He has this recurring dream. He’s falling into a gaping hole that slowly turns and smoothes into a capsule of steel walls. He flails for purchase, but nothing. Everything is too slick. Even the air. He begins to brace himself for inevitable impact. A floor appears, broken and dismembered toys strewn about - reminds him of his childhood living room.

An old barbie doll, the one he’d sullied with a permanent marker much to his sister’s whiny chagrin, stares up at him with empty, beady little eyes as he sails through time. She’s going to exact her revenge, he knows it. She’s been waiting a long, long time for this. The highlighter stained straw that is her hair glows in stark contrast against the gnarly beige carpet.

How will she do it?

As far as he knows, dolls don’t typically come armed. Unless, of course, she managed to manipulate one of his GI Joes. Seduced a choice specimen with her alternative look - inky permanent marker tattoos, fluorescent pink hair and all. She gave Joe the time of his plastic life, rode him like a cowgirl, didn’t stay the night. As she slipped away into the depths of the toy chest, she took with her his sniper rifle. She’d plotted it all along. Her reaction to this very moment.

And now, here she is, opportunity hurtling towards her. Vengeance by subconscious surreality. The pointy tip of the rifle will surely take his eye out.

Closer and closer. Her eyes narrow. There’s a glint of something there. But as quickly as it appears, it vanishes.

She aims.

And he can’t help but wonder, can imaginary guns shoot real bullets?