It's just two, and they've been particularly vicious and graphic.
Benedict Cumberbatch and the Vampire Stand-off
I'm in an underground club, though it feels like a warren, going deep underground. Neon green and yellow lights illuminate the walls and ceilings, and I'm running further underground, trying to avoid something, or someone. I realise at this point, I'm a vampire, and me and my fellow undead companions are fleeing from something, we're trying to get further underground in our labyrinthine warren to escape it.
"It" happens to be a bunch of armed and armoured soldiers breaking into the warren-club, the neon reflecting on their face masks, gas cannisters and automatic rifles. They open fire (I can see this front on now even though "I'm" still running the other way) and I can feel the drumming of gunfire rattling through the walls, and can feel the vibrations turning my bones to jelly.
I'm now outside the warren/club, in the entrance room, which looks like a bar, lit up for evening. There's a bunch more soldiers in here, and also, their captain, who happens to be a distressed-looking Benedict Cumberbatch ('im off of BBC's Sherlock series and recently performed as Frankenstein in London). I'm suddenly one of the soldiers talking to him, only I'm a vampire in disguise. I realise HE also is, and there's a strange mexican stand-off feeling of impending doom for everyone involved.
A daddy long legs, presumably attracted by the lights in the vampire warren-club, brushes past my ear and I can feel it's gangly legs palpably stroking my face.
I wake up hollering and slapping myself comically and repeatedly, scaring the crap out of my previously sleeping girlfriend.
The Hitman Cake Carnival, starring Robert Dinero
There's a huge carnival in town, and its theme is definately cakes. Pink icing literally layers the streets, covers the buildings, and drenches most people's clothes. It's been going on for a long time, only now, hitmen with previously assigned tasks are coming to the fore.
Blood suddenly starts to mingle with the pinky residue on the streets as killings happen almost mechanically and at regular intervals. I can see two suited men, one very large and Irish, hacking at each other with kitchen knives (one of the knives I recognise as being one that I own in my kitchen draw), with varying success. The two pull off a few artful and desperate dodges, but not enough to save them completely, and wrist tendons are being severed through, along with chunks of skin being completely sliced off. The two, whilst in pain, look fairly chuffed about the fight nontheless.
Moving on, I realise there's been a chase going on for a long time. One man is being pursued, along with a hail of projectiles, down a pink icing-covered street, the cake-themed dancers long gone, the sugary-coated floats long since abadoned. He's wearing a suit also, only its barely noticeable under the caking of icing and blood. He's gleeful about it, turning back every now and then to fire off a shot from his pistol at his pursuers, throwing a knife back, something, until his feet slip on the layers of slick icing and he skids hilariously into an abandoned float.
Taking a harpoon to the chest, the steel bolt bursts through his front, and I'm now looking at Robert Deniro, having finally been caught, grinning down into a huge jelly trifle as blood bubbles up from his lips and the harpoon-head protruding from his chest drips his own life-juice.
He topples into the trifle, hilariously.
I wake up, shouting and looking down at my again-petrified girlfriend who was just getting up for work.
Hmmm.
Too many violent movies, or not enough excersise? Something deeper, mayhaps? OR JUST AN EXTREME AVERSION TO CAKE
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