Death Hotel

I’m in a factory. There’s a conveyor belt with hundreds of tin cans flowing by every minute. A woman’s voice drones over a loudspeaker, narrating the contents of the cans in a dull monotone.

The noise and clamor of the factory are really fucking irritating. I look down and and I’m holding a huge sledgehammer in my hands.

When I look back up I’m standing outdoors in a meadow full of tall grass and bushes. But the sky and the plants are all gray. The same shade of steely-gray as the hammer-head.

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A test-tube full of frozen blood. A slush of frozen red crystals.

It falls through the air turning slowly like a screw.

Someone reached inside my body and took something out.

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I watched as a huge waterfall came roaring down over the sides of one of the tallest buildings in Montreal. I could clearly see it happening from my bedroom window. It looked like it would be enough of a torrent to engulf an entire street and flood the neighbourhood with poison.

Then the phone rang in my dream and I ran out of my room to answer it. When I got downstairs a certain lady I used to know was standing there holding the phone.

It appeared that she had removed most of her clothes. Her face was expressionless as she hung up the telephone and moved in close to press her body against me.

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It’s summertime and the sun’s going down and I’m walking west on Rene-Levesque. There are no cars on the street, no people in sight. It feels like I’ve been walking forever. I need to get somewhere, but I can’t remember where I'm going. So I’m just walking.

There’s a tall row of corn growing down the middle of the street. The cornstalks seem to stretch off into the infinite distance. They throw long purple shadows across the pavement.

The air is warm and still as I walk past empty skyscrapers.

A small child is standing amongst the corn and rattling something around in a plastic bucket. He tries to shield the bucket so I can’t see inside, but I walk over and take a look anyway.

He’s got a bunch of bicycle parts and animal jawbones in there.

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The cat threw up on the wall. The walls contain cancer. The building itself is sick. The walls, the floors, the ceiling.

The bricks and the concrete. The building is rotting away from the inside out.

I sit in the dark basement with one of my boots resting in a puddle. Water drips down from some unseen crack.

It stinks down here. All I can smell is mold and rotting vegetables.

I’m wrapping my knuckles with duct tape to try to stop the bleeding.

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I dreamed I was flying through space inside a guided missile (not like that’s a phallic symbol or anything). My point-of-view was from the nose cone of the missile as it flew down through the Earth's atmosphere, down to Montreal, and roared straight down Murray Street.

The streets and the sidewalks, the cars, every surface was covered with snow. But instead of being normal snow it was topped off with a thick orange crust, like a creamsicle. Everything, everywhere was orange.

A bunch of ripples in the surface had risen up into shapes resembling evil orange snowmen. These creatures were tall, vaguely anthropomorphic shapes that maintained a seamless connection to the ground.

A bunch of these creamsicle soldiers were standing in a parking lot as if they were guarding a warehouse. The missile flew straight up to the biggest one of the group and rammed right into it.

A hatch in the missile popped open and I climbed out.

I walked around in the parking lot for a while. My heavy boots left footprints in the creamsicle surface.

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Last night I dreamed I was playing tennis with Sandra Bullock.

I don’t remember who was winning, but Sandra had the serve and it was taking her forever.

“Hurry up and serve,” I yelled across the court.

Sandra started twitching and making funny little jerking motions with her head. She raised her racket in the air and brought it down again.

I kept my stance at the baseline, feeling tense.

Sandra held the ball in front of her. I could see her grip it tightly. The bright afternoon sunlight glinted in her cold, flashing blue eyes.

Sandra Bullock doesn’t have blue eyes!

I ran and jumped over the net and went running at her and I swung my arm as hard as I could and I smashed her right in the face with my tennis racket. The strings of my racket cut into her flesh and passed right through her face, splitting her head into a molecular grid. Blue energy from Sandra’s plasma-brain surged through these cracks in a blinding flash.

Sandra’s body lurched and struggled to remain upright. The tennis ball in her hand was a ticking hand grenade. I leapt backwards, covering my face. The bomb exploded and I was thrown back hard against a chain link fence.

I lay on the edge of the court, unable to breathe. My back was hurting. It felt as if all the air had been squeezed out of my lungs.

Through the dust and haze of the explosion, where the robot Sandra had once stood, I could see a crater in the ground.

There was an armchair in the middle of the crater. A baby was sitting in the armchair, smoking a pipe.

I woke up choking and gasping for breath.

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I had the dream about Yelle again. The one where she’s reclining on a red heart-shaped bed and waiting for me to arrive.

But what Yelle doesn’t know is that her room has been bricked up behind a wall of the hotel. And even if I could find her, there’s no way I could get to her, not unless the dream world decides to bless me with a cock that doubles as a pneumatic drill.

And she’s lonely, and she’s waiting for me, and her vibrator batteries are starting to run out.

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I had a dream last night about a horse. The horse turned into a boy. And the boy had no face. He screamed in silence from a painting on the wall.

The nightclub was due to be torn down on Monday.

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