Fictituous PR firm Darryl, Darrell, and Doug Associates.

Darryl.  An angry citrus farmer, more a golfer than a real thriving citrus grower, enraged to the point of brainstroke, hopelessly locked away in a drunk tank full of kindergartners.  He could decry his fate, but it was decided long ago......

Darrell.  Elevator music and all kinds of crime scene photos, people beating the bushes looking for a beloved and lost puppy, and Darrell hiding incriminating poop by stashing his Nikes out of sight from prying eyes.

Doug.  Making salad for the firm with his fingers, and anybody that happened by as he did this was immediately taken by an almost mystical surety that Salmonella would come with the meal.

Fibner & Locust provided an amount of liability protection, but such as it, everything was public opinion in the long run, and DD and D specialize in that particular mileau.

I emptied the waste baskets there, and sometimes wore a sandwich board on the corner(none of this ever happened, btw).  My gf Scarlett would come pick me up in her 93 Accord and I would rant and rave to her about tails of yesteryear, bygone days that haunted me as I did my custodian work during my shift.

I dreamed I was vigorously arguing with a conspiracy theory about 9/11 and spaghetti.  "Ne'er the Twain" they say.  In my dream, I was but a lone voice speaking up against the theory, and the theory was very commonly believed by people.  It was like holding a wall that was leaning over onto you, holding it so it doesn't kill you.  I woke up that morning very early, still in the mindset of the dream, still of the notion that the 9/11 spaghetti connection was a very real and widely subscribed-to conspiracy theory.

As truly weird as my dreams can be, I seem to retain a kind of emotional literacy in them that I lack in the real world.  Something about different parts of the brain being in various states of reviving and rejuvenating over the night time rest, something about each one doing something, and all the same time, the old analog computer of the thinkmeat generating from that energy, some scraps of output: memories and experiences within an unseen, unreal world of dream happenings.