He kept pin pricking me. The pin wasn't very long -- about the length of a normal stick pin, but he was going nuts plunging its razor sharp edge into me. Just about anywhere on my body seemed fine to him.
"Man dies of 10,000 stab wounds; authorities believe wounds inflicted by a stick pin."
The assailant was the size of a dwarf, but well dressed for a dwarf in a black Armani suit with matching sunglasses. (And he didn't have the usual unkempt dwarf beard with the stupid little sock hat.) I leapt out of bed, but fell to the floor forgetting I was now just a one legged man following the surgical repair of my Achilles tendon the day before.
It wasn't a noble injury like rock climbing, or hockey. I was weeding Elaine's eight foot wall of ornamental boulders when a one hundred pounder came loose and smacked into my leg. Whoever said gardening is for wimps never saw Elaine's back yard.
"You'll be on crutches for a month, and if the pain gets too severe, take some of these," my surgeon said handing me a bottle full of Oxycodone, the cheap generic version of the pain medication favored by drug addicts all over America.
This isn't happening, I thought. Must be the drugs, I hoped. This is just a dream, I was starting to conclude. As I lay sweating and panting on the floor of my bedroom I look at my bleeding pin pricked body -- nothing. I peek up onto my bed and the tiny well dressed pin pumping dwarf man is gone.
Some hallucinations are exciting, and the thought of dwarfs in Armani suits is swell, but I dumped my pain medication and returned to less hallucinogenic joys like brandy and beer -- the alternative reality for people who enjoy hallucinating with two feet on the ground.
