"Daddy, I had a bad dream."
You blink your eyes and pull up on your elbows. Your clock glows red in the darkness. It's 3:23AM. "Do you want to climb in bed and tell me about it?"
The oddness of the situation wakes you up more. You can barely make out your daughter's pale form in the darkness of your room. "Why not, sweetie?"
"Because in my dream, when I told you about the dream, the thing wearing Mommy's skin sat up."
For a moment, you feel paralyzed. You can't take your eyes off of your daughter. The covers behind you begin to shift.
"Baby, you just shut your mouth."
David Bowie erupts from the covers, tossing your dead wife's skin aside like one of his famous stage costumes. "David motherfucking Bowie!" you and your daughter scream in unison.
"This ain't rock n' roll...this is GENOCIDE!" he screams, materializing a flaming guitar out of the ether and into his hands. He proceeds into a jam session that results in a horrific block fire, killing thirty-seven people. It was hailed by Rolling Stone as the greatest concert of the decade.