I forget all about ‘Badgerman’ until the next evening when I am out eating dinner with colleagues. I stop mid-forkful, mid-conversation, and outline the plot, and this telling of ‘Badgerman’ forces me to re-count the story in greater detail, a fact for which I am grateful later.
After dinner, I walk home through town. There is a trail of pizza, torn and violently redistributed across the pavement. The Police are talking to a shirtless guy who is about the same size as me. I initially take him be the aggressor, but on overhearing snatches of their conversation I revise my opinion. I carry on walking, glad that nothing has happened to me.
A friend and I have gone to look for something near a bridge. It is late at night, completely dark. We have torches. We get out of the car. A man rushes out of the darkness and attacks me. He is the same size as me, but has a badger’s head for a head. He grabs me, he has his hands on my shoulders and in defence I put my hands on his shoulders and now we are both pushing each other. My friend is on the bridge, shouting at me to hurry up, come and help him look for the thing. Badgerman and I are of exactly equal strength. It is taking all of my effort to repel him, I cannot shout to my friend. The man with a badger’s head for a head has his badger’s head just inches from my head, I am in no doubt that he wishes to bite me with his badger teeth.
Shortly after, I see some more friends outside a pub and we go to another pub and my route home becomes lengthier by a couple more pints. I text them later (“I’m putting you in a story about a dream I had.” “We were in your dream?” “No, you are in the story, but the story is kind of about the dream.” “So, is it kind of saying something about all stories being their own kind of dreams?” “I don’t know. It’s late. I just wanted to let you know that you were in it.”).
Digestive Press 