I fall in with some gangsters. I’m introduced to the gangster townhouse by the son. He tells me about a spaghetti sauce called LIAM I should avoid because one of the vegetables used in the sauce contains a psychologically detrimental chemical. The son is weak but ambitious. This is in contrast to the father, who is strong and in control. Other characters in the mob include a man would who looks like Orson Wells and is the father’s right hand man and a Marlyn Monroe figure who has been in 2 unknown films and whose only desire is to be in just one more film, one that makes it big. Another person who is friendly to me was a dancer instructor, a women in her late twenty’s or early thirties. Not much drama with her. She was more of a solid or wholesome character, standing for peace and sane living.
Son convinces his father’s accomplices to come over to his side without the father knowing. I get a call, it’s Father. He wants to know what’s up. I’m talking on a plastic pink phone from the 50s. Though I should need a cord for the connection, I need to walk outside to speak of these discrete matters. I find the phone works without a chord.
I believe in honesty. I believe in Father — that the father is responsible. I tell him that Orson and the other big guy have gone over to the son.
I go to the cramped kitchen where everyone is hanging out. Son is making spaghetti. What is he doing? He’s serving that LIAM sauce to everyone!?! I see the cans and the bowls of spaghetti. The son in in the corner near the stove.
The angry father steps into the kitchen with glaring eyes. He fires 2 shots into the son so directly, it’s as though they enter into dead flesh. I’m so very sad this happens. I wonder at my trust in Father. Perhaps I should not have told him.
Later I dream in reference to the mob: we all come from the same base — as in the same DNA — the differences are negligible.