Why did a fat man need pink money?

I shoved the fat guy off me and rolled onto the cement floor.

"Where am I this time?"

The light shining inside my head confused me.

I was not at home in bed. I was not sleeping with my wife. But I wasn't about to let the voices tell me this time was real.

I had a five dollar bill in my left hand.

"What?" Someone stuffed money in my hand?

Why would they do that?

I pushed myself up. The fat man snored, loud, and scratched himself. He had a pocket full of pink money inside his pants. Why did a fat man need pink money? I wasn't asking. He wasn't going to speak for a little longer anyway, so I kicked him for making me buy another night of pitiful pleasures.

What is this? My pocket? I didn't have any pockets when I went to sleep last night. Now I have one. I have something poking me, and it's sharp. I have a knife? What else is in my pocket that I don't have? Is this an olive branch?

What am I doing with and olive branch and a knife? My pocket and a fat man that I have never had or seen now intrigue me.

I dig into my pink pocket and pull out my wife, a bed, and a shower.

Of course, I did. When I woke up in the jail of my dream, made for me again, I knew that no color or object was going to take away from me the truth that lay beside me.