The Dream Factory

The Dream Factory

“For God’s sake, can nobody control that perverted little pipsqueak?” the Grim Reaper yelled from his dressing room in the dream factory. He’d been trying to apply “Crimson Soul” lipstick for the last five minutes, but progress was ponderous due to his lack of lips.

“It seems not,” Cinderella answered through the wall. “I dare say we’re in for quite another tortuous night, Mr Reaper.” She lifted the hem of her ball gown off the floor, peering around her perch for her missing slipper.

“It’s not night though,” Little Red Riding Hood hollered from the hallway as she zoomed past on her scooter. “It’s daytime. The kid’s daydreaming about us in school.” Her red shawl streaked out behind, such was the speed she’d achieved. Mickey Mouse scurried out of the way in time, the scooter flicking one of his big black ear lobes. Little Red popped her cherry sherbet lollipop from her mouth, “Watch out slow poke!”

Walt Disney’s voice came over the PA, “You’re all up in two minutes.”

“This is stuffing my schedule,” Reaper lamented. “I should be out scything people. I’m not even a bloody Disney character!” He gave up spreading the lipstick over his teeth.

Cinderella finished fiddling with her billowy ball gown, lest she get it grubby, and located the missing slipper at the bottom of Snow White’s locker. The thieving tart.

They met on the stage, Walt flicking the house lights on before taking a seat in the centre of the front row.

“Oh, you have got to be joking!” Mickey Mouse squeaked from down at everyone’s knees.

A Twister mat lay centre stage. Off to one side stood a row of shot glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Afraid not,” Walt said. “You’re in for a rough one. The only consolation is that it won’t last long this time. The dreamer has to wake up when his English class is over.”

Cinderella flopped down on the boards, no longer concerned for the state of her gown. She had a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t going to the ball in this dream. “What’s wrong with this kid? Too much internet, not enough sport?”

Little Red bailed from her scooter, letting it crash against the wall and plonked herself next to Cinderella, licking her lollipop.

“Do you ever stop slurping on those?” Cinderella asked, “You can’t have any teeth left?”

“I’ve got great teeth. All the better to eat candy with!” Little Red laughed.

“You stole that line from Wolfie, I’ll wager. How long you been waiting to use it?” Cinderella teased.

“Anyway, it’s showtime,” Walt announced. “Your turn first Reap. And lose the scythe, you’re liable to take someone’s eye out.”

The Grim Reaper sighed, leaned his scythe next to Little Red’s scooter and bent down to flick the spinner. Stage lights shone through the gaps in his skeleton, casting a shadowy rib cage across the Twister map.

“Right hand, green.”

He reached over to place a skeletal hand on a green circle, bones clattering all the way.

Mickey Mouse was up next and had a tough time reaching the mat in the first place, being such a short arse.

Little Red stumbled on her turn, trying to reach around one of Reap’s tibias without touching it. The first to take a shot. Rather unfortunate, given her lighter body weight. She’d be well pissed after the next one.

Cinderella’s gown got in everyone’s way— but the unseen titillated teenager dreamed a solution.

“Sorry Cindy,” Walt directed, his head cocked, listening to the schoolboy’s thoughts. “The gown’s gotta come off. It’s ruining the game he reckons.”

“Of course he does.” Cindy sighed, downed a shot, and lifted the gown over her head.

Bedecked in only a blouse and bloomers she re-entered the fray.

Reap collapsed in a heap, forced to take a shot no matter how nonsensical the notion was. Jack Daniels splashed down his spinal column, perfused through his pelvic bone, and trickled onto the mat.

Mickey Mouse slipped trying to slide his foot onto a blue spot and had to suffer a second shot. The resulting release of cheesy vomit missed Cindy’s folded gown. Most of it, anyway.

Little Red was doing well, balancing in a back arch over Cindy, teetering tentatively above the sharp tiara, a bare inch beneath her bottom.

“For the love of God, please let this be over,” Cindy mumbled, her face squashed against the sticky mat, ass cheeks pointed skyward.

“Not yet,” Walt answered, “In fact, there’s been a last-minute casting call.”

And with that, Puss in Boots slinked in from stage left to take a spin.

Reap’s next move proved impossible and had him draining another shot through his bones and over Cindy’s already clammy bloomers. They clung closer, conforming to every curve and crevice.

“Curses, now I’m showing camel toe.” An innocent invitation for all eyes to gaze upon a vision of velveteen vulva.

Mickey’s inebriation failed to prevent the eruption of an erection between the two buttons popping from the front of his pants. Without Minnie for scale, it seemed miniscule. It also lacked the required rigidity to support the tiara that Cindy attempted to hang on it.

“Well, that’s curtains, I’d imagine?” Reap enquired, regretting he had no eyes to roll.

“Not quite,” Walt said.