You go through with the abortion in a clinic in Idaho.
Depression and remorsefulness follow this decision, however, forcing you to give up your quest for any Lost Dakota and head back to your home in Indiana.
One night, after watching porn that keeps getting less stimulating every time you come back for another round with a new entry in the search bar (that particular night it came to girls injecting milk into their anuses and then squirting it back out like a drinking fountain). This must have brought back memories of your explicit encounter at The Jackpot Junction in Minnesota because that’s where tonight’s dream begins, right back in that very same situation.
This time, instead of administering the milking apparatus when the woman undresses, you find your aborted fetus precipitously sucking on her nipple. The fetus turns its head, much more monstrous than that nightmarish automaton Snuggle Bear, and instead of falling with gravity, it slowly floats toward your face. Its own face is that of the Bud Grant/Sitting Bull amalgamation and it gives you these words in its gruesome, micro-vocal chords,
“I was to be the one – the immaculate child born of Lakota prophecy, the Messiah you have crucified. Prepare to be haunted by my spirit until the day you die and burn in Hell.”
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