“I’m telling you, Owens. That handle was *broken* last night when I woke up. Now — it’s okay! I’m not lying to you, though. And I’m *not* crazy.”
“I didn’t say you were,” replied the calm, cool chef-inspector. “I’m just trying to get the facts. So — you woke up when the door slammed. This was when the other Sandy — in the dream — left the store — sans bikini bottom.”
“It was her tail and her little purple skirt, but I guess you could say ‘correct’ to that. I can’t recall her wearing anything else. When the cold, naked air blew in through the door when I went downstairs after I awoke I knew that she was the same: cold; naked; out *there*. The door slammed again, then. The handle was *broken*. Someone *broke* it. The dream was real!”
“Calm down, sir. Calm down. You said the door slammed in your dream and you awoke. Then you said the door slammed again after you awoke. But then you said Sandy — the other one, the dream one — *slammed* her tail and skirt down on the table between male bastards — think that was your words again — Renaldo O’Donnell and King Orange, saying they could have them. Strange you remember such specific names for a dream, Sandy Beech.” Then chef-inspector Keat Owens considered that *this* was a dream, and not the first time. It all started with the remembering of Spongebub. “But this could be the door slamming again,” he completed his analysis. “Except you didn’t awake just then, only with the subsequent slamming.”
Sandy considered this. Two realities were superimposing themselves on top of each other, inadvertently (perhaps) creating chaos and confusion. He simply didn’t know; he simply couldn’t understand. In the moment.
(to be continued)