Dreams about burrowing alligators all last night. In a deserted square in a deserted land on a deserted world, they poke their little snouts out from cracks near the deteriorating pillars. You peek in, then they jump out and run after you, biting at your feet and legs.

That and a post-heroic story about being a sidekick cleaning up the deserted hideout-turned-ghosttown-shack with some friends, reminiscing about the days before the superhero's fall, finding miscellaneous gadgetry amidst the dusty memories that can only accumulate from a lifetime of clipping newspaper articles and carefully packing away old photos and trinkets from around the world into wooden crates of sawdust and mildew.

Sifting through the dust mites and memories, looking for I don't remember what, we hatch a plan to use the antiquated yet clever electronics and nostalgic words to fight new evil.

And somewhere in between was the parade of crocodiles, silent people from a forgotten time, strolling through the square in dusty finery, led by crocks large and very small, all on polite diamond leashes, convincing me that the crocs weren't all bad so that, after the parade passes, I approach the crack by the pillar again, only to be chased and mauled by the emerging crock once again.