It is my first day so I am to create a name project. The project has nothing to do with the aims of the business. It is extraneous. I am to use glue and wire to build and display my name. The wire turns into string midway through the project. I am all over the floor with my materials. A girl that works there is also on the floor. We are flirting and it is working. I would rather have sex with her than finish my name project. She would rather me have sex than finish my name project. Consequently, my name project is taking way too long. I finally finish. I have misspelled my name. I have to fix it. As I fix it, I hope nobody notices the errors I have made.
I speak with a lady at a desk. I get the feeling she is the boss. She tells me that before we move on, I should fix the name of a coworker whose name was incorrectly displayed. I find that it is quite a bit more difficult than all that. It seems nobody agrees how to actually spell her name. She is actually a real coworker from my life. From an old job.
The lady behind the counter transitions into Hulk Hogan's wife or daughter. It doesn't matter which. The office transitions into the Hogan home. It isn't actually what I remember their home looking like, but it's their home. I spend a lot of time here. The girl from the office for whom sex was an option is here at the house. She looks different, but it is her.
The house is made up of the following memorable elements. Long, stadium-like, concrete ramps, a massive, concrete parking lot, a twenty-foot wall around the thing, some sort of central room (possibly a kitchen or living room), and an old clubhouse. The clubhouse felt like it must have been something from my past, though it looked different than anything I remember. It had deteriorated. It was musky and moldy. No children wanted to play in it.
Hulk Hogan's son, hereafter HHS, had taken it over. He looked older than Hulk. HHS was doing dark, devilish things in it. At times, I would be running down the ramp and the son would roll things after me to try and knock me down. He wore a Jason mask, or an old hockey goalie mask (see Terry Sawchuck). It soon became evident that he had some nasty business he was involved in. He wanted to earn credit to sell things to the underworld. I imagine he had no money. I assume this because of what he did to Hulk Hogan, his father.
I was standing on the ramp. Hulk Hogan was standing below me. HHS, above me and to my left. HHS looked much older than his father now. His father was still quite large. His hair, both cranial and facial, had become purple. He looked somewhat cartoony. There was a showdown on the ramp. It involved mostly screaming. After a fit of hollering, it was clear HHS had won the duel. From Hulk's body came an unbelievably and enveloping white light. From this white light spilled some type of coin. The coin was the capital for the underworld business. I got the shit out of there.
I was in the bed of a truck on the way to a party. My fellow bedmates were screaming. They were really excited about the party. We arrived. It was daytime. The party was to be held inside and outside. There would be booze, a grill for food, and informal sporting. The partygoers were actual friends of mine. I'll not name any names, although they did act appropriately.
I remained outside while the majority of my truck entered the house to begin raging. I felt that this isolated me. My isolation, however, was comfortable. The weather was nice. I found a bunch of unwanted potatoes on the ground. I also found a nine-iron golf club, unmanned. I decided to use them both. My plan was to rocket the potatoes into the neighborhood. I assumed they would explode on contact. They would cause no harm.
I then became conscious of the possibility that a potato might not explode so easily. It might just rocket at a home. A flying potato would surely shatter a neighbor's window. I turned to find more reasonable targets. I found, to my surprise, a group of small golf flags stuck in the lawn. They were near the grill, which was also left without supervision. I prepared my first shot.
From behind me came screetching down the road another truck. It looked like it held bandits. They were all hooting and hollering about something. As they got closer, I could hear they were screaming their plans upon arrival. They planned to beat someone up. I imagined that they were talking about a friend who they were going to play with. I didn't feel any threat, either personally or vicariously.
The truck came to a halt. The bandits popped out in all directions. They ran to the party room, hereafter PR. The PR was next to the golf flags. It had just materialized. It was a PR from Embassy Skate Center. I actually worked in Embassy Skate Center, cleaning the PRs. The PR was about 12 by 20 feet and the walls were dominated by tall windows. You could basically see what was happening at any one moment in the PR. When the bandits rushed the PR, there were already things going on. These things included talking and drinking. Nobody had paid much attention to any other activities, though presumably there were some.
It was clear soon that the bandits hadn't lied about their violent intentions. As it turned out, there was one person whom they wished to pummel. The initial rush caused a fair amount of chaos in the PR. A girl, seemingly uninvolved previously, took a huge swing at the group. Her swing showed no regard for who she might hit. Who she hit I do not know.
Within about thirty three seconds, the mob was dispersed. The bandits, for the most part, had left the PR. They became as uninvolved as I. The involved reduced to two young men. It was clear that the two had some history that they wished to resolve, though said history was never made clear to me. Neither one of them had shirts. Both wore board shorts. Both wore flip-flops. One wore glasses. He was the one with long hair, hereafter LH. I did not recognize either one.
LH was clearly the superior gladiator. He stuck with jabs. He weakened with body shots. He finished with hooks and uppercuts. His knee made an appearance. With the arrival of his knee came the arrival of the other kid's blood. The match was decided within a few moments. It had been a resounding victory for LH.
The other kid was being interviewed. I had camera lens view of the thing. He didn't look as bad as before. He wore glasses. On his head rested a backwards cap, hereafter BC. Somehow he was still cocky. The cameraman told BC to check his teeth for loose ones. BC replied that they all felt fine. He seemed to think that having been overwhelmed by a group meant that his relative bludgeoning wasn't a loss. I seemed to think differently. I felt bad at first when he was attacked, I really didn't feel anything during the one-on-one, and I wanted him to really get it during the interview.
The whole dream, though mostly the party scene, had a strong lemon flavor and tone.
