forensic analysis
Getting twelve hours of sleep is much like a hallucinogenic drug. You see things, your brain dredges something from its archives and builds you a paper-mache prison, a house of cards, which it then destroys as soon as you wake up. But of course, like a bumbling murder suspect, it can't destroy evidence without leaving some behind. So after 12 hours of sleep, I woke up in a mess of latex gloves, blood stains, and shoe prints (size 9).
Last night my brain constructed no less than 3 Japanese TV commercials and an end of the world scenario (although the forensic team tells me there are many more unidentifiable skeletons.)
From what they can tell me, the first commercial was about scaling a rock face up to some beautiful woman. (They're pretty sure she was Asian; at least, that's what the DNA tests say.) In the next commercial, the smiling supermodel at the top was holding a poster-sized card with the current year on it, and then flipped the card over to reveal a year 700 years in the past. The scene faded from color to sepia. This Japanese salaryman at the bottom of the cliff removed his jacket and started climbing the mountain (presumably to get to the girl). About halfway up he realized his (still glaringly red) necktie was a bit of an anachronism; he clung to the edifice with one hand and loosened the tie, then removed it and cast it to the spectators below. The third was by far the strangest; a group of chocolate dinosaurs were charging the mountain. There was no girl at the top this time, but the mountain had a name and a theme song this time: Mauradon Mountain. It also had defenders, giant statues made of chocolate that formed up from the ground and trained their chocolate chainguns on the charging reptilian biomass. I'm not so sure the choco-bullets were of much effect, as the dinosaurs just split apart like the T-1000, absorbing the barrage.
The end of the world, like most crimes of its type, made very little sense. The premise: an overly powerful someone had decided to take over the world. Somehow armed with a .22 bolt-action rifle, I navigated the streets of Tucson with a few total strangers. I remember taking shelter in a convenience store, and picking up a couple snacks for the road. Do I have enough cash on me to pay for these? Guess I'll find out when we leave. Not that dollars mean much anymore anyways, sucker! We hid in a back room for awhile, plotting a route to my house where there was a cache of weaponry and ammo. I suppose we were planning to use it to overthrow the invading armies.
At least, that's the tale the bullet holes told.