Blocking the door, stood a large man.  His stature was so huge that only tiny slivers of outside light could slip into the hut.  When he shuffled forward, I noticed that he wore a long trenchcoat which rippled against his sides like eel's flanks.  He made his way to a carved table, one that seemed to have materialized, and set down a sack.  Looking over his shoulder at me, he grinned.  "Everyone should be here soon.  Punctuality was never our strong suit."  He returned to his task of emptying the bag, but not before I caught a glimpse of his teeth.  They looked so rancid, I could almost smell them. 
        "Who?" I said.  "I'm sorry I barged in on your home.  I live nearby.  My parents, they live nearby.  I'm their daughter.  I didn't mean to barge in on your home.  I'm not supposed to be here.  I was just out for a walk."
      The man said nothing, only continued with his task.  I watched as odd tools emerged one by one--a hammer, a handsaw, a length of rope, a candlestick, a golf club, a tourniquet. 
     "What are those for?" I asked.  He looked at me and grinned again.  This time I could see all the way back into his mouth where a gold cap twinkled like a chalice tucked away in a hidden chamber.  He picked up the instruments and hung each of them on a separate peg along the wall by the door. 
       "First rate, aren't they?  Don't get too attached to one."  He was talking to me now.  "You'll have last pick."
        At that moment, noises of footsteps drifted in from outside.  Within the lifespan of a breath, the sounds were followed by their sources, and in walked a haggard crowd of cloaked figures.  They were chatting but softly.  As they filed past the display of hanging weapons, each plucked one of his/her choosing and carried it to a seat at the table.
         "All right," shouted the man who had appeared first.  He banged the butt of a machete on the tabletop.  "Order.  Order.  Committee Of The Unemployed, hear me.  We are in session.  Do not speak until you have spilled your own blood.  Ah yes, Thompson."  Everyone turned to look at Thompson who was raising his right hand.  His palm oozed a tail of blood which wriggled as it stretched down his wrist.  He held a knife in his left hand, and his teeth were clenched. 
          "What's the blonde doing here?" he asked, pointing a bloody finger in my direction.  All eyes turned on me.

          I woke up then and looked down at my legs.  They weren't bound or chained.  I ran all the way home and made it back for dinner.