(no subject)

Last night's dream:
I'm in a richly carpetted, dark wood-panelled club. I'm accosted by a rotund man with a walrus-like moustache.
"hI represent certain hinterests who would hrather that you were duly going about their business, if you folly my meaning" he declared, pulling his bowler off his bald pate.
"And that's just what I was off to do, I assure you" said I, retaking my seat and smoothing my waistcoat.
"hIt seems you mistake my meaning, sir. The time for your assurances carrying hweight hwith the persons to which I refer is a time since past. They don’t give two toots of a Turk’s trumpet for your promises now." he grumbles, reaching inside his jacket
Beneath the gleaming mahogany of the tabletop, my pistol gives a polite cough and a gentle puff of sawdust breezes upward, misting his whiskers in a fine mist of tiny splinters.
"hOh dear! hI rather think you've shot me, sir" he wheezes, azure rivulets of his blood running down his cravat.
"Well, I wasn't going to wait for you too shoot me first, now was I?"
"hI wasn't going to do anything of the sort", he pants, the cigarette case clattering from his shaking fingers.
"Ah", I riposte.
His blood, tracing bright blue capillaries on the doily, clouds above the table between us. He breathes out deeply, deflating slightly as the fog swirls back past him, ruffling his drooping moustaches and forming into a translucent phantom.
“hWell that’s torn it; you’ve killed me”, says his spectre “That’s going to be quite a bother for you. Isn’t that right, Julia Kelly's Chinese ghost?”
Beside him, in the same ethereal aspect, is Julia, clad in a cheongsam and with sticky tape visible at the sides of here eyes.
Reaching forth portentously with a taloned hand, she intones “Sure. Whatevs.”