The Strangest Dream
I had the strangest dream last night. It was one of those dreams that feels like it’s been cooked up in the fevered brain of a mad accountant with a flair for minimalism. I found myself in what could only be described as a waiting room designed by someone who hated comfort and personality alike. The room was white — so blindingly, achingly white — that it felt more like an interrogation chamber than a place where people wait. There were seven plastic chairs arranged in a circle, each one uglier and more uncomfortable than the next. In the middle of this sterile nightmare stood a table holding a magazine so worn out it looked like it had been reincarnated at least eight times, along with brochures promising miracles too good to be true from some publisher named Atalaya (whatever that is). The walls were smooth, but there was something heavy in the air, like invisible eyes boring into my soul.
Facing me were three doors. Identical. Terrible.
A bell rang — a sharp, jarring sound that startled me so badly I nearly jumped out of my skin, as if someone had burst into the bathroom while I was mid-wipe. From the door on the left emerged Mick Jagger, all sinewy limbs and a face that looked like a topographical map of rock ’n’ roll excess. He carried himself with the kind of smug confidence you’d expect from a man whose name has become synonymous with swagger. My heart skipped a beat. This dream was getting interesting.
For a moment, I wrestled with whether or not I should try speaking to him in broken English, even though I hate talking to strangers under normal circumstances. But before I could decide, the bell rang again.
The left-hand door swung open once more, and this time Steven Tyler sauntered in. His tight shirt screamed midlife crisis in every language known to man, and his gait was pure cocksure strut. Now, don’t get me wrong — I admire his work — but I wasn’t about to strike up a conversation with him. If I were going to chat with anyone named Tyler, I’d much rather it be Liv. Though, given the nature of this dream, she’d probably start spouting Elvish or some other nonsense.
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Another ring of the bell, and Willem Dafoe entered through the center door. Here was a man whose face could sell fear bottled and labeled. My mind raced through his most chilling performances — from Wild at Heart to that unsettling scene in The Lighthouse . Suddenly, I was starstruck. Or maybe just plain scared.
Before I could fully process the horror show unfolding before me, Anne Hathaway appeared through the middle door, speaking perfect Spanish: “Sir, the doctor is ready for you.” She gave a knowing glance to Jagger, Tyler, and Dafoe, whose eyes widened like a Spider-Man villain’s. “Follow me,” she said, opening the right-hand door. A cold light blinded me as Dafoe let out a disturbing cackle that spread like wildfire among the others, echoing in my ears as I stepped into the next room.
I arrived in what seemed to be a consultation room, where a figure sat with its back turned to me. An attendant with a lush mane of wavy, copper-brown hair greeted me. Without saying a word, she gently guided me to a dental chair glorified beyond belief, its blood-red surface gleaming like fresh animal sacrifice à la David Cronenberg. “Relax,” she said softly, removing her mask. And then I saw her face — it was Julia Roberts.
My mind reeled. What was going on here? Everyone had enormous mouths… Was this some sort of twisted metaphor? Panic set in as I tried to bolt, but Julia pressed a mint-scented sedative to my lips, forcing me to inhale. As the cool menthol tightened around my throat like a noose delivering bad news, I realized I was trapped.
The figure sitting with its back to me finally turned around. It was none other than Tim Curry, wearing his most sinister expression. His grin stretched across his face like two continents drifting apart.
And then it hit me: this was a coven of legendary mouths, and I was their unfortunate victim. I struggled to escape, but my body was paralyzed, my will crushed beneath the weight of terror. Their laughter grew louder, morphing into something inhuman. The last thing I saw before blacking out was Curry’s gaping maw descending upon me, wide open like a portal to hell.
Fade to black.
