I am at a fight camp, fighting outside with pool noodles. Many of my fight friends from my most recent excursion are there. Soon, I find myself needing to use the restroom.
I enter the building to find it a colossal, mansion-like structure. The bathroom is no different, where troughs like you would find at a baseball stadium line the walls. I need the stall, however, and its door is a half-door, revealing the occupant’s face. I sit and go about my business, but am constantly interrupted by “visitors” with urgent conversations.
In time, I remove myself from the premises, heading to the top floor where my friend Chris Dunham and a friend of his are waiting to have it out with me over something. The friend is a little person, to use the current politicized colloquialism. When I arrive, they are harrassing a girl from the fight camp, whose identity shifts so much as to make recognition impossible. Regardless, I stand up for her to the point where violence is imminent.
I swallow my reluctance and set about to giving them each a well-deserved pounding. As in many dreams, I am essentially invulnerable once I decide to mete out justice. After slamming Chris to the floor and beating him into submission, his head —now that of an unidentifiable blonde man with a buzzcut — begins to shrink almost comically to the size of a golfball.
Suspecting this is his way of retreating so he does not have to hear my lecture, I tear away his several layers of t-shirts. I come to realize that he is nothing more than a crudely constructed skeleton of paper towel tubes and dowels on which hang the t-shirts. His head is all that is him and it has now shrunk beyond my ability to find it, if it ever existed.
I wake myself up moaning in confusion and anger. For those who don’t know him, Chris Dunham is wholly awesome and I hold him no ill will. I don’t know why he was the avatar of such a creature in my subconscious.