Shrimp and Eggs

Yesterday I was sitting on the bus when an old woman shoved a plate of shrimp and scrambled eggs in my face and tried to cram the plate into my mouth. Disgusted, I shoved it away, fearing it was poisoned.

She then explained to me that she feared the food was poisoned (which is why she was trying to feed it to me first, just to see what would happen). I asked her why, and she said, "My ten-year-old son cooked this for me, and then he ran away. I think he's trying to poison me." She had no other reason to suspect her son of any such malice; she was simply a deranged, paranoid mother. However, I managed to convince her that her son's intentions were entirely benevolent and that she should look for her son, who probably ran away for some other reason.

So we got off the bus and called the police, informing them of her missing son. We walked around, and -- lo and behold, there was her son, running away. The police, conveniently nearby, gave chase.

Suddenly, the police who was chasing the son dropped his counter-terrorist shield, drew his pistol, and inexplicably began firing upon the running child. I yelled at the police, "STOP! I'll shoot you if you keep shooting him!" But it was an empty threat, for I had no gun. I could sense that the next shot would connect, so I threw some textbooks I happened to be carrying between the police and the boy. But I was too slow, and the bullet caught the child in the head. Then the two police officers hopped in the police car and rapidly drove away.

The child's mother and I were outraged. We rallied some fellow students and pursued the police car by foot. Soon, we reached a dead end with a panel-activated metal warehouse gate as the only exit. The police car rammed the large silver panel, and the gate began opening upwards. We the students, however, surrounded and marauded the surprisingly small police car (little bigger than a backpack). The police themselves were pretty small too, and we easily overpowered them, took their guns, and shot them to death.

As I wiped the blood on my hands onto my pants, I remarked, "It'll be hard to explain this in court..." and lamented that my fingerprints were now on the guns. One of the students responded, "It's ok. We can bribe the forensics people to contaminate the fingerprints and render them unreadable." To which I said, "You know we're like... in the 1980's, right? Technology sucks, and forensics people can't do shit, other than maybe read fingerprints."

A couple of hours later, I played the Pokemon theme song on an under-sized piano at the request of some Asian guy.

By the way, this was a dream, obviously.