Sometimes he couldn't sleep. Which is a lie. The poor bastard rarely slept. Some nights he would lay awake staring at a wall so close to sleep but they would refuse to come for him. They refused to take him into the Dreaming where he would fly with Ghandi, drink with Bukowski, and spar with his Grandfather in his old Navy uniform. All he wants is to sleep.

He remembered a time when he feared sleep. His mother would craddle him close as he would scream in his sleep, begging for life, trying to desperately break the hold of his mother and whatever had its tendrils around him in his head. Some nights he would tear at the ground and curse like he was an adult. It terrified his family but more importantly it terrified him.

And now here he sits in his apartment (if it could be called that). The lights are dim and he sits in his one chair. A bottle sits next to him like a small green Buddha. Patient as it waits to be consumed. It was two people in that one bottle. One was Justerini while the other was Brooks. Like Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. Like us all. In his hand is a small glass full of the light golden liqour. In his stomach is even more.

"Fuck," He spouts as his head rolls. The little buddha, the two beings residing in the bottle, is almost gone. His eyes flutter desperately. The world around him blurs as he slumps in his chair. As he starts to leave this world, his mind leaving him, a small woman opens his door. Her body is too perfect to be a midget or dwarf. No misproportionate features. Her features too delicate to be a woman but too confident to be a child. She moved through the room without making a sound. She danced in and out of his large stacks of books. They leaned around her threatening to collapse at a moment's notice. It was a strange version of Godzilla.

No one knew the little dance but her feet. One would press against the ground as another would move in a wide arch over a stack. Her lips curled into a vicious smile. With one willowy leg, she brought it high into the air and placed the heel of her foot on a stack. Her leg started to move the stack into its ultimate demise. But, like a scared child, she left the stack to be. She was not to the one to knock that stack over. That stack was to be.

Suddenly she turned to him. She looked at him with her dark eyes timidly. She bit her rose lips and stared at his drooling face. She was amazed by him, loved him, desired him. Finally she leaned towards him. It could hardly be considered a kiss but a brushing of the lips. And he left. He awoke in a hallway of size that he could not measure. A darkness unlike he had ever known engulfed him. Before him stood a tribunal of beings. One only barely discernable in the darkness, another his back turned towards him, and the last a fox staring intently at him.

The fox opened his mouth and spoke with a voice so deep and powerful it hurt his chest and ears. The entire cavern around him rumbled with this little canine's voice, "It has been a long time. Welcome back. We have missed you. Miss you so much."

Only now did he notice the man in the chair was dressed in a gentleman's white suit and fedora and the smell of tobacco churled around his nostrils. A small cherry gave you only a taste of this man's face. Facial hair but not able to see what type or color. Just a glimpse between every puff. The fox continued, "You are quite the hard man to find. Although I assume finding you is not the right word... Finding you is easy. Having you visit us is what is hard. Good to have you visit us. So glad to have you visit us."

"We have a journey to take," And behind the three was a door of unimaginable proportions. Ornately covered with scluptures of his escapades throughout his life. His first tooth, the losing of his virginity, his twenty first birthday, his first book being published all adorned the door in Roman-esque style fashion. It was as if his life was Tiberius destroying the barbarian hordes. The fox smiled like only a dog can smile, "We have a journey to take."

And thus the door was opened.

And thus the nightmare began.

The writer moved only slightly. Excuriating pain spread through his body. He allowed his hand to touch the pain and was horrified at what was found. Stitches ran from the back of his cranium to the soles of his feet.The dark wire ran from his body and left him to create an entire world behind him. Pubic hair like people roamed black streets screaming black words at each other. It was like the demented sketch of a mental patient. Wire knives cut wire flesh and spilt wire blood. Every cut sent shockwaves through his body. This creation of his was killing him slowly and with as much pain as a human being could feel.

In front of him the beautiful woman touched her hands sympathetically to his cheek. His eyes begged for mercy. Anything to stop this madness. Her tiny fingers gently brushed his skin. And he screamed. Behind him a dark beast created from the very wire that was his prison tore through the stitches and destroyed its world. Its huge teeth tore through whatever it encoutered. Its maw devoured all it saw. Its claws tore whatever it was able to grasp. The canine beast stopped to stare at its prey.

As the two refused to break gaze with the other terror crept up the stitches and settled into his heart. The beast's head hung low while its shoulders rose high into the orange sky. It was savoring this writer stitched into his own world. He was now the beast.

"Move."

He pulled against the stiches tearing pink flesh and spilling red blood.

"Move."

Again he pulled away from his prison.

"There is no time."

He felt his skin tear clear from the stiches and he felt blood fall from his back.

"It comes for you. Defend yourself!"

Blood trickled from the wounds and tender flesh. He turned to see the giant beast leave its own world but the wire world was his own. There was no world but this world of stiches. There was no Dr. Justerini and Mr. Brooks. There was no little green buddha. There was no stacks of books.

As he turned the stitches came not from the world around him but his own body. They sprouted from his body like vines and lashed together. The black vines slid down his body and into the wire world. Again... he was a part. The creator now at the mercy of his own creation. The beast stood in front of him waiting. Just waiting.

"Don't let him take you. You made this. You created this. Take him. This is your world."

From his back came forth more vines this time creating a shield. As fast as lightning it wrapped around him and protecting him. The beast's wire teeth bounced and clashed off the shield. Another scream. Now he was not the only being rooted into this world. The beast's eyes rolled and he roared. Spears from the ground itself rammed itself through the beast. This time the voice was not the fox, not the beautiful tiny girl, but his own, "Between all my torments between death and self! Between my despair and my reason for living! There is injustice and this evil of men! That I cannot accept there is my anger!"

It was unlike the voice he posessed. The strands raised the beast high into the air. They were not merely strands but tendrils now. They wrapped around him as if it was a sea monster that attacked long forgotten sailors. He roared his own challenge at the screaming beast, "There are the blood-cloured fighters of Spain. There are the sky-coloured fighters of Greece. The bread, the blood, the sky and the right to hope. For all the innocents who hate evil!"

And it was torn apart like a doll and scattered across the wire ground. Its head still snapped and snarled as it was assimilated into the ground. The writer fell to his knees. From its corspe came more tendrils wrapping around themselves and growing into a canopy above him. From this came fruit. The fruit hung from their necks and were only infants. The infants grew into old men and rotted away on their veins. Their juice and flesh fell onto the sobbing writer.

Just as he felt that he had lost himself that he had lost everything he held dear to him he was saved. His savior came in the form of a chimney sweep. His top hat and dark suit blended into the wire world. A red scarf floated around him as he wound his massive gaunt body into a crouch. The black form swung effortlessly from the branches even as they grasped for him. He danced and weaved with such speed and agility it was as if he knew where they were going to be. And the trick was not being there. Finally his rag wrapped feet came at a rest in front of our writer.

From his mouth came a fire so immense that is engulfed the entire wire world. It was bathed in flame and crimson and slowly fell back from the abyss it came from. Even ashes burnt in this inferno. This was the flame that set Satan free, gave man power, and allowed him to challenge the heavens themselves.

And thus the nightmare ended.