I Had A Dream. Or Maybe It Was A Nightmare.

A man waves his arms. He holds a small white stick. A baton. His hair is long, grey, bundled in a ponytail. He stands atop a large rectangular box, painted red, with white racing stripes, not unlike the Starsky & Hutch-mobile.

He does not see me. He is engrossed in his work, waving his arms. Not conducting so much as conjuring. A wave of sound begins to envelop me, a wall of music that becomes physical, a labyrinth of notes, falling upon me, tightening around me, gripping me in their embrace, immobilizing me. My ears become blocked, clogged with notes, always more notes. The music itself remains elusive, though, a melody somehow there but unable to be grasped, unable to be extracted separately from the massive net of sound. My eyes are forced closed by the pressure, the music too strong to resist, it begins to smother me, crushing my torso, solidifying in my mouth.

A snippet jams into my ear and recognition floods through me. Yes. It's End of A Dream. It has to be. No wait, it's not. Not exactly. It's more than that. The horns from Timeline begin stabbing my cheeks. The blaster beam lodges in my throat and begins stretching it like taffy. A collection of mixing bowls rattle against my skull. My eyes are forced open by echoplex trumpets.

The man looms above me, staring, a cruel smile fixed upon his lips. He finally speaks. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before asking for an expanded version of Mr. Baseball."