Storymania - The Only Dream I Have Ever Won by Branson Storm

The Only Dream I Have Ever Won
Branson Storm

It was strange for Miles to finally come to the realization that he had, in a way, committed suicide. First it was something that he ate or a virus that he just couldn’t get rid of, but he knew that after years of battling unrelenting bloody bouts with his guts, the diagnosis would not be good. “You’re dying from cancer.” He said this to his reflection in the mirror just before climbing into bed. Miles knew that all his past procrastination and intentional ignorance had done was expedite his impending death. He had allowed more spreading time for the tumors, and spread they did, like mushrooms after a late fall rain shower. He never wanted to believe it was possible, but now he had to. They had finally proven it to him with their questions, x-rays, blood tests and 5-foot cameras probing each end. “I’m dying.” He said as he lay back in bed. “I’ve always known that from the day I was born, that I was dying, but dying normally, aging to death, if You will.” Miles took a drag from a small pipe filled with hydro. He shut off the light, the television and expelled a huge plume of smoke into the moonlit air. “Okay, God, I’m being pulled out early and if that’s my fault or Your calling or both, I humbly ask for just a bit more time. It’s important that I see someone before I go. So please, if You would, move me back a few spots in line.”

Miles had always prayed, but rarely aloud. This time was different. He really didn’t even consider what he said a prayer at all. It was a direct request. He acknowledged the happiness he felt knowing that tonight he did not pray, but instead asked something specific of God in undivided selfishness. To Miles, this was something one should never do, especially if one offers to do something to God’s pleasing after God has fulfilled His end of the bargain. He considered this type of transaction to be beyond the realm of God, even insulting, yet it was a perfect deal to make with the Devil. Do this for me now and afterwards I’ll do such and such for you. Miles knew selfishness was not part of God’s vocabulary. But Miles accepted that his clock was ticking. All he asked for was a few more ticks. The truth in his rationale made him comfortable and quickly he drifted off to sleep.

It was 5:30 AM, Miles was outside waiting for the sun to come creeping over Paisano Peak and thaw out the chilly morning, spilling its hopeful light all over the vast, mountainous beauty of West Texas. Normally he was at ease in the morning, either tired, hung over or just sick, but this morning was different; Miles couldn’t stand still, as if he where late jumping a ride on Pop’s boat to spend another day catching redfish. He walked about kicking up rocks from the dirt and repeatedly checking east to see how much color had gathered the starlit sky. It was just anxiety. He was eager to write about the dream he had last night just after being so egotistical with God. So he kept thinking of it, remembering every detail he possibly could, still checking the eastern skyline. He stayed because nothing he could ever write could be more beautiful than a Texas sunrise.

As the sun broke Paisano Peak he watched the black night fade away, taking with it all the stars, but still leaving behind the moon. A brilliant orange glow filled the world and the sky was as blue as the deepest ocean. Suddenly he was standing still, completely captured by the overwhelming splendor of another day arriving. “Thank you, God. That was fucking beautiful,” he said and after a moment of soaking in a touch of pure bliss, walked swiftly back to his motel room.

Once inside he immediately sat down at his open journal and penned the following:

The Only Dream I Have Ever Won-

At first I hear the humming of a diesel engine growing louder as a big rig pulls into the parking lot. Then it drifts away as if backing into the Best Western Motel across the highway. In reality there is no Best Western across the highway. There’s nothing across the highway except a vast West Texas valley stretching eastward toward the Davis Mountains. I know this for certain as for the last few mornings I have awoken early and walked into that valley to watch the sky glow in brilliant orange hues as the Sun peaks the crest of Paisano Peak. As the hum of the truck’s engine slows to a purr, I hear a man on a microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm Texas welcome to Mr. Randy Quaid!” As a waiting crowd roars I wonder what is going on, it’s four fucking o’clock in the morning! And Randy Quaid? He’s an actor as far as I know. Is he there to sing? Does he do standup comedy on the side? Is he just more famous in this part of Texas? Or is he just going to stand on stage and abuse all these late-morning, motel-partying peckerwoods? At least it’s not at my motel and I’m too tired to care anymore so I drift back to sleep.

Shortly after dozing off, the door to my motel room opens at the entrance of two young men, from my drowsy perspective, just a couple of squabbling silhouettes. As I watch them and try to make clear what they are arguing about, my typical one room double/double has grown into a large suite, complete with a full kitchen and large living area and another bedroom. Deep in the darkness behind the two men entering I lie in bed, watching, waiting, wondering.

My scratchy voice sounds out from the darkness, “Excuse me, but what in the fuck are you doing in here?”

They turn in sequence toward me as my question ends. Light breaks the darkness as one of them has flipped the switch in the living area. “Who the fuck are you?” asks a short, stocky man with blonde crew-cut hair and a faint, almost transparent moustache. Had it not been for its excessive length, I might never have noticed it. “This is our fucking room. Get your ass out.”

Both men begin to approach me rather quickly as I reach for my .45 caliber pistol, holding it low alongside my bed, opposite their approach. Crewcut’s sidekick, a young, brown haired handsome fellow brandishes a knife. Actually it was a small, round bladed hunting knife with a black rubber pistol-like grip; used mainly for gutting and skinning a successfully hunted animal, deer and hog to be more specific.

As I reach for the phone, “I’ll just call upfront and find out what the fuck is going on? How the fuck did you two get in my room anyways?”

“Nobody’s callin’ no one partner!” Barks Brownhair (herein to be referred to as Rob, as in Rob Lowe, the actor who gets into filming himself fucking). Blondie brandishes his own knife, a long sword like skinning knife. Here I thought ‘I have one just like that, but mine is only about eight inches long, just a few shy of Bret, my dick’. I feel myself smiling in my sleep.

I point my gun at Rob’s head, “I’m calling.” At this point he attacks and this is where this particular dream differs from all the others. I’m not frozen or slow or restricted. I’m free to respond, to act and react. Suddenly I’m fucking fearless and very pissed-off.

From my bed a beautiful girl with long curly, black hair and perfect, beautiful naked breasts quickly joins the fight against me. But she’s no match as I snatch away Blondie’s long skinning knife and with a perfect swing, leave her beautiful lopped-off head lying face down on the floor, her body falls quietly somewhere into a place of non-issue expendability. Rob comes at me. I fire-off six rapid rounds, each one missing by a mile. Oh shit, I thought, this is turning into one of my normal ‘I’m going to die defenseless’ dreams, but I always wake just before my death.

From the living area another woman enters, “Can’t you two idiots do anything right?” The last bullet in my clip finds a home dead center between her gleaming, beautiful green eyes as she falls back soundless.

This was just too much so I break for the door and find myself in the hallway, naked and bullet-less. Rob and Blondie (herein referred to as Bob Beamer) chase quickly behind. I run down the empty motel halls, but never bother pounding on doors for help. I wasn’t even looking for a stairwell. I was just sort of enjoying running around naked with an empty pistol. They stick close behind me as I make my way back to my room. As I storm in, Rob and Bob Beamer still on my ass, to my surprise I find another beautiful woman standing calmly inside, her sandy-blonde hair was shoulder length, straight and copious, just the type I’d love to run my fingers through. As I rush past her she draws a .38 caliber pistol, which I take from her with such ease it was as though she was handing it to me. Turning to face her, I quickly burry a slug squarely in her very distinct, very sexy Adam’s apple. Falling toward me, I hear no sound of pain from her as she dies. My preoccupation is on Rob and Bob Beamer and myself, suddenly right back in our prior position.

I point the .38 at Rob he as waves his knife at me, telling me to “…bring it on”. Rob, being the daring bastard he was, attacked again. From less than a trio of feet I fire at his head. One, two, three, four; each slug still missing its target, but not by far. For a moment I felt as though the bullets that blasted through the kitchen cabinet doors behind Rob’s head, were not lead but rubber, and I distinctly remember them being chalky limey-yellow. Why can I not kill this guy? I’ll check out a Rob Lowe movie now and then, the guy’s probably horsefucked half the women on the planet, and he just doesn’t seem like that bad of a guy. If maybe I got to know him, I might find out he’s a pretty righteous dude. That’s just me being me. If the guy hasn’t hurt anyone or anything like that, why kill him? We’d probably make pretty good friends.

Knowing only one bullet remained; I knew that this had to be the one. Rob approached me. The guy was fucking fearless. I stepped toward him and fired the final shot, just grazing the left side of his neck. Dropping his knife, Rob was stunned. He repeatedly touched his right hand to the hole in his neck then looked at the bloodstains on his hand growing bigger. Over and over he did this as though it was never supposed to happen to him, but it did. The blood was real and spilling out rapidly. “You shot me you fuck!” Rob cried out as he looked helplessly at Bob Beamer, “I’m fucking bleeding over here!” Bob Beamer’s expression was one of such fear that I sensed he had shit his britches. “Can you fucking believe this? I’m fucking bleeding.”

“Yeah, like a stuck pig, too.” I commented.

Rob just looked at me as if I were amused by his injury. “Are you fucking crazy?” He asked. I didn’t answer because if it was obvious to Rob, then I was certain of it. What should a crazy person say when asked if he's crazy? To me, the question was the answer. Rob looked at Bob Beamer, “What in the fuck is going on here?”

Bob Beamer had no answer for his companion and if he did he wasn’t about to offer it to Rob. He just looked at me and politely said, “I’m sorry mister, but I think we got us the wrong room.”

“Hey dude, it’s cool.” I answered feeling a bit sorry for Bob Beamer, shitting-up his pants and all. Grabbing a tight handful of long black curly locks, I picked-up the lopped-off head from the floor, and handed it to Bob Beamer. “You two jackasses get the hell outta here and take this disgusting piece of shit with you.”

They left without saying another word. Their exit was almost pathetically shameful. I yawned deep with a skyward stretch and climbed back into bed. Just before I fell asleep it hit me and I felt deep regret for not having asked either Rob or Bob Beamer if they knew exactly why Randy Quaid was in town.

Miles smiled as he closed his journal. He had gotten enough of it, enough not to completely forget about it for later. A wave of pain shot through his belly. He remained still in hopes of it passing. But it didn’t work this time, so off to the sandbox he ran, thinking of only one thing, seeing Lauren again.