It is past 6h in the morning.

The young man went back to sleep in his bed. As we established, it is quite comfortable. He is snoring like a hibernating bear. The sun leaves its hideout carefully, and the window shades can no longer contain all of the exterior’s sunlight.

The dreamer’s sleep remains unchallenged, undefeated by external forces.

Seems he would meet his match, as a foot smacks the door so hard it flies to the other side of the room, destroyed. The door contained a sign that read as follows: “Clark’s room. If you break anything I will beat the living lights out of you, asshole!!”

Property damage are not enough to wake the beast from its slumber. At least said slumber seems much more peaceful. The rest of the body attached to the foot enters the chaotic scene of his own doing.

Another man, a tad younger, of caucasian descent and clementine hair color, stares at his victim with malicious intent. His clothes are baggy, comfortable as they float with him through this assault. With a mesquin smile, the redhead has been awake for a long time.

“Dear Claaaark, I think it’s time for you to get up!”

Not a sign from the black man, obviously named Clark. He’s laying in his bed like a piece of log.

The evil assailant sports a curious smile on his face, as he dashes out of the room and comes back with a bucket of water. Even if he’s physically less imposing then his housemate, it doesn’t change the ease in which he traverses the room with the bucket filled with cold water in his hands.

He minds his steps near Clark’s bed akin to a fox. With gracious movements as dignified as a ballerina, he freely throws every single droplets inside the bucket in one shot onto the bed. The peaceful face of Clark (he was snoring his nostrils out too, goodness gracious) morphs into a cacophony of surprise when the water hits the entire surface of his body.

His whole bed and the floor near the bedframe is wet. The sound produced by the avalanche of water felt like a hundred small claps on the thighs, inside of a poorly insulated cathedral.

Without skipping a beat, Clark jumps like a rabbit out of his bed, a rabbit stuck in a swamp. There's astonishment drawn on his face before turning his head just ten degrees to the left and seeing the culprit dead in his eyes.

“Aye-aye, Captain! you sure live some crazy adventures recently! How is the matey doing?”

“Jano, matey's gonna smack you upside the head!”, shouts Clark in response, the fury in his veins. “Can I have one ounce, just ONE ounce of peace!? I had a shitty night and I have to deal with your tsunami too now!? Who’s gonna clean up this fountain!? AND THE FUCKING DOOR-oh my gosh…” 

Jano giggles. He’s used to discussions going like this.

“You kept your funny bone wit’cha! Of course I’m cleaning! Never forget: the one that pranks the other…”

Jano patiently awaits for a response he knows isn’t coming. Clark’s rage transforms into smoke coming out of his ears. No further response. Jano resigns himself to finish his thought, keeping a smile on his face.

“...the prankster gets rid of the debris!”

Clark stares at the destroyed door on the floor, his eyes burning in hot flames.

“You would not have balls this big and a brain this dead if we were living in an apartment complex, you asshole”, complains the black man, trying his damned hardest to keep his composure.

“You’re probably right! But here’s some friendly advice : If you ever have the impression that I’m about to pull some hijinks, just turn around, look at yer’ clock and check the time in correspondence to an event during the day!”, explains Jano while leaving his angry housemate’s room, half looking for a mop in the bathroom nearby.

The forced enthusiasm on Jano only adds salt to injury. At the same time, he takes the advice to heart and checks his clock…

6 h 36 AM.

Clark's eyes grow bigger than his stomach.

“Oh shit I’m gonna be late for work! Couldn’t you have said that like a normal person!?”, yells Clark.

The man with the physique of god is running around in a panic to get clothes. The water on the floor makes him slip, fall and scream a bunch of curse words. He furiously opens his drawer before Jano replies in a friendly fashion : “For my defense I did try to wake you up the classic way! Didn’t have a choice!”, which only frustrates his bald housemate. 

“This is the cherry on the shit sunday! The dude thinks we live in a castle or something! This punk I swear!”, whispers Clark while he’s still digging for his work outfit.

And then, his dream reappears in his subconscious.

This specific dream, it’s not the first time it comes to his mind. At least once in a period of seven days, a different version of the same nightmare surfaces. No matter how it begins, the end stays the same.

This creature with a pyramid head, enveloped in this robe of a muted black. The same subject coming back in each dream, over and over, is exasperating. The worst part is this poem. The poem, of a language quite hard to understand in modern day, has changed too over the course of these lucid dreaming sessions, except for the last verse.

“Partager souffrance avec démon des sables”

Clark grimace.

These forsaken demons. They are everywhere… even in my head.”

It’s a thought he would rather keep to himself. Who could possibly understand anyway?

Just five minutes passed after the sudden awakening. Jano Legrand preps a breakfast, trying an optimistic look on the scrambled eggs and the delectable pieces of bacon and parsley spread on the food. His orange head, not yet brushed (he never brushed his hair. Too much work, apparently) and imbued with the smell of the scrumptious dish, Jano keeps a semi-awaken eye on his plate. There’s a plastic bowl behind him.

The smoke coming out of the hot eggs puts him in some kind of trance.

Clark Deschaines leaves his room, still angry. “Didn’t you say you we’re gonna clean the mess in my room?”

His anger contrasts with his outfit, classy and chic. A simple beige turtleneck shirt with a tint of purple, tucked in his black jeans with a gray belt to add a final touch.

If Jano is styled like a hippie with a hyperfixation for deep slumbers, Clark wants to look, feel and smell absolutely professional. After all, Clark works in the prestigious library of “Vil de Ville”, where the impressive archives of the country of Atmos reside. It is primordial to be clothed like a CEO, or at the very least an office worker.

Jano notices Clark and gets out of his blackout with a playful whistle, before picking up his smile again.

“Hello! Look at this gentleman! You gon’ be fine for work?”

“Yeah, should be fine. Jeez you need to stop with the lazy look tho. You gotta learn to wear better outfits than this. People would stop thinking you’re some vagrant weirdo.”

“It’s not the clothes that make the preacher, mister Deschaines!”, replies Jano with an awkward pinch of humour, taking a bite of his delicious scrambled eggs. “Also, your portion is right there, for the gains! Have a blessed day!”

With a smile filled with yellow, Jano offers the plastic bowl to Clark. Free food? Who would have thought? Clark, still a bit miffed, hesitates before resigning himself to accepting the dish. “At least you cook really well”, retorts Clark, wanting to keep his bad bitch attitude. Jano keeps smiling as a form of thank you.

Clark leaves the kitchen to the living room and takes his bag near the front door. He puts boots of the same color as his belt and takes a good breath of air. He opens the door and leaves for work.

It’s at that moment, when Clark closes the door, that Jano’s brain pops like a lightbulb, realising in a fit of coïncidence he wanted to talk about something important.

“Ah crapbasket! I should have asked about the book!”