Bbbrrraaappp…shit, my damn cellphone.

It’s three-in-the-morning, can’t be good news. I roll over to pick it up, zap, blinding lights flash from it, my body receives a violent jolt that crashes through my body, hundreds of old-fashioned photographic flash bulbs explode in my brain.

“What the hell!” I cry, my arms and legs twitching uncontrollably.

Never in my life have I ever been electrocuted, I’m certain I’ve survived a deadly shock and will live to tell about it. But something is wrong, out of whack, not right. As I gain control of my limbs, the photo-flashes dissolving into darkness, I cannot find the edge of my bed.

Slowly, I roll over. I look where my legs should be, I see my dog. Buddy’s face; eyes are open, looking at me like nothing’s wrong. But he’s huge, larger than life, out of proportion to the rest of me as I reach over to rub his giant, moist nose. I can hear his tail at the end of the bed wagging – thump, thump, thump.

My hand’s tiny against his brown set of nostrils. I know I am in trouble. I’ve shrunk to the size of a naked G.I. Joe. My bed is bigger than a football field and as wide. I’m leery of moving too fast towards where I believe the edge of my bed should be — I don’t want to fall off. Dropping to my hands and knees, I crawl. Buddy’s tail continues to slap in happiness behind me, my heart beats in rhythm to the sound.

“Un-fucking-believable,” I tell myself as I find the edge, realizing I cannot see the floor, my desk or anything beyond my white sheets.

There’s no way I can jump – but perhaps I can climb down using my blanket. So I re-position myself, dangling my legs over the edge of the bed, turned trap. As I grasp the blanket next to me, I feel Buddy move. The bed undulates with each motion Buddy makes. I redouble my grasp on my blanket, keeping my balance.

Suddenly – Buddy sniffs at me – his cold, gigantic wet nose touching my naked ass. Son-of-a-bitch! I jump from the chilly surprise. Next thing I know I’m airborne, falling into the blackness ahead of me. Thank goodness the arm-rest on my office chair’s padded as I slam my forehead full-force into it. Buddy jumps from the bed. He joyfully licks my face.

Two words that caught my ear when I was five or six years old were stereotype and Styrofoam. While I didn’t understand the meaning to either, I was bent on trying my damnest to fit one or both words into my vocabulary via a sentence.

During a church social one afternoon I, at long last, found an opportunity to say Styrofoam in a sentence, and actually make it sound like I knew what I was talking about. However, the Greek god of language, Mnemosyne got me all confused.

“Can I have some Kool-aid in a stereotype cup?” I asked Mom.

Xavier slipped the cage, as it was known over his head. He adjusted the device so that the electrodes sat on his temples with the third touching the back of his head where his neck began.

Less than a second after voice-activating the unit, he felt the rush of the virtual reality arch rushing towards him. And so, Xavier arrived on yet another RealTrip.

Though he’d been warned about the gang-wars of the 1980s, he found returning to the ‘simpler days of the 20th century’ refreshing. “Besides, the only time someone gets hurt or killed during a RealTrip is if they do something stupid like loop themselves into having one orgasm after another,” he told himself.

No, Xavier wasn’t after sex. Instead, he had found a safe way to experience crack cocaine without getting hooked or having to deal with real drug dealers.

Besides, he found Compton, California and it’s streets to be less dangerous than his everyday work life, pounding red rocks on the surface of dust-laden Mars. Also, unlike his real-life conditions, Xavier could enjoy the sensation of sunshine on his face.

And as he walked south on Main from Compton Blvd toward Redondo Beach Blvd., he couldn’t help but wonder how many others using RealTrip enjoyed the same feeling as he did.

His revere came to an end as two men rapidly approached him. They wore jeans, heavily creased down the front of each leg, full white tee’s and bandana’s, all signs Xavier recognized as clothing worn by gang members of the time-period.

“Best avoid these two,” he thought as he crossed the street, dodging traffic as it moved in both directions. Cars, trucks and the like were a hazard Xavier didn’t have to worry about on Mars.

The pair also crossed the street. Xavier felt a sudden tenseness in his gut.

“Hey, what’sa cracker-ass like you doin’ on our street?” the smaller one growled.

Xavier didn’t answer. Instead he began to will himself out of the trance that RealTrip had placed him in, but he was too late.

“I axed you a question, White-boy!” the smaller one yelled as he pounced, placing Xavier in a throat-crushing head-lock.

With fear overriding his theta waves he was powerless to escape the alternate reality he placed himself in. Instead, he felt the blows of the larger one slamming his fist repeatedly into the side of his head causing an explosion of white lights followed by complete darkness.

As suddenly as he slipped into unconsciousness, he found himself coming back to his sense. That’s when he grew aware of the coldness of a knife blade pressed against his Adam’s Apple.

“This is a RealTrip, right?” he said aloud.

“Yeah, it’s a RealTrip, asshole,” he heard a voice snarl. Xavier realized that his RealTrip experience had been ‘jacked’ by criminals known as MalFactors.

“Yeah, ya little cock-sucka,” a second voice grunted, “Teach you to avoid ‘synth,’ by RealTrippin’ the fake shit.”

He felt the knife press hard into his skin until Xavier could no longer ignore the weakness of his body and the heavy warmth that spilled liberally down the front of his shirt.

Originally, I wanted to title this, “Sergeant Murray and the Invincible Goat-Ropers,” but that would have made as much sense as what follows.  Jus’ nod your head slowly in agreement and go with the flow.

There’s a Soccer-mom, Grammar and Thread-Nazi, and the bald Italian guy up the street, whom for the life of me, I cannot understand when he talks, all gaming me. With that being stated, for 58 days I’ve been outside my box, thinking — thus their superficial play-date.

“Imagine that – me thinking — outside the box. It’s almost laughable,” I tell myself as I hear Foghorn Leghorn in the background roostering, “It’s a joke, son, a joke! Get it? Thinkin’ outside the box? That boy’s denser than corrugated cardboard.”

And while the Oppressed Earth Pants Corps., mandated force-feedings of salt-peter has long since been flushed from my system, I’ve been able to sustain my inner man-child on daily rations of stale beef jerky and two-day old hot coffee. And it’s because of these items, several red helium-filled balloons and a Russian spyware game issued by CNN, that I have managed to accidentally give away my position.

(If they wanted it that badly, all they have to do is ask, but since no-one asked, I’ll go a step further and share my coordinates: 39°39′30″N 119°41′42″W.  Simple, huh?)

Honestly, I never really understood why we have had two satellite dishes attached to our home for all these years.  Now – I know – or at least I think I know. And there it is, the time for playing over, “It’s time to engage in some kick-the-can before the vapor-lamps buzz and flicker to life,” I say to the dogs as I head out into the street.

“Maybe there’s time enough to make asphalt-angels on the black-top, if we hurry,” one of four responds, knowing I cannot recognize any of their voices.

Archie has a bunch of problems, all self-made – booze, money, women, but Archie also has the solution.  A universal carnival mirror that’ll let him go back in time, with enough duration to fix any future mistakes after they occur.

Recently, Archie acquired another problem – all those other Archie’s.  They appear after each use of the mirror and the more he tries to get rid of them, the more they multiply.

Across the galaxy, F’flavex finds herself blessed with a twenty-fifth alien life-form. She doesn’t understand where they’re coming from but she does know her 10-thousand hungry children are getting fed.

It’s exhausting, dragging my pet Anaconda around the hallways of this little box. Every few minutes I find my inner man-child having to wipe off the dust-bunnies from its ‘shroom-shaped head.

But finally I grow smart and decide to turn the beast into a neck-tie, keeping it off the cold linoleum. I toss it around my shoulders, crossing the wide end over the narrow end, bringing the wide end up through the loop, then drawing the wide end back down.

My memory has yet to fail me and it seems I can tie a double-Windsor knot in my sleep. I slide the wide end underneath the narrow end and fold it to the right, then I pull the wide end through the loop between my pet Anaconda and my neck, and tighten the wrapping.

Finally, I take the wide end and wrap over the narrow end so that the front of the wide end is visible, then I pull the wide end up through the loop again. By bringing the wide end down through the knot in front, I tighten the knot carefully and draw it up to my Adam’s apple.

Soon it’s suppertime, so I go to the lavatory and splash water in my face, slick back my hair and wash my hands. I always take my meals in my room and so I happily walk that direction, feeling confident that my ‘adapt-and-overcome skills’ will impress Nurse Wratchet.

However, as I enter the door way to my cardboard cutout I realize I forgot something. My daily dose of salt-peter has ebbed and my pet Anaconda is now becoming enraged, with murder on its mind, and before I know it, I’m in the throes of being hanged on the door-jamb by a card-carrying member of Slythern.

So much for making a fashion statement.

Going to the grocery store’s not my idea of fun, but it’s the only place I can pick up my most coveted man-child survival supplies — beef jerky and coffee. I must restock my secret stash before returning to my box and the all-important daily filing of the meta-data.

The teenager handed me my change and I said, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he answered with a smile. I stood there looking at him, hoping to no avail he’d change his response.

“It’s not ‘no problem,’” said to him, “It’s ‘thank you.’ And I’d like to hear ya say it before I leave.”

The Soccer-mom behind me gave me a nervous smile, certain she knew where all of this was heading, but unable or perhaps unwilling to interfere with my already-launched correction. I smiled back, hoping to calm her fears.

The kid grew all boggle-eyed and his jaw moved up and down in rapid fashion as I tried coaxing him, “You can do it – it won’t kill ya.”

“Th-th-th-thank y-y-you?” he stammered.

As he finished speaking, the kid suddenly popped — like a balloon filled with chilled lime-green Jello — leaving smatterings all over the register. They immediately began reforming, moving towards where the youngster had once stood, much like hundreds of Banana Slugs.

I knew he was going to be okie-dokey and eventually would grow from the experience.

“You’re welcome,” I said as I started to turn away, “And, see — I told you it wouldn’t kill ya.”

It seems like I has jus’ reconnected with him through Facebook, and now he’s gone. Though only a couple of years older than me, Dan Gilliland passed away in Sacramento, California on September 15, 2017.

Sharing the same birth date, Dan was born on July 20, 1958 in Grand Island, Nebraska, two-years before me. Known by everyone, including teacher’s as ‘Dan-the-Man,’ we attended Del Norte County High School, together in Crescent City, California.

It was while in high school, that Dan attained the rank of Eagle Scout, where he was a member of Order of The Arrow and became involved in the Indian Dance Team. He also received his private pilot license while in high school.

One of my favorite memories is watching Dan – never fearful of the crowd – prance around during a high school assembly wearing women’s undergarments. That was in his junior year, and even after all these years, I find myself laughing at his antics, though I cannot recall why he did this.

Following graduation in 1976, Dan went to Shasta Community College in Redding, California and later Keene State College, in Keene, New Hampshire. Being a man of both the East Coast and West Coast, it wasn’t surprising to learn that Dan was both a licensed fishing guide in Maine and California.

Dan moved to Gray, Maine, opening his own insurance company and a restaurant called ‘The Pizza Paddle.’ Eventually, he returned to California, where he found work with the U.S. government as a loan officer for disaster relief with the Small Business Administration.

He’s survived by his son Daniel Gilliland Jr., and his wife Cara, granddaughter Gwendolyn and soon to be born Teagan, daughter Allison Candage in Florida, parents John and Jan Gilliland of Rockland, Maryland as well as brothers, Tom, James and Joe, sisters Cathy Gilliland, Nancy Johnson and Donna Feener.

Holed-up all night in my proverbial box, I’ve been wrestling with my pet ‘Anaconda’ and we’ve been losing. Suddenly the key turns in the door and there stands Nurse Wratchet, screaming, “What are you doing?!”

After explaining that I’m wresting with my pet ‘Anaconda,’ she responds, “That’s no snake, that’s a friggin’ worm!”

Not one to let a good insult slip by, I hold upright what she’s calling a worm and ask, “Then would’ya like to go cat fishing with me?”

She slams the door shut.

“That’s what I thought,” I yell after her, “You’re scared of Hogwarts and Slytheren!’”

“Damned dogs,” I shout as I continue sweeping, “Go away – go!”

Play is all they want to do as I try to clean up the dried mud falling from their paws. Yes, it’s been raining heavily, off and on, the last four days, but seeing this much mud throughout the living room and hallway’s maddening.

The more I try to shoo away the dogs, the more they think I’m playing. I’m not – I’m pissed, because every time I take another step, in another direction I find more dried mud.

“Crap!” I exclaim, realizing the mud’s coming from my tennis shoes.