We are motoring down the road and the bitch keeps veering off, which in this dream vision, or space, is a green pasture below an abutment that makes the edge of our end of Spring Lane. We eventually slip off and I in my impulsivity urge her, the driver, to mount the road again in the interests of time. A menacing large urban tank appears behind us, one of these armored police SUVs, fulfilling every driver's nightmare. This young Turk with the eyes of a psychopath appears with a posse of cronies, toughs, stooge enforcers like you'd depict if you were doing a near-dystopian commentary like Logan. Some old guy with a pony tail comes running up, leaving a wife standing beside him, and I know instantly several things: he's out of line and a fool; I know and love him; he's about to get fucked up. How I know these things is probably tied to my conficting opinions about baby boomers, the good ones with real personalities crafted around the scars of their life's mistakes, swarthy veterans of the middle-class, yet still posessed of the same incredible delusions fed to them by their narrative-writing television personality Archons: unable to see fallacy in their prejudices, convinced of their wisdom, myopically attached to a worldview that was born before the 24 hour news cycle. I'm already telling this guy to step off and hide, but he won't, until the bit about the psychopath in uniform merges with that segment(how its working in memory, I can't convince even myself right now of the explicably contiguous nature of the narrative's working parts as a single linear storyline. These could have been separate events which happened/collated as beats or segments in one direction, thus the fact that I can't remember the psycho in uniform in that moment until right after). He grabbed this poor man and performed an armlock, wrenching the man's wrist into hyperextension and then shattering it. It looked carefully trained, cold, an exercise in replicating movement from memory without the possibility of empathy or consideration of anything but violence as a rule. The movement happened smoothly, the work of someone who studied under an expert. It was so fluid i can't recall the little details, only that I was so engrossed in the dream reality from that wretched, totally realistic act of violence that there was no saving me. As luck would have it, I woke up afterward, but not before the cop moved to my window, stooped over with hands on thighs and said, 'Alright, we're gonna take you to the tank now.'