Professor Eiranne
Moon
- Joined
- Oct 27, 2009
I had a dream. A horrible, horrible dream that I didn't really have.
You see, in this dream my friends and I were going to Disneyland for my friend Derrick's birthday. We were going to all pile into one suite at the Holiday Inn in Anaheim to save money. We checked in and took the elevator up to the fourth floor and unlocked the door. When we got into the room everything seemed fine, except it sounded like there was a radio on or something. We searched all over the room but couldn't find anything until we opened the little maintenance closet in the corner. Inside, there was a baby monitor and it sounded like someone was whispering the tune from "It's a Small World" into the receiver.
We picked up the radio and tried to contact who was on the other end, but before we pushed the button Derrick screamed at us to look out of the balcony window. Across the street, standing on the roof of the building next to us, one story lower was Bill Murrary, surrounded by dozens, maybe hundreds of dead children and each one of them was wearing the native dress of some foreign country. Bill still had the boy in a giant sombrero in a choke hold and he was smiling up at our room, singing the song.
He stopped singing, put his hand on the opposite side of the kid's chin and snapped his neck like a handful of dried spaghetti, making the kid's sombrero fall to the ground below. He looked up at our balcony and said "Happy Birthday Derrick, no one will ever believe you" and jumped off the opposite side of the building.
You see, in this dream my friends and I were going to Disneyland for my friend Derrick's birthday. We were going to all pile into one suite at the Holiday Inn in Anaheim to save money. We checked in and took the elevator up to the fourth floor and unlocked the door. When we got into the room everything seemed fine, except it sounded like there was a radio on or something. We searched all over the room but couldn't find anything until we opened the little maintenance closet in the corner. Inside, there was a baby monitor and it sounded like someone was whispering the tune from "It's a Small World" into the receiver.
We picked up the radio and tried to contact who was on the other end, but before we pushed the button Derrick screamed at us to look out of the balcony window. Across the street, standing on the roof of the building next to us, one story lower was Bill Murrary, surrounded by dozens, maybe hundreds of dead children and each one of them was wearing the native dress of some foreign country. Bill still had the boy in a giant sombrero in a choke hold and he was smiling up at our room, singing the song.
He stopped singing, put his hand on the opposite side of the kid's chin and snapped his neck like a handful of dried spaghetti, making the kid's sombrero fall to the ground below. He looked up at our balcony and said "Happy Birthday Derrick, no one will ever believe you" and jumped off the opposite side of the building.