Last night I hit the sack around midnight. At exactly 1:50 a.m. I awoke, terrified but thankful to realize that yes, I had in fact been dreaming. It was my latest war dream. I'm starting to think that my posting of some dreams on this site has gotten the juices flowing in a sort of self-reinforcing circle of dream activity.
So, there I was, crouching in the bushes on a dense hillside similar to the type you would find in the canyons of Malibu or the Hollywood Hills. I was part of a covert insertion team sent to capture an enemy guerilla mastermind. I'm not clear on exactly what the conflict was, but whoever "we" were, we were fighting a war in our own land against a formidable foe. Our special forces team leader was Phil Ivey. For those of you who have not lately brushed up your familiarity of the world's poker elite, Phil Ivey is considered by many top poker players to be the best player in the world.
Phil Ivey
We crept closer to a hilltop house, the kind of tropical house with the indoor/outdoor living room, etc. Somehow we managed to subdue the enemy and take some prisoners, gaining control of the house, which I guess was some sort of guerilla headquarters.
I was standing guard on the front porch, looking out over the hills through my binoculars, when I decided to take a peek into the makeshift interrogation room we had set up. I saw that two of our specialists had bound the sinister guerilla leader to a chair (he was a lot like Christopher Henderson from 24) and were unsuccessfully trying to extract information from him. However, I soon became concerned when I observed, through a slit in the door, my guys untie him and start talking with him in low tones. I entered, offering my services. It became clear immediately that these two supposed compatriots of mine were in cahoots with the enemy, and that I had been betrayed. I looked around desperately for Phil Ivey, but was told that he had advanced onward to a neighboring hillside.
I was now in the clutches of the ruthless enemy. I looked out into the driveway and saw another of my men, Jorge the First Mate, chatting it up with a beautiful female guerilla, as if they had known each other a long time. (Note: Jorge was the first mate on a fishing boat I was on a couple of months ago down in Costa Rica. My buddy Chris Lorenz took a few of us down to a beautiful place he goes each year for unbelievable fishing. Jorge was a local teenager with incredible fish-spotting talents.) I realized the whole operation had been a trap.
Pretty soon I was loaded into the back of a pickup truck with some others, and we started the bumpy ride to our next destination, which I could only imagine would be where we would die. One of my captors, who I had thought was a friend until a few minutes before, took the watch off my wrist, saying, with a smirk, that I wouldn't be needing it anymore.
At this point I violently tried to shake myself awake, hoping that it was all just a nightmare. To my horror, I realized that this was all real, and that I was about to be tortured and killed. The pickup truck jostled along the dusty road into the distance, and I contemplated how unpleasant the last moments of my life werre to be. . . .
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