A Good Nights Sleep

Some nights, when I do not have time to have a glass of warm milk, or the air conditioning is not up to max, I have troubles sleeping. If you, like me, need a good nights rest to continue the good work of helping yourself to others money to help more others with some, usually little, of that others peoples money, then I suggest you invest, or have someone else invest, in a luxury bed...

The nightmares are getting worse. Last night, after I drank three mugs of warm milk, I turned out the light and turned on the Mozart. The room was a crisp 65 Fahrenheit, and flakes of snow were blowing out of the central air vent. No Global Warming here. Sigh. I put on my sleeping cap, placed my slippers beside the futon where Lynxia sleeps on the floor, and thought peaceful thoughts of my upcoming vacation to Venice.

Mozart turned to Rammstein. I found myself in a place of darkness. Not one of my telemarketing centers, but somewhere worse. The air was hot, and humid, like the basement of a some place where people work for a living. The light was dim. The walls were lined with tombstones. I could hear them scratching to get out.

But these were not tombstones. They were sales. Carved in stone, in my own scratchy writing, and each had a credit card number. Visa, MasterCard, or American Express. Wisps of smoke that stank curled up from the hot stone.

Then the stench hit me. It smelt like the pre-processed meat that I sell to street meat vendors, that I used to sell over the phone as freezer orders. I gagged, and bent over to vomit. And as I dry heaved, I saw the feet of the creature standing behind me.

Where is my newspaper? said the undead creature. My eyes widened in fear, and only by firmly gripping my groin could I prevent my bladder from draining. It had a skin condition, easily cured by the Miracle-Skin I used to sell. Before the Ministry of Health hunted us down, before the word got out about the eruptions of boils that attracted flies.

I smiled weakly, but my power to lie like a snake was muted. My tongue clove to the roof of my tongue.

I want my newspaper. I paid for my newspaper. I am coming for you, telemarketer! I turned and ran from the rotting subscriber. I hoped I was leading him, her, it, towards the Customer Service department. As I ran, I tripped over some shoddy concrete steps, which I used to sell over the phone during one whiskey fueled summer. The creature was upon me, and then I woke up in a pool of my own sweat, which stank of fear.

If you, like me, need a good nights rest to continue the good work of helping yourself to others money to help more others with some, usually little, of that others peoples money, then I suggest you invest, or have someone else invest, in a luxury bed.

Send me your money, that I might have a new bed. Mine is soaked in sweat.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this at both DustMyBroom and Mitchieville.