Disclaimer: GI Joe is NOT the property of Kageshadow8. Anyone who says it is is sorely mistaken.

Despite this story being marked 'humor,' Kageshadow8 is also not responsible for any lack of laughter while reading this: therefore, do not flame.

Thank you to Lady Jaye1 for pointing out to me that I used an OC, I had no idea he was an OC.

The greenshirt mentioned in this story, Mouth, is the property of willwrite4fics. I will take him out if she so wishes.

This story describes several humorous bad dreams, each of which was written to suit the specific Joe. Features: Storm Shadow, Beach Head, and Lifeline.


Storm Shadow

Walking down the hallways in the middle of the night was always calming to Storm Shadow. Although many other people found it odd, or even scary, Storm was a ninja, and the snores of sleeping soldiers were annoying. As long as the night watch did not mistake him for Cobra. . . Ah, they never even saw him. People could be so unobservant.

While walking, Tommy passed by a row of vending machines. This was bizarre, as there were none in the Pitt. They were harbingers of doom, spewing fat-laden grease and preserved sodium that had no expiration date. At least Hawk agreed that vending machines did not belong in a military facility.

Seeing one of his shuriken lying on the ground, he bent to pick it up. He found this rather odd, seeing as he would have noticed if one of his custom throwing stars was missing. Storm suddenly realized that he could not pick up the shuriken. He could not even reach it. . . He looked down, but could not even see his toes. There was a giant white blob in his field of view. . .

Storm turned around and started running to the head. He slowed down with every passing step, until his run was slower than a normal person's walk. Storm was terrified by now. He had a suspicion. . . He turned the corner into the head and looked into a mirror. Staring back at him was a giant blob with eyes. . . and a face. . . His suspicions were correct. He was. . . he was. . .

Tommy Arashikage woke up sweating. Even to him, having a nightmare about being corpulent was extremely out of the ordinary. His subconscious had shown him what he would look like fat, one of his worst nightmares. . . Tommy shuddered. Beach Head would never let him live this one down, if he ever found out about this crazy dream. Storm resolved never to tell him.


Beach Head

Following the scent of freshly baked pie to the mess hall, Beach Head found Roadblock studiously making something in the kitchen. Wondering why Roadblock was making pie in the middle of the night, Beach Head pulled back his balaclava so as to take in more of the heavenly smell. Despite the late hour, he was not about to complain.

"What kinda pie?" Beach Head asked Roadblock.

"Actually, the smell's not pie. I bought cinnamon apple pie-scented candles." Roadblock straightened up to answer him, and Beach Head stared. The man was wearing a gigantic pink and purple flowery apron.

"But. . . but. . .What's goin' on?" Recovering his speech, Beach Head was at a loss.

"Oh, I've also decided to make a new kind of pie. I'm not making anything else ever again." Roadblock took something out of the oven.

"Wha. . No. Tell me ya didn't. . ." Beach Head was stunned. The chef could not have. . .

"That's right! MRE pie! Want some?" Roadblock was way too cheerful. No more pie. . . This perversion of a delectable dish did not even resemble pie.

"Gaahh!" Beach Head woke with a shudder. Making sure no one else was awake, he pinched himself to make sure he was not still dreaming. No more real pie. . . That'd be worse than an entire platoon of greenshirts like Mouth. . . To take his mind off the bad dream, Beach Head tried to remember how many of his greenies he had accidentally sent to Lifeline with minor injuries from the obstacle courses.


Lifeline

Waking up at his desk, Lifeline became aware that he had fallen asleep finishing some late night paperwork. Getting up, he stretched his stiff muscles. He decided that he should check on his patients. . . Looking into the main medical ward, he let out an audible gasp. The room was gigantic, way bigger than it should be. There were hundreds of beds. In each one was. . .

Hundreds and hundreds of Beach Heads, Storm Shadows, and Snake Eyeses got up and started walking out. Even more of them, mostly the Storms and Snakeses, began to climb the walls and disappear up the ventilation shafts. Their maniacal laughter and shouts of 'I'm fine!' and 'I don't need to be here!' filled the room. Lifeline ran to get his new tranq gun, but it was missing.

Edwin Steen woke up at his desk and sighed. Those three were bent on giving him an aneurism, and now they were depriving him of much needed sleep by getting into his head. . .


That morning, after a refreshing 10 mile run at 0430, Beach Head was cheerfully yelling at Shipwreck for mouthing off to him about the impossibility of an obstacle course.

"Yer gonna dang well find out what 'impossibility' means when ya clean the entire head with a pair a chopsticks!" Altogether, the morning training had gone over well, and Beach only needed to punish one person. He had almost forgotten about the dream he had, when Snake Eyes walked up to him on the way to the mess hall.

*Did you hear? Roadblock has stopped making pie,* Snakes signed, with a barely concealed grin that went unnoticed by Beach Head.

"GGAAAAAHHHHH!" Hearing the incoherent yell, Storm Shadow walked over. It was uncharacteristic of Beach Head to scream at the top of his lungs; generally, his words made some sense.

"What's gotten into him?"

*Frankly, I have no idea. I was just joking. . .*

I apologize if any of these characters were behaving kind of OC, I am nervous about this issue seeing as most of the other writers here know the characters better.

Note: In the Marine Corps, the bathrooms are referred to as the 'head.' I am not sure how accurate this is for the Pitt, so bear with me.

If anyone has ideas for other characters and their corresponding dreams, feel free to either review it, PM it, or write it yourself, because you could probably do a better job of it than me.