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submitted by I, like many of you I’d imagine, drafted RoJo late before Fournette was picked up. Now us RoJo owners are scratching our heads on production moving forward. I’d like to provide my personal opinions on both players and potential ROS outlook.
RoJo: Ronald Jones has provided a decent floor, but was propped by a TD in the Lenny bellcow game week 2. After his performance against the Bears last night, many of you might be thinking the backfield is his to lose. He had a very efficient game on the ground, but is still lackluster in the passing game. I do believe he will have another couple weeks of good production due to his running efficiency and Fournettes lingering ankle injury. If his passing game improves, the backfield COULD be his to lose.
Fournette: Hes a better all purpose back than RoJo. His pass blocking isn’t great, but think about why: in high school he’s the best player on the field - not gonna pass block. LSUs offense was missionary sex all night offense style while he was there - not much pass blocking. While at JAX he was a bellcow runner with a mediocre QB so he didn’t pass block much. If I were to bet, he’s getting a lot of passblock work in TB with Brady. Also, I think his rapport with Brady is stronger than RoJos. He jokes with him on social media and (correct me if I’m wrong) wasn’t benched after he dropped a handoff. Fournette has a 1 year contract that’s pennies compared to the other RBs in his draft class, this is his contract year where he needs to show why he should get paid. My only concern is his lingering ankle injury. It’s been a problem for him since LSU and any lasting injury like that is concerning.
In conclusion, I think Fournette is the Bucs ticket if they want a super bowl win. If RoJo can bruise through games keeping TB winning then he will continue until Fournette is 110% healthy. I do believe Arians will give Fournette a majority of snaps late in the season and is easing him into that role. IMO, RoJo’s sell high window will close in a couple weeks and he’s not a player I want starting in the back third of the season.
submitted by “GET HIM OFF ME! I screamed, desperate for breath and nearly choking on my own blood.
Another vicious shot to the ribs hit me, full force from an elbow that felt like a cinder block. Why in the hell we thought we could pull this off, I’ll never know. The man was made of fucking granite and it was all I could do to stay on him. Within seconds, what started as a rear naked choke had turned into me just holding on for dear life so he couldn’t come at me head-on. Our “simple” plan to take this asshole down and give him what he deserved had turned into that scene from Rocky III where Balboa is getting his shit ruined at the end of The Fabulous Thunder-Lips’ boot. I didn’t have much time left before my likely shattered ribs were jammed into my heart.
I was being smashed against the rough concrete wall for what felt like the hundredth time, but managed to get my legs around him and hook him at the elbows, leaving his midsection exposed. My co-conspirator Scotty picked himself up from the floor for the third time and ran at the big psychopath with everything he had left. At 215lbs or so, Scotty was no slouch, and when his boot made contact with the man’s ribs I heard a loud snapping sound. The man sagged, his arms relaxing just enough for me to regain my leg lock. Scotty grabbed an old staircase spindle and swung furiously at the man’s skull. He teetered, toppling over stiff-legged like an ancient tree in a perfectly quiet forest.
Scotty and I both collapsed, completely spent after a full five minutes of fighting. His eye was already terribly swollen and one of his teeth had somehow ended up on a nearby workbench. A large patch of Scotty’s hair was gone. I located it a moment later…in the big man’s hand.
I was positive I had at least one cracked rib and the left side of my face was completely numb. I had somehow lost my shirt, so the back side of me was nothing but pink skin scraped raw. My right wrist was most assuredly broken, as it made an agonizingly painful crunching sound when I rotated my hand.
I willed myself back to my feet and looked around for the rope we’d brought.
“This isn’t the movies. He could wake back up at any time. We gotta get him tied up ASAP and finish the job.”
Scotty found the rope beneath the man’s legs and set to work. We had him secured in just under a minute.
“I’m tying triple knots for this guy. If we have to go toe-to-toe with him again he’ll either kill us, or we’ll wish he had.”
Our plan was finally back on course, but we were beaten badly and possibly too weak to finish what we’d started.
Broken wrist and all, I helped Scotty drag that massive human, feet first, up the basement stairs and out to a van I had managed to conjure up out of thin air. His chin bounced off each step as we made our way up to the door, and in my mind I hoped it was breaking teeth every time.
I was scared. Why? Because I knew we were in over our head. Despite our injuries, we’d fought ferociously for quite a long time, yet he never made a sound—not a single peep. Not one grimace of pain or scream of rage. Just nothing. Aside from his initial greeting, the only sound that ever crossed his lips was the sharp exhale as Scotty’s spindle finished the job.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, because he’d never made a sound from the first time I saw him…silently stalking my dreams.
Until recently, I had never wet the bed. However, the first time I recall specifically
making note of not wetting the bed was about 10 years ago. I was deep into one of my usual, stupid dreams; I believe in this one I was back at my old high school, doing only God knows what kind of stupidity. I was probably being chased by a tiger—why is it always a fucking tiger?
I usually have a gun in the tiger dreams, but it never shoots. So after taking a pot shot at the thing with my useless Glock, I feel the overwhelming urge to urinate, and I’m suddenly in the boy’s bathroom.
I find a stall, go to it, and the toilet is broken.
I go to the next stall…I see shoes from underneath.
The next stall has a broken door.
And the last one has overflowed. Water is softly pouring over the side like one of those sweet Infinity pools--only this one doesn’t have a hot bikini chick on a raft. Instead it’s host to a couple turds of significant girth, drifting ever-so-close to the porcelain’s edge and threatening to come crashing down on my Ultra-Boosts.
I have to piss like a racehorse, this bathroom is out of options, and there’s a tiger outside in the hallway leaning against the lockers smoking a cigarette, patiently waiting for me to reappear.
Then I wake up, and realize I need to pee in real life*.*
This shit happens to me…
often.
Part of me is driven completely crazy by this little aspect of my subconscious, but I’m actually quite thankful my brain is willing to concoct some Vanilla Sky caliber dream scenarios to stop me from creating a warm, wet spot for my wife to roll over into.
Over the years, everything you can conjure up has had an opportunity to stop me from pissing myself. Tigers, Velociraptors, sinkholes, giant crowds of people watching me, a man with a gun standing in front of the stall, and a giant clown.
I know what you’re thinking…”oh geez, another grown man scared of clowns.”
I am not scared of clowns. What I’m scared of is a 7 foot tall grown man, willing to dress as a clown standing well within reach of my vulnerable penis.
I have had some epic piss prevention scenarios over the years, and each time it happens it feels like the first time. I do appreciate my brain very much for keeping things dry and I give props for the creativity involved,
but recently things took a strange, dark turn. I was chillin’ in one of my typical dreams. I don’t recall a tiger this time, so more than likely it was one of my staple scenarios…driving a two foot long car, or running like an ape.
At some point, my bladder transports me to the house I grew up in. I make my way to the bathroom in the back of the house, then enter and flip the light switch. Nothing happens, and of course I can’t pee in pitch blackness.
Then suddenly after 10 years, my bladder has entered the game and decides to fight back, showing me a desk lamp sitting on the toilet tank, right next to that JC Penny catalog I used to love so much.
I flip on the lamp, lift the lid and get ready to go, when it suddenly goes dark. Foiled again and frustrated, my full bladder and I turn around to leave and something happens. Someone GRABS me, wraps their arms around me, and says
“Let me try something…”
I roared like a wild animal and shot straight up out of bed, ready to do battle with whoever had just put me in a bear hug, which subsequently scared the ever-loving shit out of my wife--even more so than the time I practically shoved her out of bed because I saw a jellyfish on the wall.
This was different, though. I have never, ever felt physical contact like that in my dreams. It felt as real as anything I’d ever experienced up to that point, and even the next morning I could STILL feel the memory of it, just as any other significant human contact I had ever experienced.
The experience weighed heavily on me for a few days. I knew it was a dream, but I also knew what I felt. It felt
very real, and I had to find out for sure. If it happened again it could go further and turn into something I may very well not be able to handle.
So, I concocted a plan. I would drink a metric ass ton of liquid before bed and hope like hell the walnut between my ears would take evasive action and dream something up to stop an unwanted Golden Shower. Then, I would keep my eyes peeled for whoever grabbed me last time, and confront them.
It took some experimentation to eventually achieve success. Water and soda didn’t seem to be doing it, so after a couple unsuccessful weeks I broke out the guaranteed urinary tract assault…vegetable soup. That stuff hits my bladder HARD and doesn’t let up for hours.
I whipped up granny’s recipe, had three big bowls around 7:00, and went to bed at 9:30.
The bathroom trips were relentless that night, but between the 5th and 6th visit I must have finally hit a solid spell of REM sleep and it was “go time.”
The scene was me, alone, walking toward a grassy hillside when I suddenly got that familiar urge to evacuate. There was nothing but grass as far as the eye could see in every direction and I absolutely HATE peeing outside. Then as if my mind was reading my mind, a urinal magically appeared. It was perfectly white and fresh, with a strawberry scented deodorant cake in the bottom and no chewing gum in the bowl area. I smiled at the great fortune bestowed upon me by my bladder and unzipped my imaginary trousers.
Without warning, just as sweet relief was about to hit me, I was facing a wall of dirty, haggard looking soldiers on horseback. These were the gritty, hard-nosed types you see in Braveheart or Game of Thrones. Leather armor, with big wooden shields and rusty swords stained with the blood of their enemies.
My pelvic floor muscles hit the brakes HARD. There was no way I was gonna be able to get my flow on in front of all these people. So I zipped up, with that annoying bladder pressure still tapping me on the shoulder in reminder, and backed up a bit to get a better look at the scene before I would most assuredly wake up.
But I didn’t wake up, and I stood mesmerized as the sea of men parted down the middle and a man walked through. He wasn’t a soldier, and in-fact he looked nothing at all like the men surrounding him. He looked to be mid-thirties, average height, strongly built and dressed in modern day jeans and a t-shirt emblazoned with some rock band I didn’t recognize.
He walked up to me and offered his hand. I took it.
A bolt of lightning shot up my arm and that *real* feeling hit me hard. This was it. It was the same guy.
He spoke in a familiar accent.
“I’m Scotty. You’re a hard man to catch--and stronger than you look. I had a hell of a hold on you last time and you got out fast enough to make me rethink my workout regimen."
I gave the only logical reply.
“That’s because I have super strength in my dreams. Why did you grab me?”
His smile had disappeared. Looking at me with serious eyes, he slowly raised a finger and pointed off to his right.
“Because I think
he wants to kill you.”
My eyes gently rolled in the direction his extended finger indicated. The soldiers were all gone, but about 50 yards out I could see a lone figure. It was a man. Exceptionally tall, perhaps 6’6”, and broad shouldered. He wore tan Carhartt work pants and a blue denim style shirt rolled up at the sleeves. A receding line of sand colored hair sat in a messy heap on his head, and even at such a distance I could see coal black eyes staring out.
Connected to some stout-looking forearms were giant hands, and in his right was several loops worth of what appeared to be cut-off extension cord. In his left hand was a large canvas bag.
If the work clothes were replaced by a suit and the cord became a briefcase, you wouldn’t look twice at the man. He was THAT ordinary. But with those black eyes, the no-nonsense outfit and chosen accessories in hand, he looked menacing…like a farmhand or mechanic who had “put up with enough of the Democrats’ bullshit” and decided to go stomp the guts out of anyone who didn’t fit his narrative.
As a monster in my dreams though, he wasn’t what I would conjure up. And really to be honest, my personal monster would probably just be someone trying to make me run my fingernails across glossy photo paper. *shudder*
“Dude…I’ve run across you half a dozen times over the past year, and every single time that creepy asshole was watchin’ you from an uncomfortably close distance. He’s out to get you, and I’m not sure what’s stopped him so far.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the sandy-haired Man continued to stare directly at me. He hadn’t even flinched, or blinked, or done anything to suggest that he wasn’t just a prop in this nightmare, and it was certainly unsettling. Then, all of a sudden, he slowly turned and walked back over the hill and out of sight.
I turned my eyes back to Scotty.
“Are you a real person? I know this is a dream, but it feels as real as my own life. And why are you seeing me?”
Scotty grinned.
“You might think I’m the weirdest son of a bitch you ever talked to, but I’ll tell ya anyways. I’m very real. I’m also a fitness fanatic, and obsessed with longevity of life. I wanna live to a hundred plus years old and I’ve developed certain methods to keep myself on track to hit that number.”
“Ok?” I said quizzically.
He continued. “One of my anti-aging techniques is makin’ sure I stay in REM sleep as long as possible. REM is essential to optimal health in every way because all the good shit happens to you while you’re at that level of sleep. I take all the steps necessary to keep myself there as much as possible. I sleep in absolute darkness with the perfect temperature and the most comfortable bed. I wear a mask, use a cocktail of natural sleep aids, and anything else I can get my hands on in order to achieve uninterrupted REM”
He shrugged.
“But, I’m 43 years old and the one thing I’m losing control of is the call of nature. A while back I started having to get out of bed to pee every night and it threw my entire plan into chaos. I believe maximal REM sleep is possibly the MOST IMPORTANT factor in longevity. I was in a panic, and in desperation I came up with an idea. Diapers. I decided to wear an adult diaper to bed and train my brain to let me pee in it without coming out of REM. I know it sounds crazy, man. I know it. But I was desperate, and necessity is the mother of invention.”
I’m a pretty open-minded guy so this really wasn’t all that ridiculous to me, but I was definitely laughing…in a polite way.
“So you now wear a diaper at night, and go ahead and wet the bed and deal with the aftermath in the morning? All to stay in REM?”
Nodding, he finished the story.
“I do. And through intensive meditation and focus, I trained my brain to take me to a toilet during my dreams so it doesn’t try to wake me up. Now, I don’t understand the dream world but apparently it exists somewhere other than just inside our own selves, but I’ve been hitting some of these bathrooms at the same time you do. In-fact, every time I see you you’re standing in front of the toilet I need and I end up waking up and ruining my REM period. So, a few weeks back when you walked into that same house and that same bathroom with that godawful rose colored wallpaper, I…
I cut him off.
“My mother chose that wallpaper, asshole.”
He backed up a step.
“Easy there fella, I was just takin’ the piss…no pun intended.”
Scotty continued.
“So as I was saying, I decided I would grab you and see if I could tell you to stop interfering in my bed wetting. But you got out of my hands so fast I didn’t get the chance. But I KNEW at that point that you were real, like me. The energy when I touched you was unbelievable.”
“Yeah, I felt it too, and that’s why I’m back here today. You scared the living shit out of me with that stunt, but I suppose my desire to explore that event was stronger than my sense of self-preservation.”
Scotty pointed over to the now unoccupied piece of land where the sandy-haired man had been standing.
“I think he’s real too, and it seems to me he’s locked in on ya for some sort of nefarious purpose. I think it’s because you stick out in the bathroom situations. Characters he’s conjured up in his own dream scenario aren’t complex enough to walk up to a stall with a broken door and panic. He figured out you’re real and he’s got something in mind for you. Why he hasn’t done anything yet, I don’t know, but I needed to warn you. That night I grabbed you, he was standing in the bedroom doorway at the end of the hallway. He doesn’t seem interested in me, though”
I kicked the dirt at my feet.
“Shit, man. That’s my old bedroom. I end up there in my dreams pretty often, which is odd because I always considered sharing that space with my brother to be a living nightmare. He farted in his sleep constantly.”
Scotty shrugged his shoulders
“I don’t know what to tell you. I know right now I’m at home in Clarksburg, fast asleep to the artificial sound of seagulls in a perfect 67 degrees Farenheit bedroom, wearing a warm, hopefully piss-filled diaper. But this moment is real as well, and I’m afraid if that man gets hold of either of us we may never wake up—or at least not in the lives we currently know. I feel like there’s a reason two strangers in the dream world keep ending up in the same place at the same time. I think I need to help you figure this out.”
I looked at him, a little relieved but still VERY unnerved.
“I sincerely appreciate the warning. I…wait…did you say Clarksburg? Clarksburg, West Virginia?”
With surprise on his face, he said “Uhh..yes. You know of it?”
“Yes. Because I live in Huntington.”
His eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
“YOU ONLY LIVE A COUPLE HOURS FROM ME?”
“It appears so, Scotty. This is really starting to NOT feel like a coincidence.”
Another half hour or so later (I finally had to wake up and pee), Scotty and I parted ways. We shared address and contact information, of which his phone number I managed to forget by the time I woke up. However, I did remember his home address.
***
I took the day off work and made some lame excuse to my wife, then headed for Clarksburg. On the long, boring-ass drive up there I thought about what I might do, say, etc, once I met the real Scotty. I mean…if he really WAS real. I had no guarantee the dude was actually some random guy living in my own state. For all I knew, one of my elaborate dreams was just more elaborate than usual. Plus, I had been to Clarksburg several times for one reason or another over the years so my subconscious could have just conjured up a real address I’d seen on a past visit.
I arrived to town still not quite sure if I was doing something entirely stupid, and made my way down a country road to the address Scotty provided. It was real. The number on the mailbox corresponded with a small, nondescript yellow house situated adjacent to the main road. I pulled into the gravel driveway, exceptionally nervous and definitely packing my pistol just in case it wasn’t Scotty’s house, and instead was actually inhabited by some old creeper.
The poorly maintained front yard contained several pieces of outdoor type exercise equipment and a bike rack was attached to the trailer hitch of the off-road style Tacoma in the driveway. A crooked “26.2” sticker was on the bumper, indicating the driver had run a marathon at some point…or at least knew where to buy a 26.2 sticker. It was quite the coincidence because my truck’s bumper has a sticker that reads “0.0 I don’t run.”
Well…the Scotty I’d met said he was a health nut, so the yard and vehicle fit the description. However, I didn’t see any dirty diapers strewn about. Maybe he leaves his in the Wal-Mart parking lot like everyone else.
I rang the bell, quickly patting my concealed firearm’s holster for peace of mind.
The door opened and there was Scotty “in the flesh” as they say. He had a surprised look on his face, to say the least.
“Wow. You’re real.”
“So are you.” I threw my hands up.
“Well…now what?”
Scotty gestured for me to come inside.
“I have a plan, dude. Allow me to share.”
Scanning my surroundings, I took a seat on the couch. It was a pretty typical place for a bachelor. The TV and home theater gear was too big for the wall they sat adjacent to, while old movie and concert posters adorned the other walls. The kitchen consisted of basic appliances, then what appeared to be a DIY hyperbaric chamber.
“Nice place. Where’s the diaper pail?”
He grinned. “Literally, I would never have divulged that information if your life hadn’t depended on it.”
We got right to the business at hand.
Scotty had a theory. If he and I were in such close proximity, then there must be some kind of geographic layout in our dreams. With that knowledge in hand, he believed that the sandy-haired man must also be reasonably close. We agreed that we had no idea what would happen if he carried out whatever horrors he seemed to have in mind.
Could we die in a dream? If so, would we wake up? If we woke up, would we ever dream again?
We spoke about the situation at length, and decided our first plan should be to follow the man and see if the places he went and things he did would provide some clues as to his real world location.
It took some strategic planning and well-timed liquid consumption, but Scotty and I finally managed to be in the same place at the same time in our dreams again. It was a Sears department store location near where I grew up. I made my way to the rear of the store, then down the hallway that always smells faintly of armpits.
That Sears bathroom is pretty much my go-to when I’m at that mall. It’s only slightly better than a decrepit gas station on Route 66, but it’s almost always empty so I can pee in peace.
Scotty entered a moment later.
“Dude…he’s outside in the tool area. I watched from a distance as he followed you, but you got out of his sight on the way over here. I don’t think he knows where the bathroom is yet, which tells me he’s probably not someone who lives in your local area. Where are we, anyway?
I rolled my eyes as I explained. “It’s a mall near where I grew up. In real life I always pee in this bathroom because it’s always empty. I’ve never actually ended up here in a dream, though.”
We quietly snuck back out through the hallway. Scotty took the lead and checked a few aisles before motioning for me to follow.
And there he was, in the lawn and garden section…looking at axes.
He was even bigger than I’d estimated during our first encounter. He had the look of a person you’d imagine bending steel pipe by hand, or holding up a collapsed roof to rescue his fellow miners.
As the sandy-haired man left that section of the store and began to explore, his size was in stark contrast to his movements. His pace was smooth-- almost delicate even, as he moved throughout the store, and there were no footfalls or clumsily bumping into things amidst the tightly packed aisles.
We stayed out of sight, camouflaged by the dream-manifested store patrons while keeping the man in sight. Eventually he made his way back to the tool area and located the bathrooms. He disappeared into both the men’s and women’s rooms, then reappeared just as quickly and set back out across the store.
We had officially lost him. Now it was time to do some stalking of our own.
Scotty and I watched the big man cross the Sears parking lot, heading right for the traffic loop. We followed bit by bit, keeping low along the line of cars in the crowded lot.
Making his way through a crowd of onlookers participating in what appeared to be a dog fight—more specifically, poodles…Toy Poodles….surprisingly violent little things, too. I made a mental note to be nice to my neighbor’s fluffy puppy.
Passing right through it all as if it didn’t exist, the man stepped out into traffic. He walked directly in front of a car and disappeared as it passed right through his body.
Scotty and I stood there in disbelief for a few seconds, but we knew what had to happen. I exhaled sharply as we stepped in front of a literal rocket ship on wheels. I was sure we were about to get smashed, but instead we were suddenly standing on a quiet residential street. Instantly taking a look around before setting off again, we kept our eyes peeled for the sandy-haired man. It took a few minutes of exploring, but Scotty and I finally caught sight of him standing in front of a small, immaculately maintained house. Light gray with maroon shutters, the surrounding property was comprised of beautiful, lush grass and round, perfectly manicured bushes that put my own landscaping shit-show to complete shame.
Scotty pointed off in the distance and looked over at me.
“Hey. I know this area. That water tower. It’s in Pennsylvania, just across the state line. I used to date a girl that lived over here, somewhere.”
Knowing the answer already, I asked…”So how’d that relationship turn out?”
With a smug look, he said “She was a hippy, and wasn’t fond of shaving or bathing. I couldn’t deal with that.”
I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow. He threw his hands out in front of him, gesturing.
“OK, OK…she wasn’t down with me wearing a diaper to bed. Some girls like it, though. I swear.”
So anyway…..The man climbed the short section of porch steps and put his hand on the door handle, only to make a sudden about-face as if he’d forgotten something. Scotty and I ducked below the bush line behind which we’d taken up position and watched as the man made his way to a shed several yards off the side of the house. He pulled open the sliding doors and went inside. We could hear him rummaging around and moving things.
A few minutes later he reappeared, and slung over his shoulder was a body in a burlap sack. Judging from the sound of the muffled screams, it was a woman. She was fighting furiously beneath the fabric, thrashing and jabbing at what might as well have been a brick wall. His hands were half the size of her back, and it only took one of them to keep her completely under control.
The woman screamed with all she had, but he didn’t bother to silence her. It was his dream now, and there was no one to hear those cries for help…except for me and my new friend.
As the man entered the house with the woman over his shoulder, Scotty and I began to come up with a plan to save her. We knew she was a real person like the two of us, and if he was going to do what he appeared to be preparing for, we had to stop him.
The plan was simple—and in hindsight, it was also incredibly stupid.
Sneak quietly into the house, free the girl, and beat the piss out of the sandy-haired man until he was unconscious and we could figure out what to do with him. It was perfect. You see it in the movies all the time.
But before we did that…I had a problem.
“Dude…I have to pee reaaaaaaaly bad. It’s gonna wake me up any minute!”
Scotty, of course, had loaded up his real life diaper long ago.
He looked at me with a face as serious as I’ve ever seen.
“You gotta do it. You HAVE TO wet the bed, bro. It’s the only way.”
As if on cue, ten feet in front of me my challenge appeared. It was a ballpark trough.
You know, those stupid, wide open tubs that run the length of the wall at sports stadiums. Anyone and everyone is standing out there with their wiener unguarded, just waiting for some asshole to come by and flick it with his finger while simultaneously giving an atomic wedgie.
I took a step back. “Dude, I can’t. Troughs are literally the most dangerous, vulnerable depositories for urine on the planet. I’d rather piss in front of a thirsty tiger!”
“You HAVE to do it, man. If you don’t, all of this was for nothing. You’ll wake up, and being the chivalrous guy I am, I’ll go in there to rescue the princess and that big bastard will beat me to death and run train on my corpse. I can’t do this without you! Just try!”
So, I tried. I whipped it out, took a few deep breaths, focused on my urethral sphincters, and gave it a shot. After 10 seconds or so there was a trickle…just a tiny bit.
Scotty yelled from behind.
“How’s it going! Anything coming out!”
I was frantic. “It’s not coming out enough! I know I’m about to wake up!”
And just like that he was on me. Scotty came up behind, wrapped his arms around my body right at bladder level, screamed at the top of his lungs “I’M A HETEROSEXUAL MAN!!” and pulled back hard, putting enormous pressure on my bladder.
It went off like a fire hose.
A full minute later I was shaking off the last few drops, which were likely just icing on the cake of the enormous circle of urine that was now on my bed back in the real world. I hoped to god my wife didn’t wake up, but the more likely scenario is that she was about to roll over in it. I was also asking myself if we had remembered to put the mattress liner on after the last laundry day.
I raised my arms in triumph. I never thought I would be so happy to have pissed in my PJ’s.
“Let’s fucking DO THIS!”
So, we went for it. The door wasn’t locked since no one would fuck with the man’s house in his own dream…except two real guys in
their own dreams.
We crept into the house slowly and quietly. It was as immaculate as the man’s landscaping. Clean, orderly, with simple furniture and drab carpet that had fresh vacuum marks.
However…
the smell. Oh my god, it was putrid. It was beyond putrid--it was a nasty, gut churning, bile rising stench that instantly made my eyes water. We covered our noses but it had absolutely no effect. Breathing through my mouth had me about 1% below the vomit threshold.
It was no matter, though. We had to get to the task at hand.
Scotty and I crept slowly around the house, then heard screams from the direction of the kitchen. Retracing our steps back across the house, we followed the sounds to a basement door. It was closed and had a number on it. That was a little odd for a door inside the house. It said “Room 733.” I gingerly turned the knob and quietly pushed it open. From beyond the basement steps I could hear the sounds of Johnny Cash playing softly, coupled with the light static of a weak radio signal.
We began our slow descent, planning to sneak up on the son-of-a-bitch and whip his ass like nobody’s business. As we reached the bottom of the steps, the stench had reached its peak. It was just too much to handle. My eyes burned furiously and my stomach began to spasm. As my feet hit the floor I looked up, and there he was. Grinning. Like, a genuine, friendly and welcoming smile.
I looked around the room as the sickness tried to overwhelm me. God, I wish I hadn’t. Hanging from the floor joists were people…probably a dozen of them, tightly packed but divided into male/female couples, hanging like the tobacco you see drying in a barn along a country road. A large clamp attached to the joists held each one off the ground by its hair, and a bucket sat underneath to collect all manner of fluids and gunk seeping out.
But something wasn’t right. They were thing…too thin…too
flat.
I initially though the bones were missing, but off to the side I could see a body laying horizontally within what looked like a stream press. It was more than one body, actually. Maybe half a dozen? They were just completely, disgustingly, horrifically flattened. Clearly in a preparation stage for the hanging phase of whatever sick process this was.
Off in the opposite corner sat what appeared to be a big cauldron, like witches use in old movies. A gas flame burned beneath it, feeding heat to what I now realized was the second ingredient for the intense stench of death. Rubber.
And, finally, I saw the completed product.
Four bodies, leaned against the wall, in an unnaturally rigid manner. They were very clearly made from skin suits, just like the ones hanging above us, but were stretched absurdly tight…not a single wrinkle was visible. Everything just looked stuffed beyond possibility. Eyelids were closed and had been painted freakishly bright blue with a wide open stare. The mouths were also closed and covered by a big dazzlingly white mouth, not separated into teeth. The artwork was horrendous, like one of those shitty kid pictures your coworkers have hanging in their cubicles.
Everything from the moment we hit the floor until he spoke happened in under ten seconds. No one had moved, the grin never left the man’s face, and when Scotty and I came out of the trance he spoke to us. It was and is the only time I ever heard him speak.
Looking at us wild-eyed and with great enthusiasm, he said in an exceptionally deep and thunderous voice…
“You fellas like horror stories? You ever read the one about Tommy Taffy? How about The Pancake Family? I bet I've read 50,000 stories but those are my FAVORITES!”
I do like horror stories, and I’ve read both…and now my body could no longer contain the eruption churning within…
I threw up all over him.
The sandy-haired man’s enthusiasm was instantly gone, replacing itself with a look of pure rage as he cleared away the enormous amount of vomit I’d spewed onto his face and chest.
Scotty and I began to space ourselves out to surround the sandy-haired man, hoping to get him at the same time and get this over with quickly. Unfortunately I wasn’t finished vomiting and as Scotty tried to cross in front of me he slipped, landing hard on his back.
The man lunged at me, but I managed to sidestep, sending him careering into the stairs. He was so wide that I hadn’t even seen the woman behind him whose screams had been the very reason for our descent into this hell hole. I also hadn’t noticed that those screams had stopped.
As he flew past me I got a look at her. She was hanging upside down by her feet, bound with an extension cord, and swaying gently from the momentum of the man releasing his grip. Her back facing me and clad only in underwear, I had a full view of her bloodied body and my eyes locked in on something. It was a tattoo. A dolphin tattoo, to be exact.
I knew this because
I bought her that tattoo 15 years ago during our honeymoon in Mexico.
With a gasp I lunged forward and spun her body around to face me. She looked dead. Fluids and blood trickled from fresh wounds in tributaries down her body, seeping into that beautiful auburn hair that had drawn countless compliments throughout her life.
I knelt down and screamed her name, feeling hot breath on my neck as the man grabbed me by the belt. In one fleeting second as his superhuman strength began to lift me off the floor, I saw her eyelids flicker open just a sliver. A rush of adrenaline hit me and I scrambled forward far enough to grab her face, stare into her near lifeless and eyes and scream.
“Annie..........WAKE UP!!!!” And just like that, she disappeared.
So, if you paid any attention to the opening paragraphs of this tale, you know what happened. He spent 10 agonizingly slow minutes beating us like the bitches we were, while we fought with just enough ferociousness to not get killed, eventually resulting in us getting in a couple lucky shots that finally knocked him unconscious.
So, there we were. We had just loaded the sandy-haired man into the van. He was awake now, bound with his own extension cord and lashed to the van’s floor with ratchet straps. I was amazed he hadn’t tried to speak again.
Now, before you think this will take the turn of your favorite horror films I’ll make something very clear. He wasn’t getting out.
I’ve seen enough shitty tie jobs in those films to know what quality work entails. I hog tied the man, tying knots on top of knots and keeping them away from his hands, Furthermore, I boxed him into the upright position using odds and ends that were already in the van so there would be no rolling over and using some surrounding object to free himself.
Once the van was screaming down the road, Scotty looked over from the driver’s seat.
“What do we do with him?”
Staring straight ahead, I said “Set him on fire and push this van off a cliff. As much as I’d like to take my time slicing this motherfucker wide open, we could wake up at any second.
So, we did just that. Quick and efficient, and he was definitely dead.
Shortly after that I woke up. Reaching over to check on Annie, I found nothing but our dog, sprawled out like he owned the place. I panicked for a moment, then heard the toilet flush.
Annie stepped out of the bathroom and headed toward the door to the hallway, saying “Babe, you won’t believe the nightmare I had. It scared me so bad I’m still shaking a bit.”
“Oh also, I think Cujo peed in the bed.”
Over the next month Scotty and I stayed in contact but hadn’t met up in a dream again. In-fact, I was staying up later and had decided to seriously limit my intake of liquids after 6pm. We had vowed not to look for the sandy haired man, and instead would just lay low despite the absurdity of thinking homicide in a dream could get us arrested in the real world.
But as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, curiosity finally got the better of Scotty.
He’d managed to remember bits and pieces of the location of the man’s house in the dream, and decided to take a trip a few hours north to that small Pennsylvania town he’d recognized by that distinctive water tower. Driving around most of the day, Scotty eventually located the house. He sat in the truck for a few hours, just waiting for the man to come out…or not come out. The perfectly manicured grass was high and unread newspapers littered the sidewalk. Scotty finally decided to exit the truck and just stood in the street, halfway wishing the man would see him and come outside.
A curious neighbor hollered from the house next door and asked Scotty if he was lost, or if he could be of any assistance. Scotty made up some bullshit story about meeting the man there after answering a craigslist ad for some camping gear for sale.
“Oh, Mr. Jepson’s not home. He’s in the hospital. You may have seen it on the news, though. It’s all just so sad because he is absolutely the nicest, most kind person I’ve ever met. It’s such a shame what’s happening to him.”
Deciding it best not to ask any more questions, Scotty thanked the neighbor, got back in his truck and pulled up the local news station’s website. Five minutes later, he called me.
“Dude…he’s dying. Check the news!”
I avoid all forms of news most of the time, so I fired up my Galaxy and hit up the local Pennsylvania stations until I found what I was looking for. The man had been taken to the hospital after going over three weeks without sleep. Nothing could put him out…sleeping pills, anesthetics, and even a full-on medically induced coma. Nothing worked. He remained wide awake.
The sandy-haired man…err...Allen Jepson…was literally disintegrating. Body systems, processes, functions both internal and external…all failing, one miserable second at a time.
I updated myself constantly on the story over the coming days, and eventually saw that Jepson passed away. He died in pure misery, feeling the effects of no drug administered to provide comfort amidst the excruciating pain as his body’s systems shut down, one by one. He screamed in agony until exhaling his dying breath.
So there you have it. The answer to one of life’s great questions…what happens if you die in a dream?
A few days later I found his obituary.
Rev. Allen Edward Jepson, 62, of Montclaive, PA passed away at University Medical Center after a tragic illness. A voracious reader of folklore and scary tales, people often said he would read through the entire internet if he lived long enough. Beginning work as a butcher at the age of 14, Mr. Jepson was known throughout his lifetime for possessing remarkable physical power, performing feats of strength for crowds at county fairs, fundraisers, and the like. Although leading church services was not his primary occupation, in his spare time Pastor Jepson facilitated eternal salvation for thousands of lost souls and enriched the lives of all who had the good fortune to meet and spend time with him. In addition to countless other selfless endeavors, he was a lifelong supporter of hospice, spending a few final hours at the bedside of over 1,000 residents as they gained their Heavenly wings. Many times, he said “I feel it’s my life’s mission to be present for those who are in their final moments on Earth.” Reverend Jepson was preceded in death by his dear wife Judith and only son, Tommy.
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