Consumed by fire

Ed came home from Deep Ellum at 3:30am. The old floors of the Edstead made it sound like Ed was either tap dancing or driving a mule train through the dining room. I got up and went to the bathroom and then said good night to Ed before climbing back into slumber.

I've been a little concerned since Ed had replaced the light fixture and switch in the kitchen. I'd come back from our gone to Bruce and Mundee's Sunday meeting last week to find a strong acrid smell in the Kitchen. That smell like fried electrics and toxic plastic fumes. To make things even more alarming, when I tried to point out the odor to Ed he couldn't discern anything at all. Swell, I thought, we'll die from the lethal vapors before Ed would notice it. Maybe Ed's inability to smell could explain his cooking.

I didn't realize how heavy this weighed on my mind. Not Ed's cooking, but the possibility of a fire.

Somewhere in the night I dreamt that the Edstead burnt down. No details, I just found myself standing in the smoldering timbers of the Edstead. Everything I'd owned, everything I'd drawn or painted was gone. Even the cat was gone. I couldn't find Ed, either.

So, I got into my car and drove away. But I thought, I'm really tired, I shouldn't be driving. So I pulled the car into a driveway and fell asleep. Until somebody crashed into the back of the MyRage. I pull myself out of the car and find myself being screamed at by strangers. And that's when the police cruiser pulls up and out steps Eric Estrada. Officer Estrada comes up to me and starts asking questions, in spanish. I reach for my wallet for my Texas driver's license but it's gone. Officer Estrada continues talking in espanol and I'm getting really freaked out. A faceless crowd has gathered to watch my humiliation. I'm getting frantic, so I run.

I'm running down the streets of Arlington. The crowd has now become a pitchfork and torch baring mob, screaming for my blood. Gunshots are going off around me. As I come around an old tree I take a blast from a shotgun in the guts.

I fall down face first on to the perfectly mowed South Davis lawn. Crap, I thought, I'm dead. Just then a heavy tool box is dropped next to my head. "You saw it," a voice says, "he was stealing my property."

Officer Estrada, still speaking spanish, turns me over with his boot. The mob has gathered 'round me, closing in. Someone probes the ruins of my belly, but I can't feel it. It gets dark. Erik Estrada is now speaking latin over me. He's giving me last rites, and I chuckle at the thought.

There's a backhoe there now, tearing up the South Davis lawn. Officer Estrada oversees the whole operation as the crowd digs my grave and rolls me into it. And somehow I'm feeling at peace in the darkness.

And then the alarm goes off.