In this house, on this night, a man is troubled, troubled by a recurring dream that seems to haunt him night after night. A dream that he tries to escape, whether by drowning himself in alcohol or by indulging in his never-ending supply of sleeping pills. He just can’t escape his constant visions of death. He is awakened by loud peals of thunder and the heavy downpour of raindrops beating on the roof of his new black Phantom, sitting in the driveway of his Virginia cabin. His pillow and sheets are soaked with cold sweat as he gets up, gasps for air, and sits on the edge of the bed to pull himself together. He reaches into the drawer of the night table to grab his favorite box of cigars, lights one, and takes a couple of pulls from it. He puts on his sweat suit and goes out for a three-am jog in the surrounding woods. When he gets outside, the thunder sounds louder to him, as if God himself was purposefully beating on a drum directly into his ear.
He takes a sip from the tube of his Camelback. The tequila goes down like liquid emery board, just the way he likes it. He coughs and sputters, but doesn't break stride. Taking a drag on the cigar every few steps, he scoops a handful of sleeping pills from his belt pouch and washes them down with another long pull on the tequila. When the pouring rain extinguishes his cigar, the man rips the sodden stogie into pieces and swallows them one by one.
He comes to the best part of the trail, a razor-sharp ridge with vertical drops on both sides, the highest point for five miles. It's his favorite place to take a nighttime jog in a raging thunderstorm.
But he can't enjoy it. The haunting vision refuses to loosen its grip.
His heart pounds louder than the thunder and sweat mats his hair and whiskers. Every night. Every night he wakes in a panic, sure that this time, this time he won't have anything funny to put on the blog.
Opening: Jeff Brown.....Continuation: John/Anon.