The battle took place in the kind of huge arena that is built to showcase professional sports franchises. The arena had been sawed in half from the top down so that ordinary folk like me could see into it free of charge.
The preliminary event was a family reunion, in which I was reunited with my grown sons, Drew and Spencer, when they were little boys. We wrestled, threw the football, and shot hoops, but just for fun, not keeping score like we did in the old days.
Soon a small crowd showed up, consisting of old family friends. They hadn't come to watch us play; they were more interested in eating and drinking and reliving the memories thay'd made when they were young. Some of them remembered my name, and I remembered the names of some of them. No gifts, other than warm feelings of love and charity, were exchanged among the attendees.
The atmosphere was such that it became the kind of place I wanted to stay in forever– warm but not too warm, happy and with no guilt attachments, carefree yet with good governance. There were people I hadn't seen in years who looked like they'd live forever.
At one point the trumpets sounded, and we were all ushered outside to watch the spectacle taking place in the big arena-The Battle of the Milk Duds. What a show! What pageantry! The Milk Duds poured out of their boxes onto the field below and began rolling around, some in straight lines, some in circles, hundreds of thousands of chocolate and caramel Milk Duds, fresh off the assembly line, cavorting for our enjoyment and delectation.
Perhaps though this was only a dream, fueled by acetaminophen laced with codeine followed by a shot of Trader Joe's vodka, and that I'd dreamed it in between much tossing and turning.