What a weird dream.
I was visiting my parents and we all decided to go out to a biker bar my parents sometimes frequent. Despite me being sober, my Dad insisted on driving home. So, from the back seat, I watched as he blew through a stop sign on one of the back roads he decided to take, knowing that the city pigs are normally stationed on the main drag that time of night.
It didn't seem odd at the time that I was in the back seat, though it's funny now. We were in the truck my dad had for fifteen years, an ancient red Chevrolet short bed, with a single cab. I guess that's the truck my subconscious brain still most associates with my dad. In fact, I still look for it sometimes when I pull into their driveway.
But back to the dream - Dad's just blown a stop sign, and, sure enough, thirty seconds later, the interior of the car was lit with party lights. Red-blue-red-blue-red-blue. My mom noticed, and started crying, knowing that this was going to be really bad. She's recently retired, you see, and there was no way in hell Dad was going to keep his job with a DUI. Even if he did, a successful DUI defense where they live costs $30,000-40,000. It would mean opening up a mortgage on the recently paid-off house.
But Dad didn't seem to notice. He continued at a perfect 34 miles an hour, head held just right, window cracked slightly to keep cool air on his face and allow the periodic emission of cigarette smoke.
"Dad," I finally spoke up, after we drove for about a minute longer. "Dad, there's cops. You gotta pull over."
This roused him a little. He looked up, slowly, into the rear view mirror. "Ahhh, shit," he hissed, "Alright. All. Right."
I sighed. This was going to be a fucking circus. Mom and Dad were both drunk. I was sober, so I would probably be allowed to take Mom home with the truck. The cop car looked like a county cruiser, and we were in the next county over from home, so Dad was going to end up in county lockup.
On top of that, I was carrying concealed, and by state law would need to notify the deputy first thing. Since the local Sherrif's deputies tended to go one to a car, he would probably end up pulling me out of the truck, having me stand with my hands on the hood, and making us all sit and wait for backup, since he couldn't disarm me and clear my weapon while also making sure the driver didn't take off or the passenger start gobbling the baggies of crack or whatever.
All of this is going through my mind as Dad pulls over into a parking lot. The deputy pulled in behind him, and dad came to a stop but didn't put the truck in park.
"Dad, no. Don't," I said, and right as the deputy reached the taillights, Dad took off.
"Dad! Stop! Right now!" but he was already jumping the curb, counting on the deputy having to go around through the parking lot entrance, not having the ground clearance that the truck did. He tore huge gouges in the wet turf as he cut right to the side street.
He screamed two or three blocks into the neighborhood, turning seemingly at random, and finally pulled into a driveway and turned the truck off. I realized what he was doing, and told him he was crazy.
"Dad, they're going to have your plates already. All this is getting added onto the charges. Stop right now. Turn yourself in. You're insane."
Finally he spoke. "Fuck that," he said, "It's all bullshit anyway. It's not even worth dealing with it."
I considered calling the cops myself, but before I could dig the phone out of my pocket, I saw the lights of the police car far in the distance, winking in and out of view through the slash pine. Dad threw it in reverse and headed home.
We were halfway there when we got picked up again. Dad gunned it. Mom hadn't stopped crying since she started, and I was furious. Between bouts of trying to convince my Dad to give it up before we all got killed, or someone else did, I wondered idly if the COPS crew was with the deputies (backup had arrived) chasing us. The county we were in was known for producing the best episodes of COPS, and this would certainly have been a great segment.
Two wild turns later, we hit a "T" in the road, and Dad didn't notice. We went right through the culvert, across the lawn, and smashed through the big front windows of a Pentecostal megachurch.
There was an abrupt transition in the dream here. I knew it was suddenly a few days later.
My Dad had been released without charges, on some unspecified technicality. The church had promised to not press charges or sue if we somehow made it up to them. I ended up promising to run a shooting school for the church youth. They were an apocalyptic sect, and were very interested in preparing for the End Times as they understood them to be.
I was as surprised as the kids were when the End Times actually started halfway into the first class.