In this dream I found myself in a bus full of middle-aged Germans, tourists visiting the United States. We were pulling into a parking lot when the bus almost hit a duck-shaped kiddie pool, just sitting in the street, as if it had fallen off a truck. We slowed around the pool. The Germans were visibly concerned; not for the pool, but for its previous owner. “It was theirs”, I heard one mutter.
Inside a bar or restaurant, one of the Germans confronted me and gave me a sloppily-stapled together packet of papers. It was a gift, he said. A token of gratitude from those whom the perverts had oppressed.
Two Indonesian warlords — self-professed perverts, who, for so long, had cost so many, so much — and from those many, packet of handwritten testimonies, some of it unreadable, along with a quantity of money. I looked at the money later, after leaving the restaurant — it totaled over $29,000.
I felt overjoyed. I soon forgot the reason for the gift and began planning, with some other friends who were unconnected with the German tourists, what I was going do with all this fantastic cash.