A macaque monkey swings down into a wide and flat drainage ditch, within a party rages. I can't get down from here, the railings are coming apart, so it isn't safe. But somehow I wander around and end up between these two chicks, no doubt going back to their place, roommates or something, who cares. We arrive and upon opening the door I realize they live in a closet, nothing more, their clothes are hanging up neatly, above them the shelves have been reappropriated into some sort of bunk bed like system. Now the first one is in my face looking me in the eyes holding her hands out saying, "I need a thousand bucks! I need a thousand bucks right now!"
"Um, well I certainly don't have a thousand in my wallet, how much more do you need?"
She goes to the rear of their closet home and in several neat piles on the ground near the wall various denominations of American dollars are laid out.
"I've got 367..."
But she barely gets to say this, a pounding at the door eclipses her chattering and shortly after the door's kicked clean open. I dash behind their hanging clothes in a poor attempt to hide. Incoherent yelling, presumably about the money. I'm kicked square in the chest through the clothes like the bastards knew I was there all along. The man screams at me with wildly animated gestures, but another, calmer man walks by him, superseding him with his impeccably tailored suit and turns to face me proudly, feet wide apart with confidence. Silently he draws two Uzi style machine guns and, pointing them at 45 degree angles at the ceiling, lets loose a tumultuous tear of bullets with no regard for anything in the way. He approaches me and naturally I flee, out the door and into the street where he follows me and we meet other citizens who cry out in fright at the scene: me, stumbling backwards in terror as bullets fly from the dual weapons of a well-dressed man I now realize is of Korean descent, with a buzzed haircut. Now he begins to scream at me in what is presumably Korean, and I cannot understand and try to communicate this to him. He pauses briefly, with a flicker of acknowledgment, then hits the button on a small, smooth purple device attached to his lapel. He starts monologuing at me again, only now the device translates in real time into jittery robot English and makes his attempts to communicate even more incomprehensible as it sounds in tandem with his voice. But no matter since at this moment thirty stubby missiles stream overhead at a height of no more than 12 feet, leaving iridescent silver-shining contrails which widen to encompass my entire field of vision and the Playstation 2 logo fades in slowly, the commercial dims to black and I wake up.
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