Good morning, everybody.
A man -- who was also I, even though I wasn't seeing from the man's point of view, but from a view only 20cm or so from the man's face and directed toward the man. The man may have been black, with a light complexion, short-shaved hair, and a muscular body.
The man was a spy. He had traveled to a few cities around the world on a few different missions. He was now in a hotel, possibly in South Africa. The hotel was kind of dingy, with old-looking, concrete or white stone walls. But it was supposed to be a high-class hotel.
The man lay down in his bed. He pulled a cell phone up to his ear. He explained to his bosses how he'd been trailed through the city. He said that he was certain people now knew who he was.
The bosses told the man that everything was alright. The bosses said they'd send another agent to meet the man in just a couple hours. The man was to meet with the agent the bosses sent at a specific restaurant or cafe in the city.
The man hung up the phone. He understood that the bosses were laying a trap for the man. Since the man had been spotted, he was no longer a good agent. Since the bosses had no use for an agent that was no longer any good, they were going to kill the man. The man knew he needed to escape the city before the agents who were sent to kill him came after him.
The man went into the bathroom and pulled a huge Ziploc bag full of some material out of a suitcase. He may have pulled another bag full of something else out of the suitcase. The man was now apparently ready to leave the hotel and find a way out of the city.
I was in a nice, big hotel suite with a few young looking, beautiful, Latina girls. The girls were dressed casually, in kind of baggy t-shirts and ponytails. They were really skinny.
The girls were either spies or drug dealers. I had been working with them. But now I had just finished telling them I could no longer work with them. I was standing in the bathroom with one of the girls, right after I'd told her I was quitting. The girl was kneeling down, like she was tying her shoes or something, and I was petting her pale brown hair.
We now all stood out in the main room. A big window let in a lot of daylight. We were on a high floor in the hotel. The main room almost looked like the living room of a long-lived-in apartment: it even had a really lovely book collection along the left wall.
The girls' father was in the room. He was a kind of heavyset, rough-faced man with a dark olive complexion and full, but wiry, salt and pepper hair. He wore a tweed jacket, button up shirt, and nice slacks of a kind of heavy fabric.
The girls told their father that I could no longer work with them. I was afraid to hear the father's reaction. I thought the father would get angry and kill me. I was about to tell the father that I didn't exactly mean I couldn't work with the girls, that I was only thinking that maybe I should try to do something else.
I was in a big hotel suite. I was with the cast of The Chronic Rift, an old pop culture review show on New York City cable access in the 1990s. The cast was all sat out in their usual forum style in the main room of the suite. I had just walked from another room, like the kitchen or bathroom, into the main room.
The show may just now have been ending. There were now a couple of pop culture industry guests sitting out with the cast. The cast and the guests were talking back and forth about some element of science fiction writing.
One of the guests may have been tall, pale, and young-looking, even though I had a feeling he was older and far more experienced than I. The man wore a yellow t-shirt and a white cap, like Fred Lebow's old running cap. The man knew I should be interested in the topic everybody was discussing. But I wasn't contributing to the discussion at all. This annoyed the man, like he thought I was simply being lazy.
I was now getting the feeling that it was too late for me to contribute to the discussion: everybody seemed to be getting ready to get up and leave. But for some reason I did say something. It was really hard for me to speak, and whatever I said came out kind of confused.
The tall guest and the other guest stayed seated in order to answer my question. I think they were disappointed at my question: they may have expected a more complex question from me. But I think they took the time to answer my question in the hope that their answer would lead me to ask a more complex question. It was like I was somehow known for asking really penetrating questions.