A dream in which I deal with a bad man

I was in a house with two women and a child. I was not part of the household, but had stopped at the house while on my way somewhere, stopped to ask for something to eat and to rest. Two men, strangers to the women, came to the house. One of the men and I went to a large building a short distance from the house. The shed was low and had several rooms and 4X4 beams supporting the roof. I realized the men intended to kill me and the women and the child. The man and I got into a fight. He was getting the best of me, but I bit off part of his face, took a large chunk from his right cheek. That made the man pause a moment, and I was able to get a knife from his back pocket. The knife was a carving knife, with a wooden handle and a blade about eight inches long. I stuck the man on his left side, high and between two ribs, then in the stomach and drawing the blade up. He continued to fight, so I sliced his throat. He went down, but continued to struggle, so I cut off his head. He deflated. In a room left of where the man and I fought was a large wooden crate with pistols, rifles and ammunition. I went to the box, to arm myself so I could go back to the house and shoot the other bad man. When I woke up I tasted blood.

(I no longher have that kind of dream. That's too bad. They were entertaining.)

Weird, weird, weird, weird dream

I sat at a table outside a restaurant. A woman I knew hurried to the table when seeing me. She sat and opened a newspaper.

“I just found out the strangest thing,” she said.

I looked at the newspaper. Prominently displayed was a picture of a woman in a blue bikini. A blue bikini bottom, that is, the picture showing the woman from her navel to her upper thighs.

Before I could read the cutline, my friend said, “That’s mine!”

I remembered her telling me weeks before that she had been kidnapped, put under by a chemical. When she woke up, the part of her that was in the newspaper picture was missing.

“And now I’ve found it!” she said, rather proudly. She sat back in the chair. From her tone of voice (and the almost magical understanding that often occurs in dreams), I knew the picture was not with a story on her missing parts, but a contest of attractive stomachs in bikinis. In the contest was the woman who now had my friend’s parts.

My friend said, “I spoke with my plastic surgeon, and he said he can put everything back together as soon as I get my parts back.”

I woke up. I wondered: What did the kidnappers use for replacement of what they took? Stainless steel? Titanium? Sixty years ago, science fiction writers might have said chrome. I’ll never know.