Me, The Murder Man and The Man From Angola

Noite de 11 para 12 de Setembro 2001
I am in the car with the Murder Man, who killed the Blonde Girl. He’s a pale guy, pretty polite and he’s talking about stuff, nothing important really. He shows me some documents, concerning his talking, and goes on speaking in a civilized way. He’s not talking about murdering or whatsoever nor is he tracking me. Although I do know he will try to murder me. That’s his intention. And I also know that he doesn’t feel sorry about the poor Blonde Girl. He just has no feelings toward people. I’m not in panic. I’m in stress thinking over how to escape. I’m sitting behind the steering wheel. I know the Murder Man is going to killed me with a nylon row around my neck, the same way he killed the Blonde Girl. I figure out may be I’ll have time to run away if only I would have something to defend myself. Then I realize there is a little Switzerland army knife in the dash board. In my mind I picture the scene: I’ll drill his guts because a little knife like that can’t be useful for attacking hearts or whatsoever. Plus, the man is strong. His guts are his weak point. Anyway, imagining it is, suddenly, having it done. Now I’m running away the car, but I’m hurt. I have blood in my injured neck. Anyhow he managed to attack me, I don’t know how and when. This part of the action – me attacking him, him attacking me –, was not recorded or even took place in the dream. Anyway, I am now running to a cab and asking the driver to drive me to the Hospital. Then, I’m already in the Hospital, but the Murder Man has friends who are there searching for me. I realize I need to hide myself under my bed. They enter the room, but they don’t look under the bed. Ten I realize also I must take off to another hospital. I don’t know how many of them are still around the place. So I put myself in a litter, covering my body with a blanket, like if I was a corpse going to the morgue and I made myself being drive to those huge corridors, safe and hidden, and they managed to take me off to another safe place.

And then, in the very same night, but in a completely different scenario, with no memories of the other dream, I’m entering a warehouse, where somehow I work or somehow belong to me. And in the wooden wall there is a long list, written in several sheets of paper, fixed on the wall by a tiny knife. I take the list realizing that it has lots of information about some letters, whose subjects, in tittles, are included in the list. All letters were written to me by the same man: the man from Angola, and there is an explanation about the man’s huge fortune. He’s multimillionaire because he has all his business in Angola.
I don’t understand why I’m receiving all those information. I don’t even remember I’ve been receiving so many letters from that Angola Man. I keep on reading and I get horrified as I discovered I have to pay to the detective I even don’t remember to engage. And the bill is bigger than I can afford.
And now I begin to remember about the Angola Man, not him really, but his extremely affectionate letters. But I’m deeply concerned about my debt. The Angola Man’s sister is working around in the same warehouse. She’s very small about half of my size, but she’s incredibly strong. She tells me:
– You are not thinking of asking someone else to fix the problems you got to yourself, are you?
I say:
– No, course not, but I think it is pretty normal to ask for help.
She’s very tough. She can handle her own business. But she’s very rich, she doesn’t have to deal with this kind of shit. Anyway I was thinking of asking for her help all right. Or for Angola Man’s help. Why not if he’s so found of me? It is so little money for them!
Now I’m far from the warehouse. On my right hand there is the seaside. I’m climbing a little mountain. Several politics are around, claiming the mountain also. Everybody goes to the top of the hill. Over there, there is an important meeting. And now that man of Angola is with me holding my hand affectionately. His fingers are strong.