Some goth/art-grrl type and I, along with an invented-for-the-dream male best friend -- a guy with a pro-wrestler build and matching facial hair -- were going to ride up to see the janitor, but someone wanted to come with us, and so we were waiting, annoyed that our break was being so used up.
Art-grrl: Where is he?
Wrestler-guy: This is pissing me off.
Art-grrl: Yeah. Couldn't he just tell us to say "you betcha" for him?
Me: Seriously.
[Long conversational pause.]
Art-grrl: [either breaking the silence, or continuing a conversation I have forgotten in my waking moments] The thing about fighting orcs is that it's so anonymous. You don't know whose arrow is hitting whom.
[At this point, a 40-something balding nerd guy with white shirt and pocket protector -- not the person we were waiting for -- comes in. He has the White Hand of Saruman in grease paint on his head. In fact, he looks like no one so much as Wally from "Dilbert."]
Nerd guy: Well, it mighta been us. We're the Allston-Brighton Fighting Uruk-Hai. We're probably the ones that killed your friend.
[Art-grrl reacts in disgust at Nerd guy's presence, especially because at this point he's suddenly just a severed head on the counter, which doesn't seem to strike anyone as particularly unusual, just gross.]
Nerd guy: Hey, can I go up to see the janitor with you?
[Scene change. Art-grrl, Wrestler-guy, and I are riding on top of an elevator, as Wrestler-guy has convinced us it's more fun.]
Me: Can you believe that orc wannabe?
[Art-grrl just rolls her eyes.]
We reach the roof -- and keep going up. At this point I realize that the elevator is on an outside wall of the building, and always has been, and we could have blown off in the heavy winds, and could still be, at any moment. We clutch the top of the elevator as a rope to who-knows-where keeps pulling us up and up and up into the sky. The janitor is yelling something from the roof but we can't hear him. It seems very likely that we are all going to die.
And then I woke up.
