It happened here in a stylized version of this town that I visit often while sleeping. This time it was overcrowded, probably for the fair.

Apparently I spoke too sharply to a small rich Asian boychild who only wanted to talk my ear off and be friends or something.

His father dragged in a reporter for the local paper. But all I had to say was No Story and they all went away. I was shocked by how easy it was.

Later after the danger had passed I went back to make things right on my own.

It turned out that the mechanism for doing that was making sure he got the toy he wanted.

It was a bag, of bright colors, which said on it in big letters: Basura.

Which means Trash.

We all lived happily ever after, and when I woke up it was somewhat unexpectedly raining.

More coffee.