I was in some place conducting some heavy industrial production with my brother Joe: steel pouring, robots spot-welding things like on a Chrysler production line, the works. But also all very high-tech. I had a flatish silver thing in my hand, rather like one of those cased razors you use when you are scraping old paint off of glass, which I offered to Mom, who was also involved in this venture, and which had the unique virtue of suspending time for 53 seconds while allowing you to continue moving. We laughed over the similarity to its being like the gold watch in a corny made-for-TV movie I'd seen as a kid called The Girl, The Gold Watch, and Everything, but then she declined using it, which annoyed me to no end as it was perfect for what she was trying to do, which I seem to remember having to do with replacing a door knob, which makes no sense whatsoever.
This was supposedly tied in with the industrial thing I was doing with Joe, and which began to result in pieces of metal occasionally flying out from the process, which I had to knock away from me with a piece of metal that then morphed into a samurai sword for the task. Suddenly the whole scene changed and I was proctoring/participating in a nighttime neighbourhood cross country foot/motor race/obstacle course/duel composed of pre-teen kids (some of whom I think might have been LOMC campers of mine years ago) while still wielding the sword but now dressed as/playing the role of Deathstroke the Terminator, all set to "Beds Are Burning" (Tamarama Mix, to be precise) by Midnight Oil.