My dreams have been bizarre this week, weird versions of what I watched on DVD before going to bed.
For example, in my version of First Knight, Lancelot was determined to protect King Arthur's pie crust from Malagant, who wanted it as a symbol of kingly power. They decided to settle things through a jousting match. Lancelot tried wearing the crust on his lance (similar to how a lady might tie her scarf to a lance) but it kept falling off as it wasn't a complete circle, as Arthur had eaten that bit.
In my version of 13Hrs, the rambling old house was guarded from the werewolf by the army. The soldiers were dressed in neatly-pressed desert camouflage trousers and black semi-transparent shirts which showed-off their fabulous physiques, and they were ridiculously camp. None wanted to fight the werewolf in case they damaged a carefully manicured fingernail or spoiled their lovely shirts.
The joys of having had a flu fever, hmm?
As an old friend of mine (Tom, AKA West Cheshire Lad) used to say - with his tongue parked firmly in his cheek - these little plagues have to find lodgings somewhere in this vast universe. I expect they're already finding their current billet increasingly inhospitable, and I've absolutely no doubt they'll be moving on very soon.