Monday, July 5, 2010

I was wandering the streets of a large, modern American city I did not recognize. The whole city was underground. The buildings and streets were terribly dirty and rundown, and dimly lit by a greenish, diffuse light. It was very quiet and there were no people around.

Entering a warehouse, I stumbled upon a weapons training session of the Ku Klux Klan. They were shooting at mannequins with various kinds of firearms, as well as a hunting bow. Their leader, who looked a bit like Miguel Ferrer, approached me to tell me that he was interested in my help. He wanted me to use my connections with indie rock musicians to try to get them involved with spreading the KKK's message. I was immediately skeptical, thinking that I wanted no part of this plan, and besides, no indie rock musician I knew would be interested.

As I waited patiently for him to finish his spiel, I thought about how I could diplomatically pretend to agree with part of his philosophy, and then politely bow out of helping. I was suddenly ashamed when I remembered what the KKK were about; I realized that since I agreed with no part of their philosophy at all, it could only be my habit of hypocrisy that would incline me to take this diplomatic tack. I said something noncommittal and left.

Back on the deserted street, I began to wonder where I was, what city I was in. As I considered the subterranean condition of the city and the character of its inhabitants, it dawned on me that I was in Hell, which then seemed manifestly obvious. I became intensely afraid and woke up.

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