My waking dreams get weirder still.
In this one, I was on the front lines of a great and terrible ground war in some distant land. I was running for hell over the scorched earth, dodging between sandbag embankments and burned-out trucks with my weapon in hand, decked out for death in destructive implements of every description. Grenades by the score swung to and fro from a mesh net across my chest, and my lucky brain pan clung desperately to the top of my freshly shaved head.
To avoid the shrapnel from a sudden blast, I dove into a nearby foxhole, ignoring the bodies of the deceased I landed upon. I popped my head up to get a peek at my situation, and slid back down the dirt wall again. My stomach felt this was an opportune time to growl.
I checked my dad’s lucky watch and yelled, “Breakfast! Breakfast!” as if I were calling for a medic. Presently, a haggard soldier in standard battle fatigues came hauling ass toward me, a large “B” emblazoned on the side of his helmet. He was wearing a large olive drab field pack with the same insignia. Breathlessly, he slid down beside me and opened his backpack.
“Okay. We got some leftover toast, a few sausage patties, and the rest of this Oscar Juliet if you want, but there’s no ice so don’t ask–” His words were drowned by nearby gunfire. “Here,” he shouted, hauling forth a large canteen from his bag, “is the last of the coffee. I’ve got some sugar left, but HQ says we’re out of cream. Donuts are still on back order–” We duck our heads simultaneously in response to a mortar round exploding somewhere close by. They were zeroing in. “But with the heavy shelling those guys are taking back by the 177th, it doesn’t look like they’ll be here anytime soon. What can I get you?”
“Got any cereal?” I asked hopefully. I’d was craving frosted mini-wheat’s like you wouldn’t believe. His face took a pained expression. “Hey, come on, man. Just what you see here. I ain’t yer mother, and you ain’t back in Oregon, or wherever the hell you come from! Now make up yerr mind!” RATATATATATAT! KA-BOOM! “I got a huge shipment of pancakes coming in this afternoon, six dozen coffee cakes in the oven, and about three million other things to do before lunch. What’s it gonna be?”
“Give me the java, and two packs of sugar, couple slabs of that toast–” RATATAT KA-BLAM! “And I’ll take a few sausage patties. That’s all, thanks!”
He handed over the goods, and once a window of escape opened, he took it.