Climax (cli’-max): Generally, the arrangement of words, phrases, or clauses in an order of increasing importance, often in parallel structure.
“1, 2, 3, reality.” I said this every morning, first thing when I woke up from dream world. As I returned to the boring terrain of everyday life, I lamented the fact that I was awake. Reality was always a disappointment.
I got up. I put on my robe. I put on my slippers. I put on the kettle. I tried to put on a smile. I couldn’t. I grimaced and the the tea leaked out the corners of my mouth. Just like every other day I choked, and choked, and choked and started drooling. I wanted to go back to sleep, to dream, and that’s just what I did.
I was soothed as I drifted off, hopefully for the rest of the morning. I could be late to work. Nobody noticed my presence or absence at Carl’s Automatic Knives. We made and sold switchblades from 1/4“ scratchers to 1’ long “Switch Swords” designed solely for stabbing and maiming fellow humans.
Carl had a scar across his forehead and down to his chin. He “won” it in a duel when he was in high school in Newark, New Jersey where everybody carried a knife and you weren’t considered “cool” unless you had a knife-cut scar somewhere on your body. There were two or three duels at lunchtime every day. Students and faculty would bet on outcomes, and a select group of students would act as bookies as special projects for their math classes. Carl received his scar from William “The Valkyrie” Watt school “Slashatorian.” Carl was no match for William and their duel was ended when William carved a “V” on Carl’s chest to complement what became Carl’s facial scar.
Anyway, I was falling asleep—back to dream world. I felt like Roy Orbison, but I wasn’t in a romantic stupor. I was a dragster driver. It was Sundaaay at Raceway Park! I was driving a dragster powered by a diesel train engine. I’d been clocked 300 mph crossing the finish line. I was here on this beautiful sunny day to break my own record. The dragster held a tank-load of jet fuel. I was shooting for 310 mph.
Jet fuel was dangerous. I could be killed if my train engine exploded from the jet fuel. My mechanic, One Hand Dave, assured me he made all the right adjustments. I was ready to go. My mechanic held a lit Benz-O-Magic torch over the engine’s specially adapted blower. I put the pedal to the metal when the light tree hit green. The was a deafening roar as I launched down the track. When I reached the end of the track, the engine blew, and I hit the ejection button and parachuted to safety.
I had hit 322 mph, better than I expected. I rode back to the starting line in the track’s convertible Chevy. I was swarmed by beautiful women.
I woke up a little disappointed that I didn’t have a “romantic interlude” in my dream, but I was feeling really good. I got up, got dressed, and got to work in time for lunch.
