Dream

I dreamt I was some kind of gypsy-based superhero. I'd been getting ready to do a Shakira-style concert for the queen of England, but then a Ghost Rider/Horseman of the Apocalypse kind of flaming skeleton on a motorcycle started a ride around the world that sparked a major DC Universe-wide crossover event. We were gearing up for the final showdown (the kind that involves a lot of splash panels containing every superhero ever), and Superman was about to go head-to-head with motorcycle dude. My little group of ragtag mystical misfits were trying to figure out some way to help, since we were rather underpowered. My version of tarot cards involved floating twenty dollar bills around - the little heads would talk to me, and lead me where I needed to go. We followed the floating money to an abandoned post office that was haunted and cursed. Apparently, it had been ransacked in the course of all the general evil and chaos, and the workers killed, so now the post office itself was malevolent. We realized that we could clean the mystical energies by making the post office feel like itself again, so we started writing letters for it to deliver. The post office felt much happier being put back to its true purpose, and dumped a filing cabinet onto the floor to show us where the real problem was. We found a trap door that had been wired shut and opened it up, to find all the corpses of the postal workers, who had tried to hide from the ransackers. The attackers had wired the door shut so that they couldn't escape, and so the workers all died in the hole.

I suppose if I had all my employees die horrible deaths inside me and then their bodies were left to rot, I'd also be upset. Poor little post office.