Bad news. Once the anyway pointless update of the idiot Scarton concerning his bag etc was done the cops locked him up on suspicion of involvement in another matter that is not the subject of this narrative. On his first night in prison Scarton lay awake until dawn in his jail cell and could not sleep at all, thinking about his wife to be, (Sophistia) and wondering what she would think of his unexplicable absence, and if she would go back to the Internet Singles Dating Bar Disco & Falafel Kebab Stand and find another man. On the second night in the lonely jail cell he could also not sleep. And on the third and fourth (4th) nights just the same, he just lay on what passed for a mattress and stared at what passed for the ceiling, counting down the hours like a Prisoner of Time itself. On the fifth (5th) night however, exhausted by all the fucking stress and slumber deprivations, Scarton at last slept a long, long very long night, not stirring even when the web Spiders were walking over him or when floressence (sic) lite was flickering, and not even stirring when the Guards treated him to Karaoke Fado © served cold from the corridor outside.

That night as he slept Scarton dreamed an epic, troubling and vivid dream, just like those that took place long before television and other crap conspired to spoil ‘the people power of human imagination’ ©.

In the dream he (Scarton) was a beggar man, soliciting coins on the corner of a street nearby an ATM in Lisaboa, and later he was setting sail on a sailing ship from the harbour, in his hands holding a flag of the ancient Navy and another flag, especially that of a well-known high-street Bank. In the final part or chapter of the dream Scarton was back in Lisaboa, no longer a beggar but rich beyond any compare as well as happily and legally married to Sophistia. In the dream the source of his wealth was linked in some way that was not clear, to a mysterious parcel what Sophistia carried for Scarton at all times, the parcel made of an unusual substance that other persons could not recognise, specifically a kind of orange canvas-like but synthetic material. Of course it was clear and well known to Scarton in his slumbering vision that this so-mysterious parcel Sophistia held for him was a kind of loose stand-in or temporary Symbolic of his missing rucksack, and that the fate of the two objects, one real, the other to a large extent metaphorical, was incontestably entwined.

On awaking Scarton banged his plastic plate and cup against the bars of his prison cell repeatedly, summoning the guards and earning both their disrespect and the great displeasure of his fellow prisoners, who wished to continue their slumbers much longer, or at least as long as was possible in that terrible jail.