Kit BashirThe pyrotechnicians began by erecting a small dais, about knee high, square, the length of one of those old petroleum groundcars. The monster they craned atop it was a thing of horror, six barrels with holes as big as a baby’s fist. Boxes and boxes of bottle-sized shells. This was on Elizabeth street, on the corner of a small park, I was half a block away on the upper balcony of a bar. From this vantage point the crowd at the celebration on the other side of the road occupied a quarter of the beast’s sight lines, the other three quarters being the park itself, dotted with children at play and couples reclining on blankets. Drones over the crowd amplified a message: THIS UNAUTHORIZED ASSEMBLY IS ORDERED TO DISPERSE. LETHAL RESPONSE WILL COMMENCE IN ONE MINUTE. Nobody really seemed to notice until the gun began firing. Spewing fire, it rotated inexorably on its platform. I averted my eyes as it sliced into the crowd. I could not look away as it continued to rotate a full revolution, cutting down children and lovers across the park. The operators moved to remain safely behind the field of fire until it returned, ammunition spent, to its starting point. Smoke and screams wafted on the breeze. I woke up, never more relieved to have a dream interrupted. But I am cursed to know that my dreams come true—unless I stop them. It’s going to be a busy year.