Stupid little dream about being a sociopath

Had a great stoream tonight, almost a full movie. It was action and drama, but it was also realistically about me :D At first, not quite sure how, but somebody close to me was somehow involved with an international assassin/rogue agent – in the dream, like in a movie we meet him a character and find that he’s not a very nice person when his handler tells him he better stays known as British at the airport, meaning he better not gets found by the police and to achieve this, he uses silencer to shoot and kill several blameless police officers who are searching side passes. This man’s name is Mateo. He’s a young, handsome person, but a quiet, uncomfortable one. Why he is after someone I know I am not sure, but I get in his way and tell him that I can take a job if it means letting go of the leash of my friend/family member and as long as the job is about stealing books. He takes me to a forest where a rich man’s house is supposed to hold one. Yet instead of a simple lift job, this book is actually heavily guarded and the security are used to attacks, so they kill anyone whom they catch without any questions. I argue that I am neither trained, equipped, qualified or agreed for this kind of a mission, to which Mateo says I’ll just have to figure it out. We drive to the city, which is Paris or Bordeaux or one of the large French urban clusters; he is staying an African man in a small apartment when he is in this town and this African man is super friendly, they seem to be unusually close. The African man is slightly overweight, but he continues to admire the parts of his body that are fit and keeps fishing for (manly) compliments. He treats me less like a hostage and more like Mateo’s associate and seems to be a nice person. Though by now it’s evident Mateo is a sociopath and incapable of feeling anything, a handicap he regards as somewhat an allergy or something, he does not appear to be particularly antisocial. Sponging off his sociopathy, I sit next to him, watching him get stoned, saying I was hoping we’d at least fuck before we both get killed in a suicide gig. But he dozes off and I wander around the building, which is in a downtown, artsy district. I go through a small museum restoration studio and to a shop and conference depot, where two elder women, who are also acquaintances of Mateo, manage part of the museum. We go to have lunch in the park, talking – they can see I have some background in art history and are interested in my opinion. I complain to them I did not agree to work a violent job, but they have little to do with that, so they only offer advice that I flee, as he would not be interested enough in me to pursue me. Taking the advice, I wait until the museum welcomes a foreign female guest, which Mateo has been asked to take shopping for expensive gifts down the district. I see him in one of the elegant tiny antique shops and comparing him to the rich woman he is in the company of, I agree that although he is not very masculine, he does have a curious appeal to him (he is of Middle Eastern ancestry, so his hair and eyes are dark brown and he has red lips.). Using the crowd as a screen, I begin to walk towards the end of the shopping passageway, not looking back. By now, though, I am aware he’s sensed (if not seen) me and has begun following. I know as well that as soon as I start running, he will be able to pick me out of the crowd, same as cops can spot you, even if they couldn’t tell whom you were before. At the very edge of the shopping passage I charge and make for a sprint across the plaza. Mateo has the advantage of stamina – even though we start equally fast, the plaza is too long and I begin to tire. He catches me and we return to the African man’s flat. He lets me know that I will be invading the rich man’s house to get the book tonight. I ask to go to bed with him, even though I am really not turned on. He asks if I’m afraid and I say that I am worried he’ll disappoint me, the image of him having been built up so high by now. He retorts if shouldn’t I be worried about disappointing him? Then he chuckles: no pressure, eh? We have very brief, lacklustre sex, during which basically I am turning my head away, eyes shut and mostly holding my breath while he takes about a minute to get it done. It is the least sexy sex I’ve ever had. I wonder if this is how all sociopaths feel all the time. His condition unceasingly being contagious, I have by now also stopped perceiving the guards in the rich man’s house as people and see them only as moving pieces of a puzzle, or a rudimentary computer game, which I would not be above harming for my own gain. The dream ends when we drive back to the forest and I am looking at the lit house, almost all windows, costly looking, seeing plenty of armed men inside, moving a little bit like a complex lock for me to solve.