Smoke Machine

I had a dream last night. It was a dream in vivid colours. A satisfying dream. A dream of justice and righteousness. So, here I stood, horsewhipping a cowardly soul with a large wet rag. The rag was called INNUENDO. And the cowardly soul looked like a pathetic old spinster whose belt had fallen off, exposing soiled nickers and hidden knives dangling. In the background one could see what appeared to be a fire. Only smoke was visible. But then, as the screams of the victim echoed back from the Hills of Deception and Cowardice, it became obvious that there was no fire. The smoke was coming from a Texas smoke machine.