Chauncey, Moe, his girlfriend, and I were in the back of Chauncey's pickup truck. We were all clearly drunk. Chauncey was flirting with me, and I was flirting back.

Moe's girlfriend said something to Chauncey, something that I didn't like, I guess.

I yelled at her. I chugged down my umpteenth beer or the night and chucked the empty bottle at her.

She tackled me, and I punched that bitch in the face. Somebody, Larry, maybe, started up the truck and we went driving down the street to Moe's house.

Me and Bitchface were still fighting in the back of the truck. Chauncey was trying to break up the fight and Moe, that prick, wasn't doing anything.

And then I kicked Moe's girlfriend off of me. Larry was driving really fast and drunkenly, and Moe's girlfriend... she flew out of the back of the truck, hitting the street.

Moe punched me in the face, yelling something. We got in a fight.

And then...

The telephone pole...

And... and the... the fire...

I woke up in a cold sweat. There was that dream again. I'd been having variations of it again and again for the past few weeks. Me getting in a fight with some chick, accidentally killing her; driver crashes into telephone pole; we all die in a firey car crash. I got up from my bed and floated over to the kitchen-ish area. I needed some water. It was difficult to do with only one arm, but I managed.

I thought suddenly occurred to me: I don't even know how I lost my left arm. I also don't remember how I got this scar on the side of my face. I'd been like this for as long as I remembered (which wasn't too long) and I'd never questioned it.

I shrugged my shoulders and drank my water. I didn't want to go back to bed, so I went outside for an evening stroll (though in reality it was midnight or something). I needed to clear my mind. And I needed to think.

Why was I having this dream? I thought to myself. Could it have to do with...

I felt my eyes tearing up. Don't cry, you baby. It's probably not... that.

No, couldn't be. I'll just ask somebody about my dreams. Yeah.

Sleeping on a park bench was none other than Rigby. He's not exactly my favorite person in the world, but still. Could be worth a try, right?

"Hey Rigby, wake up!" I whisper-yelled.

"Fives? It's 2 in the AM PM," Rigby said, subconsciously being redundant. "What do you want?"

"I... Why are you sleeping on a bench?" I asked.

"Mordecai kicked me out." said the shorter male.

"Okay... Well, d'you think you can help me with something?" I asked.

"Dude, are you finally coming out of the closet?" asked Rigby.

"What, no!" I blushed a little bit, though I don't think he noticed. "I'm not... no! Rigby, this is serious!"

"OK, OK, fine. You can tell the Rigmaster anything." he said, sitting up.

"Well, I've been having this dream over and over, for the past week or so. Me and a bunch of my friends... well... we kinda all die in a car crash." I said, my voice getting kinda quiet near the end. Death is a sensitive subject for me. "And, I wanna know if this has anything to do with..."

"Oh, I get it. I think. You'll have to bother Skips about this one, bro. I'm not really sure how the whole 'being a ghost' thing works." Rigby said. "Oh, and nice pajamas!" Rigby snickered and laid back down on the park bench.

Hm. Thanks a lot Rigby. I floated towards Skips' house. The buff groundskeeper seemed to be awake, as there were lights on in his house. I looked through his window. He was reading.

I floated through a wall. "Skips! I need your help with something!"

"I'd appreciate if you knocked before entering." said Skips, not looking up from his book.

"Oh, sorry about that. Well, what do you know about reccurring dreams?"