Here’s the thing: Every time we stopped at a traffic signal, Sam would lean down and let a little air out of my tires. I know, right? Totally within Sam’s modus operandi. Anyway, my tires are getting softer and softer, and each act of sabotage is accompanied by a shit-eatin’ grin.
So we get to where we’re going, and apparently that destination is my deceased great-grand mother’s summer cabin off of some lake in Michagan. We start rummaging through cardboard boxes that are stacked around like an episode of Hoarders, and taking out photos and crap.
This goes on until we hear someone outside flying a drone around the neighborhood. Where did the lake go? It’s Wes Chu standing on a cinderblock wall like the one that surrounds my back yard here in Dewey. Wes starts pelting us with something, but I wake up before that something is identified.
Dreams are fuckin’ weird. Oh, and don’t bike around town with Sam Sykes, he’s a menace.