Shotgun sleigh

I’m riding in the back of a sleigh, with a guy that is supposed to be my uncle. I’ve never seen the guy in my life. The sleigh is mounted, in part to a snowmobile, and in part to a flock of reindeer. They shift in and out of existence and swap places as we careen through the landscape. We are supposedly far north, but I can’t tell exactly where.

My uncle figure is wearing thick hunters’ clothing; he is regularly stuffed inside heavy fur and cloth. A big shotgun is resting on his knees.

From time to time he reaches behind him in a large container of some sort, also covered in fur and skin, and pulls out a reindeer – a stiff, dead and slightly shrunk reindeer. Maybe it’s a young calf. It is also partly mummified. My uncle then violently jams his weapon into through the reindeers’ body so that it sticks, but the barrel doesn’t pop out on the other side. This is not done without purpose; because the nest thing he does is to fire the shotgun out and into the air, without aim, while letting go of a stupid, manly yell. The reindeer flinges into the sky, slowly swirling until darkness engulfs it.

I have no idea why he is doing this, but I’m guessing it’s got something to do with who’s got the legal rights to the very lands that we are now crossing. He’s making a statement to whoever his opponents are. He’s grinning and smoking cigarettes while shooting dead reindeer into the night with his shotgun.

We have stopped next to a small cabin, right in the middle of nowhere. I can barely see the ground from the faint glow of the moon. My uncle rummages through the interior of the cabin, and from where I stand I can see him inside, as if there are no walls. He’s desperately picking up bottles, putting them to his mouth and drinking whatever leftovers there are.

We’re back on the sleigh, and my uncle is gloomy. Someone has reported his actions to the authoritites. He’s drunk, and now he wants revenge. He pulls out a frying pan from behind him. He breaks a couple of eggs onto it, and the pan appears to be hot because the eggs fry and spit. He then removes the cap from a couple of shotgun shells and pours the gunpowder on top of the eggs. He’s grinning like a madman. Into the air, and to nobody in particular, he shouts: «Wait until you get a load of this!».

Something inside me tells me that this combination of frying eggs, gunpowder and dead reindeer, along with the blast from a shotgun, is highly hazardous. As if he read my mind, my uncle now wants to know if I’m a chicken, if I want to bail out. I just want to get the hell off this ride.

We’re approaching a small village. My uncle is getting ready. This time he’s aiming for a particular house, coming up fast. The reindeer is stuck to his shotgun, the barrel resting on the frying pan. The eggs frizzle.

At this point I think to myself: «I really need not to be on this sleigh anymore», and the next thing I know is I’m laying on the ground, face up. I can hear the swooshing sound of the sleigh somewhere up and to the left. Then silence, and then a terrible explosion.

The tension is too much, and so I wake up.