Dreamserver.

Hurting for pocket cash, I recently loaned my sub-consciousness to a local business to be used as a Dreamserver. It’s a relatively new service for on-the-go types which targets people whose lives are so complicated that they can’t enjoy restful dreams of their own.

Sometimes they just want to come in and walk around, look at my memories, poke in my closets; you know, just see how the other half lives. Most of them just like to watch.

Sometimes I’ll have erotic dreams for them so they can experience the grit of real life without getting their own thoughts dirty. It’s a win-win situation for them, and they can blame any arousal they might feel on me.

Thing is, I’m not getting quite the compensation I was promised. My bank account’s drier than an East German stand-up comedian, and there’s zero side perks involved. No one ever says hello to me on the street, thanks me, buys me dinner, nothing. Just like the wealthy to squeeze a nickel till it screams.

I tried to renegotiate my contract, but I can’t reach anyone in Customer Services. I tried calling tech support, but the phone tree just bounces me around in circles. I tried calling some of the people from my dreams direct, but they’ve blocked my number. I mean, would you take a call from some stranger who bombards you in the shower or interrupts your dinner with strange claims about some cerebellum time-share project gone horribly awry?

I tried to stay awake for a few days, maybe force them to call me direct when their customers weren’t getting a clean signal. Three days I lasted, cramming down pasta, gunning down energy drinks, caffeine, ramming needles into my palms, taking freezing cold showers, jogging in place. No use. When I finally crashed, I crashed hard, and when I woke up, my head was sore as hell and I needed a hot shower.

Ever thought having sex with anyone you wanted would be fun? What if anyone could have sex with you? Not as much fun, is it? Imagine being mentally grudge-fucked by pissed off strangers while you slept, helpless.

My only course of revenge is to pay close attention to the smallest details of my dreams: names, places, clothing, faces – gather all their dirty little secrets in comprehensive file in my head and hope that by some far-flung chance I might stumble across them in reality and blackmail them into submission.

The stupid fucking things we do to pay the bills, eh?

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