueled the engine. It just happened that it looked like lumps of coal.

  My next action would take a bit of effort and was overtly hostile, but I also knew that it would produce spectacular results if I timed it right. Up to that point, I’d kept things playful—adversarial, but no one had ever been killed. If you could kill a NarcoNazi. I mean as in kill them forever. Making unnecessary enemies wasn’t my thing, but they had made me angry. I was ready to take the gloves off and put on some brass knuckles if that was what it took to get Thomas away from these guys.

  We were traveling as fast as good fortune could carry us, but it wasn’t fast enough. We needed another diversion. Concentrating on the tumbleweeds and sagebrush that flew by the engine, I gathered my dream energy and everything Thomas had to spare, and focused it on the ground. The air around us filled with smoke and bright cinders of brimstone as Thomas’ own determination grew. Sparks began to fly from the iron wheels, the noise like nails on a chalkboard. It was unproductive activity, but quite threatening, so I didn’t stop him.

  As the diesel struggled to reach parity with our steam engine, I glanced forward a final time and saw with satisfaction that new tracks were still laying themselves down in front of our speeding engine. Thomas was handling things fine on his own. I looked back to the black diesel and then let fly with my next manifestation which was a three foot thick steel wall that appeared immediately ahead of the chasing diesel. They had no time to apply the brakes.

  “Holy shit!” Thomas yelled.

  The crash produced by the collision of these two dream forces was nothing short of spectacular. I felt the backlash rattle my teeth. The sound of grinding metal was horrendous, and parts flew in all directions, some of them continuing to keep pace with our own locomotive. Thomas jumped up and down and clapped his hands in response to the crash, but I knew better than to think we were safe. The DP weren’t giving up this time. I began to wonder if they had been bribed.

  My suspicion that the DP couldn’t be hurt was proved correct. No sooner had the diesel disintegrated than a massive starship flew out of the fire ball that was the locomotive and positioned itself in the skies overhead. As I had suspected, killing the NarcoNazis wasn’t an option. There would always be more.

  Seeing the tip of the massive laser mounted on the side of the craft begin to glow with pent up dream energy, I grabbed Thomas’ hand and prepared for the next phase of our journey. Fortunately the next dream membrane was right ahead and our train was turning on a new course that would come within a few feet of it. My first impulse had been to run the train right into the wall, but I wasn’t desperate enough to risk freaking out whoever was dreaming on the other side.

  “Get ready to jump,” I warned.

  Seeing the shimmering barrier ahead of us and recognizing it for what it was, Thomas’ resisted, pulling back against my grip. “No, it’s too far, we’ll never make it. Let’s fight them here. I always wanted to fly a space ship.”

  “Thomas, remember, in this world we can fly ourselves. Didn’t you have flying dreams when you were a kid?” I asked with a forced smile. This reminder of this universally pleasant dream cheered him up immensely, and together we faced the rapidly approaching barrier. “Please just trust me. If you don’t fight it, it won’t hurt.”

  “Okay.”

  We jumped not a moment too soon since our transportation was blown to pieces by a death ray fired from the spacecraft the moment our feet left its floorboards.

  Flying through the air, or more like swimming in Thomas’ case, it required only a few flaps of our arms to travel the full distance to the dream barrier. As usual, I penetrated the membrane without difficulty and was then pulled up short by Thomas who was sill hanging onto my hand. Yanking on his arm, I tugged him through. We both summersault over the powdery ground.

  Thomas coughed and tried to wipe the dust away.

  “Where are we?”

  The new dreamscape w
as comparatively quiet but I knew instinctively that we were not safe. Something strange was happening. I could feel power massing and everything was moving way too slowly. The world seemed hazy and out of focus. Regardless of the disorienting atmosphere, I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so good.

  No, wait a second, I could remember.

  “Oh no.” I finally recognized the signature of an adolescent wet-dream. Letting go of Thomas’ hand, I knew that we had no reasonable choice but to ride it out and hope the NarcoNazi’s didn’t arrive until our host was done.

  Sitting down on the bed that formed behind me, I ignored the couple that was writhing in ecstasy beneath the sheets. I tipped my head back, trying not to be too vocal as I enjoyed the inevitable ride. Fortunately, the kid had a short fuse because I doubt that I could have handled any more arousal and my inner-clock said we really didn’t have the time for this.

  With a final thrust, in which I was not involved but of which I was still intimately aware, the situation came to a climax. And this climax was long and hard like only a male, adolescent orgasm can be. We climaxed together and I arched so hard I damn near broke my back. As is always the case when I’m involved in such dreams, I wondered what my body was doing on the wakeside. Was it currently arching itself as it moaned in ecstasy? That would be embarrassing and would give the nurses on the third floor something to talk about. I just hoped to hell they didn’t think I was having a seizure and try to revive me. If I got pulled back wakeside, Thomas would be left alone.

  Rising to my feet, I grabbed Thomas and pulled him forward on wobbly legs. I made a point of not staring at the large wet spot on the front of his jeans. Opening the bedroom door, we ran out of the room into a barren desert under a blood red sky. There was some kind of small spacecraft hovering in the driveway. The hood of the flying car said: Fuckmobile.

  Finding it strange that the boy’s bedroom was in the middle of a Martian landscape, I glanced back at the bed to take a look at what the boy had been having relations with. She looked like a green Barbarella in thigh-high silver boots.