Dear Person Who Rewrites Nightmares,
OK, so. I’m walking through some huge and unknown warehouse/factory-type place. Rickety metal walkways, dripping pipes, thrumming unseen machinery. The place is badly lit with flickery overheads and there’s an awful, gut-clenchingly, ominous atmosphere. Somehow I know that I’m here to encounter or experience some concept called ‘the final face’ and that this is inevitable and unavoidable. I’m suffused with stress and fear. I inch along until finally I think, despite the sense of inevitability, I’m going to escape without incident.
Wrong. Suddenly a figure drops onto me from one of the overhead walkways. I’m pinned to the ground by strong, wiry arms. The guy shoves his face right up against mine, he’s completely bald and wide-eyed and every sinew in his head and neck shows as he screams into my face, with manic intensity : ‘THE FINAL FACE, MAN! THE FINAL FACE!’
I awake traumatised and even today, some twenty years later, I still feel tense and corrupt even thinking about it.
You woke up too soon! Here’s what happened next: For a moment, you were taken aback at his bizarre energy, but then you came to your senses: you’d been chasing this psychopath for too long to let him get the best of you now. You kneed him in the groin, and the sudden pain caused him to release one of your arms. “Here’s your final,” you snarled. “Right in the face!” You let fly with a massive punch, every bit of adrenaline, every bit of stress and worry that had built up over this weeks-long manhunt, traveling through your fist into his nose. He flew backwards, landing on the ground, stunned for a moment. He quickly rallied and tried to get up but it was too late, you were on him, flipping him over, a knee in his back, banging his head onto the floor until he lay still. You jerked his arms around and cuffed him, then spoke into the communicator on your wrist. ‘It’s over, Mac,” you growled. “This guy won’t be terrorizing the East End any more. Now get me some light in this damn place.”
Instantly, the helicopters hovering silently outside turned on their spotlights and light streamed through the windows. The warehouse wasn’t scary anymore, just rundown and decrepit. A sick hide-out for a sick man.
Mac’s voice came rumbling through the communicator. “We’ll be right there. Good work, Agent. I knew you were the one for the job.”
You smiled wryly, shoving your knee just a bit harder into the creep’s back. “You weren’t wrong. Let’s hand this jerk over to the police and go see about that drink.”