In the dream, I am an associate of the Fantastic Four, if not an outright member. I have no real recall of Johnny Storm, so maybe I'm him.

We are in an art deco hotel-- the New Yorker, specifically-- where we have been tipped by helpful bellstaff that Dr. Doom has holed up in a suite. He is here as Latverian ambassador, or just leader, or is in some official governmental capacity that makes him untouchable by law.

If I climb on top of a very large-- Kirby Large-- soda machine, I can see into Doom' suite from a high window, like the kind Matt Dillion would sneak into in DRUGSTORE COWBOY.

Sue is, of course, like Sue, and suspects our shenanigans will end in no good, but Ben is completely into the idea. Reed tut-tuts but eventually decides the prank, and its egregious violation of Doom's personal rights, are worth it in the name of research. Up onto the machine I go.

Doom has transformed the entire suite into an artist's studio, where he furiously paints and sculpts his own image. Mirrors-- lots of mirrors-- and photographs for reference, but clearly he is using the mirrors the most. He has sculpted a clay maquette of himself, cape unfurling magnificently, krunk goblet clutched in triumph, about 20 inches tall, and dozens of sketches and paintings. Some are close ups of the mask, others are Boris Vallejo-style Van Portraits. If there is a way Doom could paint himself, Doom had. It's insane-- and completely remarkable-- and unbelievably hilarious. I watch him pose, study the mirror, then quickly paint or draw what he saw, then pose again. Ridiculous, insane poses. Lots of clutching the air. Lots of spread-leg lunging.

I took photographs of it. Ben and I laughed like children at the monomania of it all. Who sculpts themselves, clutching a goblet of Krunk Juice?

The next night-- it is suddenly the next night-- one of the bellboys rushes up to us, breathless. "He's taking a bubble bath! He's taking a bubble bath! Come quick, he's taking a bubble bath!"

Sue is outraged-- if I actually go bursting in there to embarrass him and harass him, I'm not just being a sophomoric jerk and a child but it's actually CRIMINAL-- but Ben and I don't care. I'll do the crime, I'll do the time. Even Reed is caught up in the idea-- a photograph of his arch-rival in a bubble bath? That kind of propaganda is priceless. Sue rolls her eyes and leaves and I say to hell with it, here goes nothing.

I run into his suite-- RUN-- hellbent to get to the bathroom before he can get out, or call for security-- all I have to do is get into the bathroom and start shooting. The second I breach the suite, alarms sound and his security team is alerted and they're coming and all i have to do is GET TO THE GODDAMN BATHROOM and then I do and--

There's Dr. Doom, sitting in the bubble bath, candles everywhere. Sipping wine. I'm hitting the button and taking the pictures and then I realize-- his mask is off. He looks like how Mike Zeck drew him healed in SECRET WAR. He freezes. Looks at me, startled, then embarrassed, then angry. These pictures are gonna be totally lame, I think-- he just looks like some Dude, yknow?

His security staff are on my and drag me away-- he may have even said something like "Remove him from Doom's presence," something like that. And I say to him, just as I'm taken out:

"It would've been funnier if you left the mask on."

•••

I have no idea why I dreamed this. I am not writing, nor am I planning on writing, the Fantastic Four anytime soon. I haven't been reading the Fantastic Four or particularly thinking about them, or Dr. Doom. But I promise you this-- if I ever do, Doom will totally have an artist's studio where he is forever painting himself and his majesty.

Um.

Clearly I've been in comics long enough to have damaged some part of myself somehow.