Dumpster Fire Dreams

A grotesque, absurd, self-aware spiral into madness, murder, and movie-style sweat drops.

One finger goes in the eye, the other points at the screaming banshee of a woman to her left. She’s curled into a small ball against the wall in a filthy alleyway infested with every kind of gross imaginable.

“Ouch.”

To the right lies the dead, rotting body of a teenage girl—mangled, badly beaten, sprawled in the middle of the alley. She might be the source of some of the decay.

Straight ahead, the murderous woman with long, dirty blonde hair sneaks behind an oversized green dumpster.

Dun, dun, dun. The plot thickens. The murderous woman must be insane. She giggles and screeches with excitement at the act she just committed, waving her arms nervously in the bright green atmosphere.

This... is going nowhere. Nowhere fast.

“Where will she end up?” the collective they ask. “Will she somehow make it through? Is she really dead?”

“Will the rotting body awake and ask where the porno went?”

So many questions, and the writer has no answers. The thoughts elude her.

“Baa-ob.” Talking goats echo in the background. The scene is intense. The sun begins to rise, casting a green glow on the carnage. The body of the blonde teen lies mangled. Her clothing suggests a rough life on the streets—possibly prostitution.

One of the officers on duty takes off after the obviously insane woman who darted from behind the dumpster.

The banshee woman finally stops sobbing. An officer wraps her in a purple blanket in a pathetic attempt to calm her. It doesn’t work. Her leg is broken and hanging on by a coat hanger.

This just in: the mangled teen has gonorrhea. She’s a hooker.

The cop looks down at her and vividly remembers the sleazy motel room three days prior.

“I know this woman,” says the man-whore cop. “I was with her a few nights back. She was a wild one, if you know what I mean.” He winks. It grosses the writer out.

“I gave her gonorrhea.” Ew.

Meanwhile, away from the STIs, the ruggedly handsome cop chasing the surprisingly gorgeous insane woman runs—like he needs a fix of running. Sweat drips down his chiseled chest. The drop of sweat drips.

The insane woman stops. Just then, one of those movie gusts of wind blows her hair dramatically, sexily, into the air.

The rugged cop sees this and says, “Wow. You’re hot.”

This is ridiculous. The writer is fed up with the story. Her wildly eccentric family thinks she should keep going—maybe she’ll be the next Stephen King.

His wife wouldn’t like that.

Or maybe she would.