I woke up defusing.
   Below me, a partially disassembled nuclear bomb. The clean LED counter
read :18...:17...:16...
   From the observation lounge, Major Carstairs and General Fleming,
along with my best girl Rhonda, and a 6 year-old autistic boy, gazed at
me with imploring puppydog eyes. In vain I looked for the cameras and
director.
   In vain.

I woke up screwing.
   Below me, my ex-girlfriend, hair plastered to her neck, chin thrown
back and teeth bared, in orgasm. I was also coming, I discovered. The
shock of waking up ejaculating was surprising, but not in the least bit
negative. It wasn't, after all, the first time.
   We subsided. I saw the teethmarks on her ear. I'd forgotten how much
she enjoyed it when I did that. The question was...was I stuck here? How
much life would I have to live over? How many years?
   Still hard, I kissed her. We started up again. The question was moot.

I woke up screening.
   A hectic fan of light filtered through a cloud of blue cigar smoke
hanging in the dark air above the plush seats. On the screen a black
number in a gray circle gave way to black and white dailies. To my right,
corpulent powerbroker Sid Feingold...to my left, sexy starlet Julie
Tyndall. Each looked at me as I looked at them in turn -- Sid with a
"we're gonna be rich, kid" wink and Julie with an "oh, the things you'll
give me" smile.

I woke up reaming.
   I jumped back from the terrible noise and clangory clamor. The bright
smell of oil and knurling metal. From across the noisy shop, Manuel and
Lujos gazed dully at me through their protective eyewear. Lujos grinned,
all gold-toothed.