A Head in Crisis

In the wet town dry mouths scream for water.
Rampaging rape mobs stampede to earthy ecstasy as death squads stalk the ravaged rooftops, snatching military choppers out of the air like butterflies. The liquid death of the streets turned mosquito rivers; greet those attempting to escape the city’s escalating lawlessness.
It is something resembling day. A balding captain and a hairy young man are moving through the chin deep flood mire, approaching each other from opposite sides of what was at some point in time a street. After an indeterminate lapse of time the two men draw level, or should I say their heads draw level, for that is all of both men that is visible.
A third man sitting on the balcony of a fourth story apartment eating breakfast, is struck by the similarity between the scene before him and a dream he had two nights previously, involving talking heads, a horse and a monkey. Having monitored their slow progress through the floodwater, he now observes the heads as they begin to talk.
Captain: Hey Beardo! Did you forget to shave this morning soldier?
Beardo (laughing nervously): Oh no I’m not in the army, I’m a reporter actually, for the Limerick Leader. It’s a newspaper in Ireland.
Captain: Don’t you know me soldier?
Beardo: No.
Captain: Where’s the rest of the division? You know I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t recognize me. You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I found you! I made you what you are now; I turned you into someone new. Five years later on you’ve got the world at your feet; success has been so easy for you!
Beardo: What the hell are you talking about you bloody mentalist?
Captain: The Division of Joy, soldier.
Beardo: I have no idea what that is.
Just then the head of the Beardo heard a sound that can only be described as the noise a gun makes when it is cocked under water. This alarmed the Beard, as he was familiar with such a sound, having cocked under water himself several times in his secret past.
Beardo: Take it easy man! Drop the gun!
Captain (raising the gun to his head): Love, love will tear us apart.
Beardo (Screams): No!
But the Captain’s head did not hear the Beard because it had a large bullet hole in it. The dead head sank beneath the oily surface and the Beard began to cry for a bit because no matter how much he hated the Captain for taking away his childhood, he still loved him for rescuing him from the cut throat world of waitressing, giving him a home in the religious/ military sect known as “The Division of Joy”, and ultimately taking him to the pinnacle of natural disaster journalism. And the Beard was silent for a time.
Meanwhile, it was all going to plan for the man on the balcony. Having finished his breakfast, he was meditating on the power of dreams and how they are really a form of time travel, as a horse with a monkey on it’s back, came swimming merrily down the street. Both (living) human heads looked on in amazement and both were equally touched inside, though in different places, by this fantastic, horse/ monkey combo.
“Pride is the real enemy, not the Black Panthers”, pondered the Beard as he moved off in the direction of the east, a head in crisis, not really knowing where he was going or what lay in store for him but inconsequentially getting closer to Mecca, among other things.