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I'm in my desert combat uniform with combat gear wandering the streets of an unnamed, generic Victorian era city where the streets are dead in the middle of the night. I enter what looks like a pub (the name seems to change or is too blurred to read each time for some reason) and a hostess with deathly pale skin and waist length black hair welcomes me in and hands me my favorite alcoholic beverage and a copy the book I'm reading at the moment.
She leads me into an area marked VIP and when it opens up I see everyone I served with in Tikrit on one side of the room while the people I knew in Germany (where I was stationed at following Tikrit) sitting on another side, yet none of them are in uniform. On the dance floor are some of my ex-girlfriends and their friends dancing to music I can't hear.
I turn to speak to the bartender while placing the book I'm carrying on the bar and I realize that he's someone I should recognize, but I'm not sure where, and just as I ask him to light a cigarello (mini-cigar, from Colombia) the drink in my hand shatters and the book that's sitting on the bar catches fire which is about the time I wake up.
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