2 Chapter 2: Ad Aware, Part 2

Richard had read once that everyone dreamt three times a night, they just usually did not remember them. Before the accident, he had rarely recalled his dreams. Now he remembered them all in vivid detail.

In his nightmares, an army of reeking sows chased him in the rain, all wanting to have their way with him. He tried to run, but he was too obese, and his shoes just slid in the mud. After a few nights of being amorously pursued by livestock, he bought himself a Tummy Trainer Treadmill, a Sure Stepper, and a decade's supply of Proti-Yum vitamins.

As Richard's physique improved, his nightly horror show worsened. In them, he walked down streets of shining gold, packed with beautiful pedestrians. He, however, was dressed like a derelict. Urine-soaked rags clung to his body. Some nights he was a clown. On the most embarrassing nights he wore nothing at all. The passersby kicked and beat him to the gutter. They all wore Bum-Squeeze Jeans and crew shirts with little goldfish embroidered on them. Somehow, he knew that they would accept him, would care for him, would make passionate love to him, if only he fit in. After two nights, Richard took the hint, and bought himself a designer wardrobe.

Every few weeks, he returned to the Wellness Clinic. Every time, Doctor Hank readjusted his ticker. But no matter what the good W.E. prescribed, the nightmares kept getting worse. Six months to the day of his resurrection, a haggard, trembling Richard Bringham stumbled into the clinic. Doctor Hank pursed his lips as he examined his favorite patient. "What's wrong with you?" he asked. "The last time you were here, we discussed your dreams of a ninety-six inch VirtuViewer. Didn't you buy it? Isn't it keeping you happy?"

"No," Richard said. "No, it isn't." He glared at his Wellness Extraspecialist. "You said to listen to my dreams. The dreams said I needed the VirtuViewer to escape."

Doctor Hank frowned, scratching his chin. "And it's not working?"

"It is, that's the problem," Richard said. "I never wanted to escape before. I never spent my free time watching virts. Now that's all I want to do. What's the point of living if all I want to do is escape?"

"Now, now, now," said Doctor Hank. He gave Richard a fatherly pat on his shoulder. "You've been through a very traumatic experience. It's only natural that your inner voices conflict with each other. Listen to your dreams, for they are the music of your soul."

Richard looked at him with pleading, bloodshot eyes. "Can't you give me something to stop the dreams?" he asked.

"Stop the dreams?" Doctor Hank whispered, his eyes wide. "What are you, insane?" He spun to the wall console, and stabbed at it. "You need the dreams, they are your salvation."

A lightning storm erupted inside of Richard's chest. "Please," he gasped, "can't you just prescribe some sort of sedative?"

"I am prescribing," said Doctor Hank, his face puffy and red. "I am prescribing that you listen to you." He punctuated every syllable with a jab at the touchpad. "You just get a good night's rest, and remember to listen."

The nightly insanity rose to a crescendo.

Richard dreamt of Port Mort Kolas, Follicle Friends, Bum-Squeezes, and VirtuViewers. An army of brand name logos chased him through a maze of streets. When they caught him, they tore off his no-frills cotton t-shirt, and branded his flesh with a red-hot iron that spelled TRAITOR. "Listen," the logos commanded, drowning out his screams. "Listen!"

He consulted nine different Wellness Extraspecialists. After checking his history, all of them told him to stop whining, and just follow his dreams. None would prescribe anything to stop them. After a month of condescension from reputable W.E.s, Richard decided to seek out a disreputable one.

Of course, taking prescriptions from such a person was illegal. Suffering nightmares alone in his bedroom was one thing, suffering them alongside a cellmate was another. But in the end, it only took a few phone calls and a painful amount of money.

The trail of shady contacts led Richard to an alley that stank of human refuse. He staggered down it, occasionally avoiding bundles of soiled blankets that moved. He shook, certain that she would not show, that he had been set up, that it was all a joke. Just as he was ready to turn and run, a rusty steel door screeched open, and his promised savior lurched forth.

She was sixtyish. Tics randomly cracked her leathery face. She held out a nicotine-stained claw as Richard approached. He hesitated, then dropped a cashier's chit into it. She examined the chit in the amber glow of the streetlights, and shrugged. She reached into her tattered white coat, pulled out a small plastic bottle, and smacked it into Richard's hand. He stared at it, praying he had not just paid a thousand credits for sugar pills, or worse. "Are you sure this is right?" he asked. "I just want to... I need to get some rest." But when he looked up, she was gone.

Richard clutched the bottle to his chest, not daring to release it until he was home. He gulped two of the tranquilizers down dry and curled up on his bed, not bothering to take off his clothes. The pills were not bitter, nor were they sweet. He did not feel dizzy, or nauseous. My God, he thought, they're the real deal. Tears of relief ran down his cheeks as he sank into darkness, a darkness that was a dreamless bliss.

The funeral, paid for by Americana, was held at an Eternal Rest Crematorium. Doctor Hank stood in the back of the tiny congregation, swaying back and forth to the organ's dirge. He felt obligated to be present. His prize patient had suffered total heart failure. Obviously, there were some problems with the beta-three model. Perhaps they would have better luck with the beta-four.

A tear ran down the Wellness Extraspecialist's cheek as the pearl-encrusted gates of the furnace parted, and Richard's coffin slid inside. He consoled himself that it was not his fault, that his patient should have known better. After all, what kind of fool expected adware to work if he blocked the advertisements?