Chapter Three- Sweet dreams (Are made of this)

Mitch was on that floor for, what felt like an eternity, but he finally managed to get up and drag his feet out of that horrible and dirty cell. All of this was making him sick. He needed some fresh air so he left the building entirely and just started walking.

"Sir!" He heard a young woman call and he stopped and groaned. When he turned he was met with a police woman who he was introduced to inside but he couldn't remember her name. "Sir DCI Hoying asked me to get you and take you back inside"

"Yeah great. Bye"

"Bye? Where are you going?"

"I don't know. In a straight line and maybe I'll get to a point where I can't imagine anymore streets or people and my brain just fails"

"Eh? Are you ok sir?"

"No. No. I'm seeing things and it's 1983 I wasn't even born yet, uhh..uhhh.."

"PC Robins"

"Yeah yeah PC Robin- wait hang on..how old are you?"

"Siiirr. You never ask a lady her age" Mitch frowned and looked her up and down trying to calculate an estimate of how old she could be. "Alright fine I'm 26. Better me telling you instead of you guessing and calling like 40 something"

She looked a lot like Carl. Oh god. What if shes Carls mom? If she's 26 in 1983 and Carl was 34 in 2021. That means shes going to conceive Carl in four years when shes 30.

"Youre going to have a son"

"Pardon? I'm not even going to have a dog just yet"

"You'll have him in 4 years and he'll grow up and he'll shoot me"

"What?"

"I was trying to help him but I can't really explain that to you because mental illness isnt really cared about in 1983"

"Are you saying my future baby's going to be a nut case and he'll shoot you?"

"That is..somewhat similar to what I said" He saw her pause to calculate what on earth he was talking about.

"Are you on drugs sir?" Mitch chuckled

"Maybe. Maybe I'm on some weird anaesthetics. Maybe my bodys chemicals are just fucked up, who knows?" Mitch gestured aggressively towards the end of that sentence. While PC Robin's just stood there watching in slight shock.

"Well.. So you're not coming then?"

"Oh no. No."

"He'll get mad you know"

"Boohoo. Bye PC Robins" Mitch saw her visibly become annoyed

"Oh call me Trish you weirdo"

"Bye Trish"

"Good luck. Whatever you're doing"

Mitch walked in one direction the whole time. Not even caring about the strange looks he got from people when had to test if walls were solid or is cars were actually there. Mitch could tell that he had been out a while. No more than an hour, but he didn't even care. This place isn't real why would time matter? He hated this. He hated this so much. He had to have been in a dream. Carl shot him so maybe he's dead. Maybe this is his own personal hell.

Abruptly, Mitchs ears began to ring. He tried rubbing them in some poor attempt to stop the ringing but ,of course, it didn't work. Then Mitch heard static instead of the ringing.

"Mitch? Mitch can you hear me?" Mitch spun in a panic trying to locate the source of whatever was calling him. He heard more static and turned his attention to a radio that had been left outside for some builders to listen to while they worked. He went towards the radio. "Mitch stay with us. You're in an ambulance right now and you've been shot. We stabilised you enough for you to stay alive but we're taking you to a hospital now"

"Yes! Take me to hospital!"

"Mitchell? Mitchell Grassi can you hear me?"

"Yes! I can hear you! Get me out of here!"

The radio stopped its static and Mitch heard the radio playing the song Down under? By men at work? Oh of course that song came out this year that's why. Mitch looked up to see he was being stared at by multiple builders and in any other situation he'd welcome that. He paused to think about what to say.

"Great song" was what he came up with but the builders just stared back at him in silence. He sighed and continued walking. So that means he isn't dead. Which also means he has a chance of leaving this fucking place. YES.

What took him out of his joy was that he had subconsciously made his way home. Or where his house should be. Dirt. It's just all dirt infront of him and all dirt for a few miles. It made him slightly sad. This was his home and he had so much history with this place and it's just not even here and he has no fucking clue when it was built so who knows how long he'll be waiting. However he was yanked out of his melancholy moment by a screeching of tires. He turned and saw this grey, ugly, boxy sports car and he watched as it Tokyo drifted to stop about a few feet away from him. Imagine nearly dying twice in the same day in two different realities.

The boss emerged from the car and made his way over to Mitch while lighting a cigarette. Mitch looked at his outfit. It was a plaid suit. Black and grey. His shoes looked ridiculous, they were boots with bits of medal designs on them. He looked like some cowboy auctioneer. "Oh my God is that Billy Ray Cyrus?" The boss gave Mitch a puzzled look

"Who?" Oh for fucks sake.

"No one" the boss made his way over to Mitch and stood next to him. Looking in the general direction Mitch was.

"What are we looking at?"

"My home"

"..well as far as I know your name is DI Mitch Grassi not Auberon fucking Mole" he flicked his cigarette ash on the groud "so come on" Mitch frowned.

"Auberon mole?"

"Little rat thing" Mitch rolled his eyes

"No I know what a mole is I mean- oh it doesnt even matter what do you want?"

"Well unless you want to sleep on a bunch of rocks and dirt and filth then I suppose the apartment I've arranged for you can just gather dust"

"I dont want to go anywhere with you"

"Awe well" the boss smoked as much as his cigarette as he could before dropping it on the floor and stepping on it. He lifted Mitch onto his shoulder with ease as Mitch tried to escape his grasp. He was carried over to the bosses car and thrown in the boot of the car. Mitch grunted and the boss slammed the hood shut and locked it. All Mitch could do was kick the shit out of whatever was infront of him.