I dreamt that Sheamus was a supervillain, attacking a bayside banquet hall filled with hundreds of service workers. First he locked everyone inside and beat a few people to death—to push the crowd into a frenzy—then he slipped out through the loading dock and dove into the ocean. Minutes passed and I thought he’d gone, but this is Sheamus.
He burst from the bay with a snapping turtle two feet wide held up above his head like a title belt. He slashed its shell open on the underside, a big bloody x, and shouted the scientific names of bloodborne turtle pathogens as he kicked the loading gate open and sprayed the crowd. I ran for the beach but a dialog box appeared with a warning: THIS PRODUCTION IS NOT AUTHORIZED TO OPERATE BEYOND THESE PARAMETERS.
An hour later, with everyone still locked inside, the infected workers began to chant for RAW MEAT RAW MEAT RAW MEAT RAW MEAT.