Cops And Robert's | Being Chased Dream Interpretations

By zappythek Cops And Robert's (Being Chased Dream) cops AND ROBERT'S May 11, 2008 COPS #1 I arrive at a secure government facility at the NW corner of an intersection in the NE part of town. The single story facility is fenced and patrolled, including the parking lot. I have come here to visit my friend. As soon as I pass through the gate into the parking lot, the security team is watching me closely. Near the front door to the building is the main security guy. He looks the part in the sense that he is a big tall white man, about 45, with no sense of humor. Perhaps because he's the boss, he doesn't wear the white shirt and gun that the other security guys wear. Instead he has casual dress pants and a dark, patterned, button-down shirt. As I pass him on the way to a parking space, he doesn't just look serious, he looks angry. One of the regular security guys (white shirt, gun, balding, fat and not tall) points directly at me and stares at me. Somehow I know this means he wants me to park, which I do. At this point I notice I am driving my teenhood car. I park and suddenly the whole security team descends on me. I'm still relaxed, though, because I have a reason to be here and I assume all will be well once they know that. As the parking lot guards escort me towards the entrance, we are met partway there by the main security guy, who immediately starts grilling me: "You're the one who crashed all those computers when you were sixteen and you killed my monkey!" I calmly responded that he is right insofar as I am the guy he thinks I am, but I never knew anything about any monkey. I tell the man that my understanding of the consequences of my hack is that a single machine had to be restored from backup and a few files were lost. The security man doesn't soften at all as we go inside the facility. [As I tell the man that I'm the guy he thinks I am, but I didn't do anything all that bad, I have a very specific mental image, which returns forcefully every time I get to this point in telling the story in the dream. A light purple plastic pipe, oriented vertically and about 4 feet tall and 3/4" in diameter, has loosely wound helical grooves in it (1 turn per inch or less), into which some kind of plastic helix is seated, with plastic beads strung onto it, like a helical necklace. The shape suggests that the assembly was designed to twist, using the plastic beads as bearings.] "Don't you think we know who you are and what you did?" the main security man asked. "You killed my monkey!" Somehow I know that he had carelessly reenacted the scenario from the famous Mabel the Monkey story, wherein a monkey was on life support, controlled by an ordinary computer, not suitable for life-critical applications. There was no way I was going to preach to this big angry tough man about how dumb he was to have done that, though. I just insisted that I had never heard anything about a monkey, and I don't see how they could hold me accountable for such an unlikely consequence of an act that is now ancient history. The security man then ups the ante, gesturing to one of his companions who looks more like a detective/researcher than a security guard. The detective guy flips pages over his large (8.5x11) notepad, then says, "You've done a lot more than that. We know all kinds of things about you." Now I'm worried. What plans do these goons have for me? There's nothing left to do but ask, a little more meekly this time. "I see here you typed Control-C and deleted a whole bunch of files, disabling an important public computer system." "Are you kidding me?" I am even more incredulous. "That happened when I was fourteen years old!" "Yes, but the consequences of your actions have been far reaching and terrible. Come with me, please, and I'll show you." I don't feel I have a choice. The security team escorts me through some double doors into a brightly-lit room that resembles a 1980s computer machine room. Just inside and to the right is a severely handicapped man of about 50 with a weathered face, bound to a contraption that is sort of a cross between a wheelchair and a hospital bed. The man appears to be spastic, having only very minimal control of his limbs; even his head tilts unnaturally. He doesn't seem to be able to speak. As the crippled man and I make eye contact, a wave of recognition passes over both of us. I know him as the slimy operator of the big computer system I learned on in high school, who later got busted as a dope dealer. He knows me as the only kid he recognized from a small group of vandals he saw escaping on the last day of school. He had been tall and attractive, arrogant and a flashy dresser. Now he looks thin and frail, a faint shadow of his former self. The main security man says this man became a broken man, turning to drugs and subsequently becoming an invalid, all as a direct result of that one stupid stunt. I protest that we all saw him making frequent system backups. Lost files should have cost him an evening and a bruised ego, nothing more, and besides, he was already involved with illegal drugs. Still believing that my captors will ultimately be receptive to truth, I recount the entire story to the group, being careful not to name my co-conspirators. As I tell the story, vivid images coalesce in my mind, as a flashback. The images conform to the real story right up until it's time to get into the getaway car. Instead of the car pulling up on the south side of the building as in the real story, it pulls up much closer by, to the north, and the scene looks murky and "alternate". At some point the car pulls into the circular drive in front of a small school, probably an elementary school. It's dusk (also not historically accurate), the school is dark and desolate, and I tell the driver to stop -- that's perfect -- let us out here. The flashback ends and I'm back in the machine room. The crippled man has an expression of extreme urgency on his face, he stares directly into my eyes and his whole body starts to shake. The head security guy says the crippled man wants to tell me his story. I size up the situation: even though it looks as though he'd like to come at me, he's so disabled that I'm not sure it's really possible. Still, a look of fear must have crossed my face, because the security man says, "It's okay, we've got you." The crippled man shakes violently, but I discern an intelligent look of determination in his eyes, and with extreme difficulty he starts to raise himself slightly from the bed/chair. What happens next is subtle and swift -- the next few sentences describe events that take less time than it takes to read one word of this story. I feel a slight tightening of the grips the security guards have on my upper arms. It could have made me feel safer from the crippled man, but at the same time, my awareness has shifted. These guards aren't on my side, and the crippled man could be faking. I prepare for flight. Then I notice that the crippled man's trembling hand is holding a hose with a blue fitting on the end, and I can tell instantly from the look in his eyes that he intends to attach it to me. Because I have been paying attention, I am able to flee before the guards are ready. I'm not sure of the details but I know I escape successfully (perhaps without the car). COPS #2 I am driving a dirty old white station wagon when I get pulled over by a cop. The cop is white, average height, with very short light brown hair and maybe a little baldness. The cop asks if I have a gun and I say yes, a 45 auto, but it isn't loaded. The cop says that's fine, but he wants to make sure I don't have any ammo in the car, because having a gun *and* ammo in the car would be against the law. He wants me to move some things in the back so he can see what's there, and verify that there is no ammo. As I crawl to the back of the station wagon, I spot a stray live 22 round. I wasn't intentionally carrying it -- it must have just fallen out of something at some time in the past. I'm not sure whether it would be a violation or not, since that ammo doesn't fit the gun that I have, but I'd rather not put it to the test. As I am moving objects in the back to fulfill the cop's request, I sneak the 22 round under something with my knee. I don't think he noticed. Then the cop and I both notice a couple of plastic bags with boxes of ammo in them, and we both realize at the same time that I'm pretty much busted. The cop then assumes a curious demeanor. He seems to be helping me but it's hard to tell because his advice is so cryptic. He says something like, "Okay, I'm going to bring you downtown and ask you a few questions there. Now I *think* there's ammo in those boxes but I haven't actually seen them and I'm not going to ask you to show them to me. If I don't find out one way or the other, then your best bet is to just keep quiet and not admit to anything. But if you think I *know* there's ammo in there..." My mind clouds as his seemingly helpful advice gets more and more complicated. The scene changes and we are now in a hallway at the police station. The cop is asking me questions and I have a sense that things are going along fairly well, though I can't be sure of anything. Then suddenly the main security guy from the government facility comes by, looking angry as ever, and he says something to the cop, whose face immediately sours. From this exchange, I know that I am now doomed. Any hope of getting a break from the cop evaporates. ROBERT'S I am standing in a big front yard to the east of a large two story house at the north end of a dirt road in the NE part of town. It's getting dark, but I can see there are no other houses visible on this street. A big, burly and fearsome man with an exposed chest comes up to me from the south and starts to attack. I am frightened but I do my best to defend myself, and my defense is surprisingly effective. I am able to stab the man in the belly with my knife a few times. The man then brandishes a rectangular blade with no handle -- just a thin and shiny piece of metal, 12 inches by 1.25 inch, sharpened on one of the long edges. He comes at me with it directly, trying to cut into me. Somehow I am able to deflect his attack and in the process the thin blade is bent sharply, forming about a 30 degree angle roughly 3 inches from one of the ends. The blade is now shaped like a check mark. The man then says, "You just made things worse. Now I'm going to put my mark on you." Our further struggles lead to the angled end of the blade being pressed into the man's chest, making a bloody mark over his heart. The mark is shaped like a letter V over the man's heart, with the apex pointing at the man's left breast. At this point two things change: my opponent morphs into a scrawny teenager with a bad attitude, and I have a companion: Robert, who lives in the nearby house, is now standing to the north of me. Robert is a teenager, only a little taller than I am, hispanic with dark, moderately short curly hair, and a medium to heavy build. He has a very relaxed disposition, even in the face of this violent conflict. With a smile and almost a shrug, Robert says I should try throwing my opponent, "like this." With that, he incites the loser to charge, at which point he calmly flips the angry boy over his knee and onto the ground. The loser gets up and comes at me once more, and I'm nowhere near as adept as Robert, but I am able to fend him off without too much effort. Robert thinks I am being way too kind to the loser. A station wagon arrives and two attendants grab the loser and place him in the back of the vehicle. As the station wagon begins to drive off, down the dirt road to the south, the loser breaks the glass in the back window, just so he can yell at me some more and call me a d**k. Robert, a bit put off but mostly amused, asks me if I'm going to take that crap from him. I say it's okay, he's harmless at this point, so why worry about it? Robert smiles, shrugs, and walks toward the house. I begin to follow Robert, but then I notice that I have tiny pine cones stuck all over me, like the ones from my mom's house, left over from the fight. As I pick the pine cones off, Robert goes inside the house without me. It takes me a minute or two to finish picking off the cones, and once I'm finished, I have an impressive handful of them cupped in my left hand. I hesitate at the big double front door because I don't live in the house, but then I reassure myself that it would have been okay to follow Robert -- it's only been a couple of minutes. I let myself in. Inside is a foyer, with a hallway and stairs to the right, and a front living area to the left and a kitchen further back to the left. Somehow I have knowledge that many children live in rooms to the right, both upstairs and downstairs, but Robert is the only one who lives with his own mom and dad. The others are orphans or adoptees. A maid happens by just as I am entering, and she eyes me suspiciously. I say casually that I'm with Robert, and she immediately relaxes, saying he's in his room. I hesitate, admitting that I don't know where Robert's room is, and again the maid is suspicious. Luckily Robert wanders over right then and everything is fine. I follow him into the Kitchen. Robert immediately busies himself making a sandwich or something, but he is still paying attention to me as I stand in the kitchen behind him. Further back in the house and to the left, I can see Robert's father on a chair or couch in a den area. He is watching TV or something and I never see him well enough to describe him. Robert's mom had been in the den as well, but she comes over briefly to say hi. She is a heavyset hispanic lady, about 50 or 55, a little shorter than I am, with longish curly dark hair. I look down and notice she has paper-thin flat thong sandals and clear toenail polish. Quickly I look up, thinking that I wasn't supposed to look at her feet. It's not as though anyone noticed or cared that I looked, it's just that I felt I wasn't supposed to look and stopped myself. I look around the kitchen for a while, trying to find a trash can for my handful of pine cones, but I'm having no luck. Finally Robert takes notice that I've been agitatedly bumping around the kitchen, and asks what I need. I ask where the trash is, and in his usual easygoing way he says it's in the cabinet, and motions lazily to show me which one. I open the cabinet and discard my pine cones. Experience Project » Dream Meanings » Being Chased Dreams » Cops And Robert's Dream Symbols from our Dream Dictionary: being chased | button down | casual dress | consequences | cops | dress pants | eve | government facility | hack | intersection Dream Dictionary Type: being chased dream Dream Posted on: 05/15/08 Dream Interpretations: No dream interpretations yet. Dream Rating: 4.00 Reaction to this Dream: confused Interpret this Being Chased Dream Dream Rating: 4.00 (Join to rate)   Reader Reactions: overwhelmedentertainedhappyinspiredsad sympatheticsurprisedangryconfused (1)worried   Dream Interpretations: There are no interpretations on this dream yet, be the first to write one. Please remember that all dream interpretations and dream meanings are for entertainment purposes only-- in other words, the dream meanings are just for fun. Of course, you should not substitute dream meanings provided here by members of the community for any professional help-- such as legal or medical, as this is purely the opinions of users who are volunteering their time and personal thoughts.   Interpret this Dream: (Optional) You must be logged in to share dream meanings. Signup is fast and free, so join us today!   You must be logged in to rate or comment on dreams.

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