It’s 40 years in the future, and it was either a Hillary or a Huckabee win, depending on your affiliation. Regardless of who started it though, the fact remains that the Post-Apocalyptic lifestyle is here.
And not 'Mad Max' either. We’re talking all the way back to 'Quest for Fire'.
I was part of a small village on a peninsula of land near the ocean. There were a handful of us ‘elders’ – survivors of the Hillary / Huckabee nuclear ‘show of force’ – and the rest were teenagers and young adults. Jim Henson’s Armageddon babies.
Things seemed to be okay, basically. We were surviving, at any rate. There were just certain areas that we didn’t go into to forage and hunt. Nothing to see where the cities used to be, and you come back sick.
Anyhoo, in the dream I am called to soothe the delivery of a young woman who is giving birth. My job, as I understood it, was to distract her from the pain of contractions, by telling her funny stories. So I was still a jester of sorts. I guess that’s job security.
I troop across the village, which is a dead ringer for the Gilligan’s Island set, and enter the medical hut. I put my weapon down and kneel by the bed of the soon-to-be mother. She holds up her talisman, her good luck charm, her precious jewel of a better time: The old shoe marker from a Monopoly game.
She asks about it, and so I attempt to tell her about the game. But we quickly get bogged down. “And so if your shoe lands on my property I charge you ten dollars rent to stay there for that turn.”
“But what is ‘Property’?”
She frowns. “But how can anybody claim a piece of the Earth?” And so on. As frustrating as this is, it is distracting her from the pain of her contractions, and so I judge that I am doing my job well.
Then another villager opens the palm frond door and peeks in. “Sir – many spears have appeared on the horizon.”
Frak. What a day. I apologize to the young mother, nod at the mid-wives down at the receiving end of the bed, grab my weapon and follow the villager out the door.
We run to the end of the village, where the peninsula of land meets the proper coastline. About 40 people are waiting there. Most of them look sick.
A sturdy fellow is out in front of them. The villager to my left dons a plastic Storm Trooper helmet that has the eye pieces cut out so he can see.
I draw my official Pirates of the Caribbean® cutlass from it’s polyester scabbard and point it at the sturdy fellow across from me. “What is your name, sir?” I ask.
He bows. “I am Thorin of Oakensheild.”
I nod, unimpressed. “And what brings you to our land?”
He raises an eyebrow at that, and I begin to realize the irony of what I have just said, after the conversation I just had with the mother. On cue I hear the cry of a newborn baby behind me. This makes me proud, even though I am pretty sure that I am not the father.
I point my sword down at the ground at my feet. “Yes,” I reply to his implied question. “Our land. What brings you to this……border?”
Thorin smiles coldly and raises a Phaser®. “I think we Cyborgs have a lesson to teach you.”
At that I am frantically thinking of whether or not that could be a working phaser, and if so, what setting it might be on. And then I hear myself say: “No, that can’t be real.”
Which, of course, is the Universal cue to wake up. Frak. Just when it was getting good.
(Pics, in order, from Wired.com, lewischaney.wordpress.com, shoegang.4mg.com, wikipedia.org, icanhazcheezburger.com)