I dreamt of five brothers, promising schoolboys who had turned out to be good-for-nothings because their father left them to be brought up by their penniless mother. They lived on a jungle island and groused about their misfortune and unfashionable shirts, until one day their father returned with five new boys: rippling heroes, with nunchucks and glistening pecs. (At this point I might mention that the family appeared to be one of kung fu masters, and about half of them were Chinese and the other half were black.)
The five brothers met in their father's secret sci-fi laboratory in the jungle and vowed to murder the other brothers, who had stolen their father's favour and their own chances of fortune. Over a complicated series of events involving bloodshed, backstabbing, a metallic tunnel with a slide and what was either an MRI scanner or a psychedelic aquarium, the five brothers accomplished their task, only now they were so bloodthirsty and suspicious of one another that they were likely to murder each other as well.
Then the father returned, together with the mother and fifteen further brothers, all of them (including the parents) genetically enhanced and furnished with mecha suits. All 22 could not live together, so there would, the father explained affably, be a fight to the death. My last memory is leaving the site of the carnage via cable car with my Cuban-American ex-crush Christian Gonzalez. Turning back to the island, I had mistakenly taken off my pair of broken grey sneakers and left them forlornly behind on the platform. Never mind, said Christian, you can buy another pair on the mainland.
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