The Dream Diary of Terry Bumfist

Terry Bumfist, world-renowned squeezer, is often regarded as this generation’s Edwin Lentil, the pioneer squeezer who squeezed Portugal into Spain, changing the world, and maps, forever. We at Concrete Octopus are always looking to uncover the genius-cysts that grow in great minds, so when we heard that Terry is not only the best damn living squeezer this side of Coldrum’s Delineation Zone, but also a prolific dreamer, we approached the man-myth about recording his dreams in these hallowed pages.

“I need money,” he said. “Now.”

“Fine,” we said. “You’ll get paid by the word.”

“No dice,” he said. “I want paid by the dream.”

“By the hour?” we countered.

“By the sentence,” he countered back. “And, I don’t want to write anything. I want to record my dreams have them written down by one of your monkeys, J. K. Hauser or one of the other amphibians you have locked in a tank over there.”

“Done,” we said, taking the bargain. “We’ll get Oscillation Jones to transcribe for you.”

“I want to be paid in clam pearls and octopine,” said Oscillation. “If I’m going to do intern work I need to be high as a UFO and/or weather balloon.”

“Done,” we said, and what follows is the product of both a great mind and great handwriting.

***

Alright, let’s see, the red light is on so hopefully this works. I’m not saying it all again if it doesn’t, I’ve got places to be.

I’ll start with last night. That will do, won’t it? I dream like fuck so I’ve got loads to go on.

I remember this one where I was chasing a lady through a school who was carrying a baby and she ran right at me holding the baby like baseball bat and I had to hold back from kicking her fucking head in for fear of hurting the baby. I’m pretty sure we were running anti-clockwise around a safe-deposit box and she was trying to put the baby in the safe-deposit box and I needed to stop her. I didn’t. I popped out of REM sleep sweating like the opposite of Prince Andrew, a man I have it on good authority who cannot sweat due to his lack of pores.

Anyway, the dream seemed related to worries about a school squeezing event I had been asked to host at Redleigh Girl’s Technical School in Boston, Lincolnshire. I emailed the school saying I couldn’t make it, ate a pound of Gouda I had fermenting in my pillow, then went back to bed. My dreams became more prolific.

(OJ: That’s what he said and I’m not changing it. The man is a moron and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know what prolific means. He probably meant specific, or horrific. I’m not here to second-guess the twat, I just want my octopine.)

I’m pretty sure it was some kind of war and me and this other person who I don’t think has a real-life counterpart from within my Rolodex (OJ: It could have been someone he saw on an escalator once, or a composite. It happens. I once dreamt of David Bowie and he wasn’t even born yet. Fred told him that anecdote when he met him and Bowie was impressed, saying it is the only thing he remembers from before he was born. Anyway, back to the dream of this dingus) were making our way up a building, clearing corners like SWAT (OJ: What a prick) and we got to the top of the stairs and there was a sniper and his teammate and we murdered the fuck out of them and found a beautiful rocket launcher and someone came up the stairs and we blasted them and then jumped out of the window and ran out of there into some mall and there was a woman there who I knew was a vampire and she started chasing us and I kept saying to shoot her kneecaps, but my partner was doing body shots and she started getting close and tearing into him and she ripped his dick off and I’m thinking if this place is full of vampires then we are so fucked and I kept seeing these lone people wandering around this mall and I knew they were all vampires and they were going to kill us and we got into the car park without being chased by any of the other vampires but this woman vampire was still on us and still attacking my partner and then I realised I was in the sequel to that Netflix programme about vampires that had all the people making long monologues and some of the kids from Stranger Things were vampires and I was stuck in a school and I had to break out of a window that was on the third fucking floor which is really high, higher than any third floor I’ve ever been on which means I should have known it was a dream but I didn’t and there was a sheer wall below me but I could break my fall with the wooden gutters that were around the building and that would slow me enough so it wouldn’t hurt when I landed and the vampires wouldn’t chase me because it was becoming daylight and I could take my chance and run but I knew in this sequel that the vampires were going to take over the world and kind of win, but they weren’t that smart, they thought they were smart but really they were arrogant and were overestimating their intelligence which topped off at 95IQ from what I could count and I was running for the shore to try and get into a boat and there were other people sneaking around trying to escape the vampires but it was a gloomy day and I was thinking the vampires can probably still come out in this weather, but they are still kinda not that smart so I can probably escape and they can’t go in salt water anyway because it’s all the collected tears of God and there is nothing holier than that shit so they’d melt like some fucker opened the Arc of the Covenant.

(OJ: This man is getting paid by the sentence and he still talks without punctuation. You’d have thought he would try and break it down into succinct images and phrases. If I was being paid by the sentence I’d be writing every word as an exclamation rather than trying to outdo Mike McCormack. What a prick. You do know that squeezing is just a bullshit profession? Anyone can squeeze. I’m squeezing right now. It’s just most of us don’t go fucking shouting about it like it’s some magical talent bestowed by the Elder Gods.)

Then (OJ: Yes, he fucking goes on. Listening to someone talk about their dreams is like listening to someone talk about their poetry. Honestly, who gives a fuck? We all dream. My feeling is that if you can put it into words it’s probably a shit dream. But, what do I know? Let the wanker talk) it was the post-apocalypse and I was on the top floor of a ruined tower block trying to defend my position with a sniper rifle. I had Art Hurr (OJ: As Ken would say, a close personal friend) in my sights and I managed to land a headshot on him through the blue tarpaulin I was hunkered behind to hide my position. I know it was a head shot because I got a red hit-marker and Art Hurr started laughing over comms and I told him I wouldn’t loot his body and when he got back he could join my team and we could make a base in the top floor of this ruined tower block.

(OJ: Is this a dream or is he confusing playing a computer game with wild visions in his mind-pan?)

Art Hurr respawned (OJ: Definitely a computer game, the fuckwit) and we started looting this tower block and found an AK47 with 8 bullets which meant we could defend, there were also swords and some other useful stuff. We were sat at a table looking out over the blasted landscape that were the colours of one of those big paintings that are all blurry (OJ: Monet, you simple twat) when four people came in the top entrance from the roof and they were all dressed like they came from Mad Max with lots of leather and goggles. They looked at us for a long minute then went back out. I started panicking while Art Hurr continued to sit at the table. I was running around looking for the AK47 but I couldn’t find it. All I could find was a sword with a serrated edge that wobbled in the hilt like it was going to fall out and I realised it was my mum’s bread knife that she tried to stab me with when I refused to wear a smock for Christmas dinner, 1985. Then a samurai sword was thrown into the room by someone off-camera (OJ: Computer game or film-set? Maybe he is dreaming, he does work on a lot of film sets, either as the Top Squeezer or a make-up artist) and I went to pick it up and the four goggle people came back in saying they didn’t want a fight and then started setting up some equipment that looked like speakers and stuff and I asked if they were going to DJ and they said no, they were going to D-Change and I wanted to know what D-change meant (OJ: This is actually interesting. I’ve heard of D-Changing, but only in certain esoteric circles. I think it was something that sexy magician guy was into, Aleister Crowley. He was always going on about D-Changing) even though I know exactly what D-Changing is (OJ: No you don’t, no one does) but I didn’t in the dream and then the woman in the group bent over the speakers to rearrange some cables and she was wearing purple fishnet stockings and her bum was bare and I realised I hadn’t had sex in a long time and started to get flustered by the realisation and the men in the gang started laughing as I squeezed my own erection and then I woke up and I was still squeezing my erection which made me wonder if it was a dream or if I’d been trapped in a D-Changing vortex so I phoned Art Hurr but he didn’t answer as usual so I went back to sleep.

The next dream was still in the post-apocalypse but it was at the foot of the towerblock but was also a prison. There were some lads who were playing some Dubstep circa 2004 (OJ: The best era for dubstep. Maybe the man has taste, even if he is a mono-minded railway sleeper) from a car stereo and we started talking about music.

(OJ: Is this another mix-up where he has confused a memory with a dream. Why am I doing this shit? Fucking Terry and his numbfuck dreams. I’m a fucking journalist, a prospector panning for content in the gumbo of contemporary global super-cultures, not some text-to-speech secretary. Surely there is technology that can do this shit? Is this what we are doing now at Concrete Octopus? Paying celebrities to send in their inane drivel just so we can give our publication some kind of mainstream relevancy? This is fucking bullshit, this vapid little plum-nugget is only famous because he accidentally squeezed a fucking marmoset into space, not that anyone has any evidence of the legendary event. Surely the marmoset would still be up there in orbit and we could track it, or at least get some kind of grainy image of it, right? Something doesn’t add-up, but maybe that’s just my own cynicism, anyway, what was this fucker saying...)

I remember the vibe was very chill, a group of friends appreciating each other’s taste in music. I woke up in a cold sweat, a fist thumping on my hotel door, so I took the gun from under my pillow and started blasting and then I woke up, but I wasn’t sure I was awake so I went down the spiral staircase to the library and then I remembered I didn’t have a library and that I was sleeping in Singapore airport and then I woke up and caught my flight to Mauritius and then I woke up and I was tied to a chair.

“You’ve got some squeezing to do,” said a voice I recognised, but couldn’t place.

“Give me my tools,” I said, and then I woke up as I stepped out of a dry riser inlet onto a muddy plain under a gunmetal sky and thought to myself, “Fuck portals, next time I’m taking the bus.”

I am still waiting to wake up but, for now, I’ll accept this as my reality.

(OJ: Sounds like an inlet jump loop. Did he conjure a portal in his own mind? I may have to look into this.)

Is that enough? I hope so. I’m done. I’ve got to get something to eat, something to squeeze, and record my fourth TED talk.

***

Such are the dreams of great minds.

(OJ: No, they aren’t.)

Terry wanted us (OJ: Wanted you, not us. There is no us. Who is even writing this epilogue?) to finish by saying he is available for all squeezings, great and small. There’s an advert on the back page with his contact details. If you have dreams that you want to share then write them down and throw them in your nearest dry riser inlet. We’ll get them, eventually.

(OJ: We won’t, whoever we are. Time to smoke the fuck out of this octopine and suck down a few clam pearls. I’ve earned it.)