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featherynscaleHidden amongst the other funhouse jokes from my subconscious last night (including competing in a swim meet against Eddie Munster, among others), this:
I'm riding in a huge vehicle, a station wagon possibly. I'm in the front passenger seat. I don't know who is driving, but we are moving from a small, unpaved road to a major highway. In the junction between dirt and highway is a dead vulture. The driver proceeds as if to run it over. I scream and punch him in the arm, in a very "don't you dare hit that" sort of manner.
The driver slams on his brakes. The vulture comes back together from its previous squooshedness and picks itself up. The flesh/skin/whatever on its head shimmers like a silk velvet. It looks at me, winks, and flies away.
I'm riding in a huge vehicle, a station wagon possibly. I'm in the front passenger seat. I don't know who is driving, but we are moving from a small, unpaved road to a major highway. In the junction between dirt and highway is a dead vulture. The driver proceeds as if to run it over. I scream and punch him in the arm, in a very "don't you dare hit that" sort of manner.
The driver slams on his brakes. The vulture comes back together from its previous squooshedness and picks itself up. The flesh/skin/whatever on its head shimmers like a silk velvet. It looks at me, winks, and flies away.
