We May Have Reached A New Level Of Bizarre, Here

Greetings, all. Occasionally, a dream pops in my head that bears some sort of significance. Some deep, possibly meaningful message from the ol’ subconscious that, if I’m lucky, could even end up as writing material. (Feel free to ask about The Dancing Six…)

That wasn’t the case last night. Nope. Just batshit weird stuff.

I dreamt that a friend of mine and I (can’t remember his face) were in some slum apartment. We appeared to be making a familiar from scratch. A familiar is a magic-user’s pet, that (as I understand it) is supposed to perform any task you set to them. I think. Haven’t cracked a grimoire in years…

Anyway: we’re in the apartment. And we’ve got a small cauldron on a hotpad, bubbling away. My partner in crime decides that a frog would be a good familiar, so the boiling contents of the pot leap out into the air. What lands appears to be a frog the size of a basketball, made entirely out of liquid. Or very, very runny play-doh. In either case, it’s entirely self-contained, not leaking/spilling/whatever. It looks up at us, expectantly, with an expression of ‘Now what’? on its face.

The frog hops around the room a bit, taking in our crappy surroundings. My cohort then changes his mind. “How about a walrus?” he says. The frog obliges, mid-hop, by grotesquely swelling. He hopped up a frog, he landed as a 4,000 pound walrus. Right on the table. The table never had a chance. It looks at us, sheepishly. Or walrusly. Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, too.

I said to this thing, “Think you can weigh a little less?” The Walrus shrinks to about the size of a housecat. “And what about fixing the table?” This is where things get interesting: The cat-sized walrus just stares at the kindling that used to be a table, and it all reverse-smashes. Pieces of shattered wood seam back together, making the table effectively brand new. This gives me an idea to take the walrus outside and give my car a magic tune-up.

Well, I go outside, tiny walrus flapping towards me, into the parking lot.

My car is missing. I don’t take it well. At all.

Some time later, mini-walrus and friend completely forgotten, I find my car. It was stolen, given a new paint job (red!) and license plate, and re-parked only two or three spaces away. One or two guys are standing on their lawn, watching me steal back my stolen car. The key still unlocks the door and starts the ignition, and there’s this look on their faces that says there’s not really a damn thing they can do about it. So there. Jerks.

That has to be, far and away, one of the most bizarre dreams I’ve had in a long while. Interpret as you see fit.