Well, here it is:
It started out with me in front of a small group of people that I new to be addicts—drugs, alcohol, etc., and I was to be the leader in charge of organizing an every Tuesday night support meeting. (In my mind I was wondering how I could fit the time in, with the wife, family and all. But, the meeting was only one night a week and thirty minutes long. I figured I could try and fit it in.)
When the meeting broke up, the group was going to an air base West of the meeting place by riding on a Chinook (two-bladed) helicopter. I, however, was returning to what I knew to be my originating point—an air base to the East—by riding in the right-hand seat of an A-10 Warthog.
It was a wild, speedy ride, with curves and loops. During the ride, it was so wild that it made me blurt out something to the effect that it makes one want to make sure one has a firm belief in Jesus Christ. I knew it was at least an idea on how to be a witness in the situation. The airmen responded by a “What?” as if in disbelief that I had said it. I hoped that in some way I'd done some good.
When we arrived at the base, we “buzzed” the dormitories, where other airmen were trying to catch a flattened lite beer can that I was flipping to them—weird...definitely weird. At one point we were passing under high-voltage power lines, and the pilot would toss the end of a retractable measuring tape at them. If it caught the line and gave him a shock, he knew he was too close and would thereby be able to calibrate his distance to the lines.
At some point we landed and three of the airmen (on-board the A-10 somehow) approached me. Two were intrigued and I understood them, both named “Doug,” to be Christians as well. The third, however, was not. He grabbed a small Gideon testament out of my hands and began ripping pages out. I think he was saying derogatory things and perhaps cursing.
I attempted to persuade him to listen, but he only fell to the ground on his knees, face down and unrepentant. At this point, he literally sank into the ground and disappeared. What appeared where he had been was a flat, rectangular object (about 3x5 feet) only a few inches thick above the ground with a red, boiling, goo (for lack of a better word) that was shaped like the head of Satan lying flat on the object and reeling around.
I began to demand, in the name of Jesus Christ, and by the power of his blood, that Satan release the airman. In the next moment, I was joined by a friend of mine named Greg. Together, we went in after the airman. We were in some sort of cream/light-yellow colored labyrinth. We snaked back and forth thru a tight—couple of feet, tops—wide corridor, which after a few turns opened up into a larger room.
On some sort of table against the far wall was what I knew to be a “guest-book” that we didn't sign. In this larger room, there were men walking around, dressed in leather as motorcycle bikers, in zombie-like stares that didn't really respond to our presence. We turned around toward the back-left, over our right shoulders and saw a bar where some were being served liquor by a similarly-dressed, taller biker with curly black/gray hair.
When Greg and I walked up to the bar, the bartender pulled a rather large single-barreled shotgun out from under the counter, pointed it right at Greg's chest and pulled the trigger. We heard the loud discharge, but it's as if the shell/shot just vaporized prior to hitting his chest with no effect. He then turned the gun on me. I heard the boom, but there was apparently the same lack of effect. I then woke up from the dream. As you might guess, I was fairly keyed up, to put it mildly.
The night before, I hadn't been watching action movies or anything remoted related to the dream's content.
It may be just an over-active imagination...I don't know.
At any rate, Jesus was and is the victor.
In Him,
Mike