The whole house is cluttered. Small gadgets and toys and consumer items, most of them broken or dirty, are scattered all over the floor. It’s like a hyperactive four-year-old lives here. I get my bicycle, and push it through the front door, into the driveway. It’s dark out. Even the sky is obscured. The yellow light from the windows up and down the street is drowned by an oppressive tangle of redwood branches. The forest looms over the road, trying to squeeze it out of existence. The undergrowth is like a wall. There are creatures out there, but if I keep moving at a decent speed, they won’t get me. I’m already thinking of which restaurant I should head for.
I realize I’ve forgotten my keys, so I sneak back inside. I try to tiptoe around Zog to get them off the desk. When I walk back out, Zog is standing there, putting on a sweater. He says, "I can’t sleep, so let’s both get some food!"
We walk over to his car. It’s a Lincoln Continental, an absolutely gigantic car, except it’s been turned into a hatchback. I peek inside and there are big glass bowls of food, covered in plastic wrap, arranged in a grid covering the trunk. Salads and custards and big gooey casseroles. Zog reaches out and grabs the side of the car with two hands and yanks it up in the air and shakes it. I’m worried that the food is going to spill. Shouldn’t we be eating it, instead of going out? What a waste.
Zog has transformed the car into a motorbike. All the food is miniaturized and packed in a tiny trunk. He swings one leg over and says "let’s go!"
Just then, a tiger crashes down out of the bushes on the opposite side of the road, and lands in the driveway. Then a second one tumbles out. Zog and I watch, frozen in panic, as the two beasts get up, growl at each other, and then sit back and groom themselves.
"What the hell do we do now?" says Zog.
"Kickstand the bike," I say, already backing slowly towards the door.
Then the bushes rattle again, and an enormous white goat comes rolling out, and thumps onto the road. It bleats angrily and stands up, shaking its head. The tigers notice it, then decide to ignore it and go back to grooming.
"Damn, that’s even worse," I say.
Zog and I are almost at the door. The goat notices us and squares its back legs, then does a little hop with its front legs and charges straight for the motorbike, which is now a bicycle. He hits it head-on with a loud bang and sends it clattering across the driveway, alarming the tigers, who jump up and start circling the goat angrily. Then Zog and I shut the front door.
"We need to keep them from getting in!" I say.
Zog looks around and notices that the fly screen in front of the kitchen window is torn. "I’ll go fix that," he declares, and climbs up on the counter.
"Good idea," I say.
But no sooner does he climb up than he dives aside, and the goat comes sailing through the window at full speed, exploding it into a thousand shards that mix with the garbage already on the floor.
"Get that goat!" I yell.
I chase him around the corner into the dining room. He doubles back into the living room. I pick up a dining chair and brandish it. "If you’re tricky," I say out loud to myself, "you can figure out when a goat’s going to charge by watching him, and if you push his head down he’ll propel himself into the ground instead of at you."
Sure enough the goat bobs his head down and does a little hop, and I bring the chair over my head and clobber him. His horns tear through the vinyl and get jammed in the springs. I let go and the goat starts dragging the chair blindly around the living room.
"Hah!" I say.
But then one of the tigers leaps in through the broken window and lands with a crunch. It roars in pain, then dashes out of the kitchen and through the living room in three giant lunges, crashes through the picture window on the opposite wall, and sails off into the night.
"That was close!"
The goat manages to dislodge the chair, and gallops out of the living room, head down. A loud crunching sound tells me that it has left through the front door without bothering to open it.
"Wow," I say, walking up to the destroyed door, which has fallen in pieces around the frame.
"It’s funny," I say to Zog, who is standing in the kitchen. "In this neighborhood, people worry more about psychopaths than about wild animals."
Then I hear the ripping sound of a small motor. Through the door way, I see a tall man in a white lab coat, wearing a rubber mask. The mask is the mad scientist from Robot Chicken. "Hahahaaa!!!" he cackles, and strides towards the house. He’s waving a cheap consumer-grade chainsaw around his head, and gunning it. A cable is attached to it, which runs behind his back.
Zog and I are not impressed. Zog raises a cutting board like a shield, and I pick up a wrench. The psychopath hoots and brings the chainsaw up, intending to disembowel Zog, but Zog shoves the cutting board down and twists it, and the chainsaw jams into it and gets stuck. Then he heaves to one side, yanking the chainsaw out of the psychopath’s hands, but the cord is still attached and the man pitches forward, off balance. As he goes flailing into the house, trailing after his chainsaw, I fetch him a good two-handed thump across the back of the head with the wrench. He rolls to the ground at the head of the stairs.
I walk quickly over, and use one foot to lever him down the stairs, then I walk after him. When he slaps against the wall at the bend in the stairway, he starts to mutter a bit. I drag the door to the downstairs living room open, sandwiching him between it and the wall, then I manhandle him around the door and boot him through it. On the carpet of the living room, I can clearly see the two tigers and the goat, laying around comfortably. The psychopath smacks onto the floor between all three. Then I shut the door.
As I climb back up the stairs I can hear some very unpleasant screaming.
Then, I wake up. No screaming, no motor sounds, nothing. Another pleasant morning in Oakland.
Dreams are weird.