Good morning, everybody.
A killer had his potential victim in a hotel room. The hotel room was brightly lit with incandescent light. The victim was sat down against a wall while the killer stood up near a bed.
The killer was a white man, maybe in his late thirties or forties, with a kind of worn face. But he was dressed in something like a sexy female nurse's outfit, and he wore a woman's red-brown wig.
But then, as the killer lifted a gun to the victim's head and gave some weird speech about being killed, the killer's head became all distored, to look like the head of a deformed doll, with strange, plastic, mantis-like eyes popping out of the sides of his head.
In the middle of his speech, the killer shot his gun. The gun was a makeshift, white, plastic gun. But there was something wrong with the gun. And when the killer shot, the bullet came out of the gun backward and hit the killer in the left eye.
The killer had probably just killed himself. But he was dying slowly, and he was still aware of himself. He wandered out of the hotel room, screaming in panic and fear. I saw from his point of view. He was looking down at the ground, which was like asphalt in an alley or a concrete floor in the back hallway of a large building.
My mom had just gone into some medical area to get prepared for a surgery. I was in a waiting room, which was actually a huge warehouse with huge shelves full of stuff like office and industrial merchandise.
An Asian woman (who now reminds me of a woman I worked with about ten years ago on a fire crew in New Mexico) came out to speak with me. She was something like a nurse. But she may also have been a friend of my mom or my whole family.
The woman told me that my mom was really weak coming into this operation, and that that wasn't good news. The doctors had been surprised by how weak my mom had turned out to be. In particular they were worried about something to do with my mom's stomach muscles, which were extremely soft.
As the woman and I spoke about this, we were fumbling around with some tools or some odds and ends of some unconstructed item that lay scattered about on the tops of a few boxes that stood before us in the shadow below a huge shelf. One of the pieces was black metal and looked a little like half of a bicycle pedal.
I was now in a car with my family. The car may have been an SUV, with three or four rows of seats, to accommodate all my sister's children. I was probably in a middle row, probably on the passenger side, looking back to the very back row, or even into the trunk space, where my mother was sitting. My sister or my brother-in-law may possibly have been driving the car.
We were driving my mom to go get surgery. But now my mom mentioned that she had left something at home. We needed to go back home to get whatever my mom needed. It was an inconvenience to go back home. But it was kind of worrisome. Now we might not get to the hospital in time for my mom's surgery.
I was now by myself in a waiting room. My mom had just gone in for surgery. The waiting room was dull, like a storage room or employee break room in a fast food restaurant, with bare, concrete floors and with some small shelves of merchandise against a few of the walls.
My mom had only recently headed in for surgery. But I was already waiting to hear from a doctor or nurse regarding my mom's condition. I knew it was absurd for me to expect to hear something now. I'd have to wait at least an hour to hear something.
But now a doctor came into the room. He was tall, white, with red-tan skin and muscular, but worn, features. He wore green scrubs and a surgery cap.
The doctor introduced himself and implied that he had some news for me about my mom. He then sat down in a desk, possibly a school desk, that backed against a wall like a white, plastic wall that was backlit with a flat, white, fluorescent light.
The doctor spoke to me about some stuff, but it didn't have anything to do with my mom. I couldn't tell for sure, but I thought the doctor was drawing out his conversation, stringing me along, because he enjoyed seeing me in suspense.
The doctor's voice was a little high-flat and prissy, like the voice given to men in stereotypical depictions of gay men. I figured the doctor was gay. He also seemed to be implying, by the subjects he spoke to me about, that he thought I was gay. He at least seemed to know, somehow, that I was an occasional transvestite.
The doctor now had something he thought would interest me and give me a sense of connection with the transvestite community. It was either a pulp novel or the blown up cover of a pulp novel. The novel apparently had something to do with transvestism. The cover was mostly red. It may have depicted a couple of people near a bed.