Dream: Four Rooms of Antique Spanish

Dream 20030130, 5:30 AM:

I am with Chris, and we are driving a large truck with an open flatbed trailer behind it, full of furniture. It seems like we are moving house. Chris wants to show me this cool house that belongs to a friend of his; he mentions that the guy has “four rooms of antique Spanish.” It seems like it’s not just period furniture, but like the rooms are all done in period decoration, etc.

We get to the house, which is really huge. There is nobody home. Chris has a key, though, and he lets us in. For some reason, we drive the big truck with the trailer up the main staircase, and it just climbs up it – we don’t seem to be the least bit concerned about making a mess, breaking the stairs, etc. We walk around the house, and see one of the Spanish rooms, which is full of really neat bedroom furniture – it reminds me of Robbin’s master bedroom in Houston, and I mention that. The furniture is somewhat smaller, though, and lighter in color. There is a wardrobe, chest of drawers, and I think there is a bed. Then, we go to another room, which is built in a sort of Barbarella-esque modern style, with several beds built into a corner area at different levels. The whole room is done with fabric in a sort of Turkish steel blue with printed designs. I remark to Chris that it’s a little weird for my tastes. Only one of the beds looks like it gets slept in, and it has the covers all rumpled up, like someone didn’t make the bed after getting up.

Then, apparently, the homeowner has gotten in, and we are visiting with him. He is a nice looking youngish man with sort of rumpled blondish-brown hair, wearing a white turtleneck sweater and khaki slacks. He has some friends with him as well. As we are standing in the front hall visiting, someone arrives to rob the place. It seems like this has happened before, and everyone seems fairly nonchalant about it. There is a whole crew, in uniforms, and they go through the house, opening cabinets and selectively taking items – it seems like they’re taking either a certain number of each thing, or they’re taking the nice and expensive things and leaving just basic items. I remember that they cut the front door window open; it is paned in diamond-shaped panes, and it is taped together with tan plastic packaging tape from where it had been broken into before. They cut the tape with a knife to get in.

Everyone seems to be just watching and letting this happen, which seems weird to me. There is a leader of the group, who is a shortish man with red or red-brown hair; he is wearing a bright green jumpsuit. Part of our group of friends goes away; I don’t know where they’ve gone. When they come back, one of them, a large-ish older man with gray hair, says to us in sort of a stage whisper, “Guess who’s got the scissors!” We are aghast, and afraid that he’s going to get himself hurt. The scissors are a pair of old-fashioned shears with steel blades and black handles; they are stuck in his beltloops on his left side, and I can see them quite clearly. He says that there’s no problem, they come out like this (pulling them out with a quick motion, like drawing a sword) and then go in like this (shoving them deftly up under the ribs of the lead bad guy). Then, he turns and stabs him between the ribs with a knife that he pulled out of a leather sheath. The bad guy crumples to the ground.

Now, there is a secondary evil character, this one a woman. She chases me, and I have to run; she has a gun, and wants to shoot me. I run out onto the front porch, which is the porch of the Kingwood house, with its white brick arches. The woman points a long-barreled gun of some kind at me, and I’m dodging behind the arches trying to hide. I see the shot coming at me as an orange “explosion” – it has an almost cartoon quality to it. I duck, and it strikes the arch, but misses me. She has to do something to reload, and before she gets a chance, I rush up to her and grab her, and start banging her head against the arch directly behind her. She seems unable to struggle, as if my first strike caught her off guard and then incapacitated her. I bang her head against the corner of the brick arch until it makes a distinct wet crunching noise, and I know that it’s split the back of her head open. I then walk her back inside the house, holding her by the shoulders. She is still able to walk, but collapses when I let go of her in the main hall. I tell the others that I think we’ve got them taken care of. It’s a sort of exhausted but satisfied feeling.