"What is this place; French?" I asked my host.

He smiled. He was a strange man. Well built, clothed in white robe and looked a bit like Morgan Freeman if you ask me. I've never had Morgan Freeman pop into my dreams before. Strange.

The place was new too. High ceiling, with soft white lights illuminating the expansive interiors. People walked in and out of the door at the far end, usually all accompanied by white robed Morgan Freeman lookalikes. A band of minstrels was playing a haunting tune on the harp in the corner. Weirder.

I looked back at my host, who was deep into the menu card, muttering off items. The tables were all round, adorned with a pristine white cloth. Set atop were some beautiful cutlery and a pair of chalices filled with water. I sipped out of mine, wondering how I had gotten here. Last remembered, I had dozed off tired and disgruntled and then there was a flash of white light.

I felt like asking a question, but I was having some trouble framing one.

"What would you like to have?", my host asked, his eyes looking expectantly over the card, a perennial smile on his face. " I dunno... I'm not really hungry. I was wondering..."

"Well let me offer a suggestion.", his deep voice cutting through mine. "I hear the ambrosia here is the best there is. For you, I can recommend the hasard done rare medium. I think that ought to be enough, don't you think?"

"Uhm.. sure..I guess you know best."

He chuckled. "So I have been told."

He snapped his fingers, and there came a man, dressed in black. Notepad in hand, and horns on his head. This was new. He gazed malevolently at my host, his flaming red eyes, and joint eyebrows, frowned in anger. He stooped and muttered darkly, "What would you like today, sir?" Some undue emphasis on that last syllable, but my host seemed to notice not and rattled away the order.

"Gladly, sir." He glared, mincing his teeth. These were the kind of people those travel magazines warn you about. Always peeing in your soup, and spitting on your food. I wasn't too sure about this place anymore, but my host seemed almost at home here.

"Oh, I almost forgot. What do you have for dessert?"

The waiter stopped in his tracks, and turned around. You could see dark shadows lining around his face. " Sir, the chef's special, is Revenge-a-la-cold."

"Ah! Dang!" my host exclaimed, "My job contract prevents me from having that. Pity, but one for my friend here. That would be all, thank you.", glowing smiles all around. Not that it had much of a melting effect on this minion of hell, waiter of ours. I got stared down with deep hate, and if looks could kill... Well, that wouldn't make much of a difference right now, would it? Huh! The little ironies.

"Ah, my friend, we have a long chat ahead of us." It's like the muscles on his face are incapable of anything but a smile. You could not help feel serene sitting there with him. "Some wine first?" he asked.

"Sure, why not." I smiled back. Now he was talking!

He picked up my crucible, twirled the water with his index finger twice and put it down before me again. The water had turned red and sparkly. Not Morgan Freeman after all, then.

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