I was out with owenthomas, his partner Greg, and prettypammie. We were with a group of people who were clearly all friends or at least acquaintances. We went to an ornate old theater in a downtown district that was both lightly attended and staffed. The proprietors, a middle-aged asian man and his wife [who bore a striking resemblance to the couple who run the dry cleaner we use], were a little disturbed by our rowdy, somewhat non-mainstream group. We had rented an entire theater; I cannot now remember the movie we were watching. We were really whooping it up. Finally the movie ended, and there was some confusion about which exit to use. The four of us ended up separated from the rest of the group and out on a city street. We decided it was time to go home, but for some reason the other three had different plans about how to go. They hatched a plot to buy Entertainment books from the store across the street, thereby establishing us as bona fide shoppers, eligible to ride a bus called the Shopper Shuttle (or something like that) home. I thought this was ridiculous, as there were many cabs going dowt the street. As I started to hail a cab, a seemingly affable fellow laid an arm on my elbow and started talking to me. Something twigged me to all not being right though, and I started trying to find a way to disengage. At this point, I noticed a bright, huge orange and yellow sign--the colors and background alternating from one word to the next--painted across the building across the street which said something about boycotting taxis and limousines. I felt vaguely guilty about breaking a boycott, but had bigger problems on my hands--or arm, rather. Shaking my way loose, I realized that the man had or had been in my wallet. I patted my pocket, finding my wallet still there, but turned and confronted him, and after some vehement denials, and some equally vehement and increasingly angry accusations, he finally produced a ten, five, and one dollar bill (and some change) and said, fine, here's your money. I recovered the money, and had my wallet out. I stomped angrily away from the store, across the street, while I was putting the money back in. Two angry young men bearing large, serrated knives started following me, shouting things like "you didn't give our man money." (Which I remember thinking was ridiculous, and how if he'd asked for help I'd have probably offered it--hell, if he'd just held me up, I would have handed the wallet over...but for some reason, having my pocket picked under cover of friendly conversation pushed a button and made me fight back). This was one of those sideline internal monologues that makes me think around this point, I was actually waking up...in fact, I may have been increasingly waking up through the course of this whole dream. In any event, somewhere around there, I rememebered that I had my sidearm in a concealed holster. In fact, I was carrying my grandfather's 1911 (a .45 caliber behemoth, for those not in the know) in an inside-the-waistband holster. (Those who know guns will know that this is impractical, nigh impossible, and would hardly be "concealed" in this configuration even if anyone was silly enough to try). Of course, this was a dream, so in my case, I smoothly drew, disengaged the safety, and double-tapped them both.
Then I woke up.