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a dream
Some fictional woman and I were at a house that was supposed to be ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
heatray's. The man himself was putting on his chainmail, helmet, and punk-rock t-shirt to go and compete in a bumper-car jousting tourney. The woman and I could not go, but we were able to watch the proceedings on television. This turned into an episode of "Angel," with Spike fighting in a demonic tough-guy competition. His last opponent was a sentient and hostile stepladder that went skittering off into a complex of abandoned laundry rooms. Our protagonist wandered through the corridors, with a barstool as weapon, awaiting the inevitable ambush.
heatray's. The man himself was putting on his chainmail, helmet, and punk-rock t-shirt to go and compete in a bumper-car jousting tourney. The woman and I could not go, but we were able to watch the proceedings on television. This turned into an episode of "Angel," with Spike fighting in a demonic tough-guy competition. His last opponent was a sentient and hostile stepladder that went skittering off into a complex of abandoned laundry rooms. Our protagonist wandered through the corridors, with a barstool as weapon, awaiting the inevitable ambush.
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Why is it that everyone else gets the good ones?
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Did someone offer you an nightcap of strangely medicinal Kool-Aide?
Did you have a "Brownie"?
*chuckle*
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