Richard Ramirez was in my dream.
He was tall and we danced. We had never met before. He didn’t know who I was, but I knew him, and that he had already murdered women.
I said “I know who you are, night stalker.” And to prove it, in the middle of the noisy packed bar, I pulled down the collar of his t-shirt a bit, to expose the top of an upside down pentagram that he had carved into his own chest.
He was super confused and shocked. He stared and then motioned for me to follow; he wanted to take me outside somewhere. I kind of blew him off, because I was dating someone already and so I started gathering my coat and bag, muttering excuses.
He turned away from me and went outside with his friends, who were wearing black and dressed like punks. After a few minutes, I thought better about it, and followed him outside. I called out “Richard” and he turned and looked at me, and then turned away, went into the street with his friends to set off some kind of m80.
There was a cop nearby watching them, whom I started talking to, to distract her, while they set off the explosives near a Cota bus. The shockwave blew out the bar windows and was visable to the eye; a color like blue fire.
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