Bruce Bond

        I dreamed I was driving the bat-mobile off of a ferry behind a large group of pedestrians. While most of them managed to find their way to the sidewalk, there was one woman who couldn’t seem to get out of the road. I finally rolled down my window and asked if she needed a lift somewhere.

        “Fourth street,” she said, referring to a piece of official looking paper.

        “I am headed there, myself.” I opened up the passenger door and she walked around the front of the car and got in. “There’s going to be a little bit of a detour, a shortcut, really.”

        I pulled over into a narrow ally and we dropped about 15 feet in just a couple of seconds. I drove through the underground tunnel to where I parked under the Bond building, on Fourth Street.

        “I never knew this was here!”

        “It’s a private driveway.”

        When I got out I realized there was something out of order in my garage and signaled her to stay put. I closed up the car, including the window shields and stepped into the dark garage. Before I could reach the light switch I was attacked by two hooded intruders. I concentrated on protecting myself from their blows as much as possible, while collecting tissue samples for testing later. I was glad they were not armed with guns. They left me bleeding on the floor, seriously cut up and bruised, but alive. They raced out into the morning, satisfied with the damage they’d caused.

        My passenger opened up the car and raced to my side. I didn’t know if she was part of this or not until I realized she was on the phone with the police and trying to get me to tell her the address.

Ad astra per technica,

FF