I was a high-schooler. Again, or still, a high-schooler, I could not say. I can say that this was not a dream of memory; the school that I was standing before was not the one I had gone to in "real life" as a youngster. It was at least two stories tall, squat and grey, possibly three or four stories if one considered the fact of a sloping driveway that led to an entrance below street level.

It was the first day the school year. That I could tell; I was being dropped off by my father, who in this case was Vince McMahon, powder blue suit and all. As I left the late-model black Lincoln Continental that dad had driven us in, two things became apparent: I was a music student, as I was carrying the Coffin Case that I use in the waking world, and that the body I was using wasn't the one that I usually wear. Nor was it the one, as may be expected, that is worn by Shane McMahon. It was in fact the one that belongs to Nick Simmons, the son of Gene Simmons.

Vince took hold of the amp head that I apparently was bringing with me (as my own hands were full--case in one hand, bag in the other), and preceeded me with his characteristic swagger towards the school. My actual age didn't seem to have dawned on the wrestling patriarch, as he began loudly bellowing the "T-I-O-N" song from The Electric Company in what seemed to be a gentle reminder of the sort of thing I was to remain aware of during my education that day. Rather than being embarassed as any right-minded high schooler would be (considering the crowd of students that bustles about the outside of a school first thing in the morning on the first day), I was actually rather touched, and could only chuckle in appreciation.

We made our way down the aforementioned driveway, through the open half of the gate of a chain-link fence that towered a full story above us. At this point, the school, which was a bit upscale and pristine on the side facing the road, became more stereotypically urban, the sort of thing you'd see in a 1970s TV show.

We turned back towards the road, to take the metal stairs that led into the building, and mingled with the throng of new students bustling about with a purpose. We were to sign in, and set up classes and whatnot, and almost immediately Vince and I became separated. This was more irritating than perturbing, however, and in spite of never having been in this school before, I determined to simply keep moving forward until I saw an administrative office that I recognised as such.

I walked on, case still in hand, for the length of one corridor--the tile walls matching the worn linoleum matching the middling flourescent light: all a sort of dingy yellow--until I spotted to the right an open doorway that I thought was a nurse's office, in spite of only being able to see a bit of mod wooden office furniture from the angle at which I was approaching.

I was inexplicably convinced that Vince was within--I may or may not have heard his voice--and was debating entering the room, or simply pressing on, when I

woke up.