A Wishful Dream

by syaffolee

Psychoanalysis is unnecessary.

The campus was a maze-like prison.  I was in a lecture hall, milling with some other prisoners when I saw something that looked like a grenade on the floor.  But no.  When I lit it, it smoked.  It was a strange-looking cheroot.  I stuck it into my mouth like Colonel Hannibal and thought, “To hell with it,” and escaped the lecture hall.

Alarms sounded and I heard the footsteps of pursuit.  I went round and round the hallways, waiting rooms, and the cafeteria.  I finally emerged outside from a side loading dock and jacked a small silver Miata.  I drove to the edge of town and broke into someone’s apartment, stealing a mild-mannered gray cat and an ID of a playboy billionaire named Adam.

“Here’s a thousand dollars, sir,” said the teller at the bank without batting an eye.  The cheroot was making the lobby smell like an incense factory had exploded.  But I was off.  With transportation, a cigar shaped like a grenade, a stolen cat, and somebody else’s identity, I headed north on I-90.

Then I woke up.

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