ZippoJohn said: “I had this dream. I'll tell you about it: I'm in a bar with friends and we're talking, drinking, it's Friday night and the bar is pretty full, there's loud music. The beer makes me feel good, but not at all, and the atmosphere is there and all the girls are pretty. I have enough money in my pocket to keep this up all night, so, you know, it's all good. » He rolled down the window and took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s my tour and I go to the bar and there’s a huge crowd but I get served straight away. As I pass out the drinks and go back to get my own beer, I brush past this girl, I mean, she brushes past me. And smiles. Real eye contact. I think to myself, “This is going to be a really good night,” and if I had woken up, I would have woken up laughing. You know how it is with dreams, good dreams, part of you knows it's all fake but if you're really lucky you don't wake up. Everything works fine. »Then this kid walks into the bar, I don't see him first, but my dream sees him or maybe I remember it right after. He's just a skinny, but hip kid, looking really angry, and in his hand he's carrying a bucket full of gasoline. It sloshed as he made his way through the crowd. “I look up and see him standing in front of me as he throws this bucket of gasoline in my face. Then I find myself in a crowd as everyone backs away except the kid who smiles at me, and I'm drenched in gasoline. My eyes sting as it runs down my face. It coagulates in my beer. » John looked at me and smiled, a wry smile. “Here I am, alone in a puddle of flammable liquid, the substance seeping through my clothes; it's sweaty and itchy. I know what's going to happen and I say to myself, "Why me?" What did I do to deserve this? As if it just wasn't part of my plans to be burned alive in a pub on a Friday night.<2>'The kid reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Zippo, holds it up to me and smiles..