Tag: serial killer

Saturday’s Theme Music

Salutations, and welcome to Saturday in Ashlandia, where the growers’ market is open and the coffee is brewing. It’s the 5 of August, 2023. We’re feasting on the cool mountain air and the remnants of the night’s chill offerings. Just 70 F at the moment, today’s high will gallop up to the low nineties. Air quality has been an off and on issue as the wind and fronts deliver wildfire smoke to the valley. It’s clear now, the and skies are not cloudy.

I asked Bing’s AI app yesterday, “Where is the smoke in Ashland, Oregon, coming from?” The AI’s answer really impressed me. It said, “It can be coming from anywhere.” It then went into a history of fires and smoke from previous years. I’m really worried about AI taking over. It’s gonna drive us all crazy with non-sensical answers and then slide into control after we’re all babbling idiots. Some of us are already pretty close to that edge.

Stampeded by dreams last night. The most vivid and everlasting was one in which I realized there was a serial killer. Nobody else was aware. That annoyed me, so I tracked down the serial killer and stopped him. Not sure how that last was done. Seemed to be off the dream stage. But I came back and told everyone else about the serial killer and stopping him without specifying why. I finished by informing them, “Now we can move on and get things done.”

Out of that, The Neurons inserted “Bette Davis Eyes” (1981) by Kim Carnes into the morning mental music stream (trademark insanity). It was a big song that year. In May of ’81 we moved from San Antonio, Texas to Okinawa, Japan, as part of my military service, and that song was being played everywhere. As the song looped through my head today, bringing back memories of those days, and I fed the cats, dressed, and made brekkie and coffee, I demanded of Les Neurons, “Why that song?” They smugly replied, “You know why.” I think they’re in cahoots with the AI to drive me nuts.

Stay positive, be strong, and persist. The coffee has already been sampled and I can assure you, it’s the real deal. Here’s the music. Cheers

3

The Thirteenth Killer Dream

Although the dream title may sound threatening, this was a ‘fun’ dream. I returned again to ‘episodic’ format for dreams last night. That’s the expression I use when the dream is more like a television or movie experience. Although I still starred, action went on before other cameras, where I wasn’t in those scenes.

Overview: We were in a sunny, urban area that reminded me of the Silicon Valley-SF Bay. I was a reporter, chasing a story about a serial killer. My team and I had gone down the highway to investigate some details on a recent murder. After gathering clues, we headed back up an Interstate to work other angles. The highway was white concrete with the standard markers dividing it into four lanes. Ahead was a road block. The police were stopping everyone and asking for identification.

Back in another dream segment, two reporters, both male, had noticed that the 13th of the upcoming month had significance in the string of murders. Talking about it, the two reporters agreed to meet on that day.

Back on the highway, my car windows were down. The wind was blowing papers around. I was in a rental car, trying to find my rental agreement and identification. A state trooper approached my car. I stopped my car and offered him papers. They weren’t what he was looking for. The traffic had moved ahead. He told me to pull forward to the end of the traffic and stop again. I did as told, still looking for my identification while he stood at the window, waiting. He waved other cars around me as I continued dumping papers out of my briefcase and going through the center console, pockets, and the glove box, looking for identification, talking to the officer as I did this, telling him who I was and where I was going. He was responding that he didn’t care, he just wanted my identification.

Two cars passing me had my co-workers in them. Slowing, windows down, they called out, wanting to know if I was okay. I called back to them that I was as the trooper ordered them to go on.

Over in the other story line, we — the viewers — realized that one reporter was the serial killer. Investigating himself was a front to learn information from the police and other reporters, and throw us all off. The second reporter, apparently unaware of this, was making ready to meet the killer.

I finally found my identification and presented it to the officer. As he looked it over and we spoke, I had an epiphany and realized that a reporter could be the serial killer. That surprised and concerned me so much that I simultaneously pulled out my cell to call one of my team to talk to them while also starting to drive away. Both caused an irritated reaction by the trooper. Accusing me of trying to flee, he stepped back, put a hand on his gun, and ordered me out of my car. As I tried convincing him that I’d made an innocent mistake, apologizing profusely all the while, the screen split and we witnessed the serial killer stalking the other reporter. I realized the case had a supernatural element to it. The significance of the thirteenth was that he was the thirteenth killer; he’d been inhabiting other bodies. I wanted to chase that aspect.

The dream ended.

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The Hunter

Two A.M. He was hungry. He needed to hunt.

A cat’s silent grace was employed as he rose, dressed in the dark, and collected his gun and pocketed it. Lights off, he poured and drank water. Hood up, he slipped out of his place, down the steps and into the city night.

The city was never completely quiet, but on nights like this, pockets of sounds and silence drifted through the streets. He enjoyed these sounds. They were his compass. He didn’t want silence; he wanted sound. So he walked, his long legs carrying him silently forward, following the pockets of sounds with his head down, avoiding the cones of light buildings and streetlights threw down.

After he’d walked long enough, a period announced as acceptable by an internal clock, he stopped in the middle of a sidewalk a short distance from a corner. This would do. Hands in pockets, he slipped back until his back gently leaned against the building behind him, and waited.

It didn’t take long. A man came by. He didn’t where the man was going, nor anything else. Still until the other was almost upon him, he said, “Hey,” as he slipped the gun out of the pocket. The man looked at him, but the gun didn’t registered until he’d fired three shots. He was experienced – it was his third time – and the man was unprepared. His prey want down, mortally wounded. A fourth shot into the other’s head finished the deal.

Returning the weapon to his pocket, he put his hood down and walked off. As he found orientation and direction, he pulled a wet towel package out of a pocket and cleaned his hands. He was hungry. Now that he’d hunted, he needed to eat.

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