Another wacko dramatic sort of dream:
There is a man, a man somewhat like James Bond, somewhat like Lawrence of Arabia ('Awrence!!!!), with the useful addition of magical healing capabilities. He is a Byronic hero: tall, dark, and handsome, also moody and untalkative. This will be his downfall. He has just completed a daring secret mission (which you are free to imagine), which entailed stealing a powerful relic that sucks up all forms of magic, including our hero's healing powers as long as it is nearby. He's a little scraped up. Upon escaping the evil former owners of this object, he nonchalantly steals a convenient motorcycle and speeds across the country with his ill-but-also-nobly-gotten gains. He arrives unexpectedly at the secret Collective of Vigilantes (magical and non-magical, fighters and scientists alike), and doesn't bother to report to anyone where he was and what he was doing and what he brought back with him. He arrogantly believes he doesn't need to, not until the Other arrives, the one to whom he will give the Magic-Eater to use for all that is Good.
He stands upon the steps to the building that houses the Collective, talking with one of the more intellectually-inclined members, when they are very rudely interrupted by someone on the street. This person is a middle-aged man with a love of Harley Davidson and a history of petty crimes, who was quite saddened by the sorry state of our hero's "borrowed" bike when he came across it, abandoned, in an alley nearby. Therefore, he rescued the poor thing, discovered the owner's contact information on vehicle, called, and learned that it had been stolen from a young man on the other side of the country who had just inherited it from his dead father; and he learned the description of the thief, and realized that he had in fact seen this very thief frequenting the unassuming building which, unbeknownst to him, was the secret headquarters of the Collective. He decided this vagabond deserved to be punished, so he called the police, of course, and it all worked out through official channels. But actually, no, he did not call the police. Instead, he has come to confront the transgressor, our Byronic hero, in person.
When faced with accusations of gross immorality with regards to stealing personal property, our hero is unimpressed. He laughs. He does not care about the accusations, because there are no consequences that he fears, and, after all, what he did was for both his own good and for the good of the world. What does it matter if some grieving no-longer-a-child a thousand miles away is slightly more bereaved? The middle-aged lover of motorcycles is not amused by this cavalier attitude. He draws a handgun and shoots the thief, striking him in the side of the neck, before leaping onto his own bike and speeding away. The intellectually-inclined vigilante conversationalist, who had been silent throughout this tense exchange except for shrieking as he was sprayed with his friend's blood, kneels down to help the fallen Byronic victim of his own hubris, who inexplicably is not healing as is his wont. Instead, he is bleeding profusely, one arm nearly paralyzed from the gunshot, the other feebly working to detach a pouch at his waist. Unfortunately for our hero, his intellectually-inclined companion does not know that the pouch contains the Magic Eater, and that all that is required is to throw the thing far away. Instead, the significantly panicked intellectually-inclined companion attempts to apply pressure to the wound while a bystander calls for help and himself searches the inside of the proffered pouch one-handedly, looking for something helpful. There is a strange, unidentifiable metal object that is not helpful (except it would have been, had it been relocated to someplace that is not here, but there is no one around who knows to do that, because no one has been told what it is). There are some other objects that are not helpful. There is also a roll of duct tape, which the intellectually-inclined but not medically-trained man uses to stick a wad of cloth over the wound. This is not helpful. Our hero dies.
Thus, my child, when you are flirting with the shadow of death, tell someone, so that they may help you when you are helpless.
I wasn't actually listening to John Lennon's "God" recently, but it seems highly appropriate.
For anyone who likes reading this sort of thing, let it be known that there is actually a mini-series of my bizarrely cinematic dream-related journals here--all the more recent ones have the word "dream" in the title.