In this dream I was with a friend. I don�t remember her name or face, but I remember it was a female. We went to a shop. It was your typical East Village side street horror department store- beautiful and frightening clothing, unique and only silver jewelry behind a glass case where the evil salespeople stared you down, daring you to steal, less expensive jewelry made of beads and shells, freefloating beads and shells to make your own jewels or clothes, whips, chains, wigs, and a back room with a sign above it reading �tattoo� with the neon �a� having gone out.

The old woman behind the case is a trouble maker. She stares at us and always tries to overcharge us. She accused us of stealing. My female friend actually did steal, and they took us back into the �tttoo� room and began to sear her skin with heated metal rods, beat her to senselessness, and I sat, pinned to my chair by invisible and justified fear. They let us out, and my friend was not doing too well. Then the old woman, a short, fat, red haired witch, and I truly believe she is a witch, accused me of stealing too. She produced (magically) a shirt from my backpack, a black spangly thing that wouldn�t even fit me. I started screaming that she was fucking with me, and then the man rushed in from the back.

He seemed frazzled and apologetic. He took pleasure in beating my friend senseless, but now seemed repentant and he made apologies to both of us over and over again, scolding the old woman. He looks like a terrorist, short and stout with receding coarse black hair, a moustache, and I somehow can�t trust him. He ordered the old woman to give me compensation�a necklace and something else. Trinkets for my dignity.

I knew no good would come of it, so I tried to turn her down. I said �No, really, it�s okay, I don�t need anything.� But my will was weak and she was persistent. She picked up a bead and I told her it was fine, great, perfect. She then offered me a shell to go with it. I would�ve rather had another shell on the other side of the bead to balance things, but I agreed, not wanting to push my luck.

�And some incense?� she said, and her voice was like the wicked witch of the west.

I said �Sure, why not?� and she slipped about ten sticks into my bag. I insisted, �Let me at least pay for the incense.�

She laughed and punched into the register and it came up $1179.00. I assumed she misplaced the decimal, but then she announced my total.

I didn�t want the incense, I just wanted to leave. I told her, and I saw her slip the incense into another holder under the counter. The incense she claimed I stole was from the NY Yankees all stars, Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle. I told the man what she did and then I ran out of the store before they could stop me.

I ran all the way from seventh street to Washington Heights, where I saw Jeremy�s cousin moving things into an apartment, up a large hill. I called out to him, but he ignored me. Then I saw Jeremy.

Jeremy went back to the store with me to go get the girl. She was in the back, and Jeremy immediately got a strange feeling, as if his Christian radar had gone off. I was amazed.

The younger woman was behind the counter. I explained to her what we had come for and she stared at us with hatred. Her hair was Marilyn blonde, chopped up, frozen in space with hairspray as if she were some japanimation character. She looked coked up and her skin seemed to sag slightly. Her leering face told us that we didn�t want to pry, but Jeremy did anyway.

She started on some diatribe about how we were ruining her, taking the drug scene and sending it to hell, shutting down all the decent institutions where drugs could be found easily and safely. The woman pulled out a carving knife and dared us to come see. They�d cut off my friend�s thumb, it was sitting in a pool of blood in a saucer, and she was passed out.

I blacked out, and suddenly we were running again, really fast, my unconscious friend slung over Jeremy�s shoulder and his hand clamped to my forearm, pulling my tired body. We got to where Joseph, his cousin, was living and we stopped dead because there was the blonde woman, still wielding her carving knife.