Kidnapping Spree and the Trip Down Hooker Lane

I had the most vividly unusual dream last night.
The story begins with me as a police officer, and that's an irony I'll have to explain to you elsewhere. My memory is foggy here, but I distinctly recall me and my partner picking up on--

[An incident...? A crime...? A random happenstance...?]

--that seemed to be related to a string of kidnappings in the area. We managed to notice enough clues and small-scale evidence to relate to this string (were we beat cops, or detectives?) and proceeded to call down to the precinct. Then we went there ourselves. I had this strange feeling as I walked in that the other members of the force were hiding something from me, like they all knew something I didn't and were doing their best not to arouse my suspicion of it.
The next thing I remember is me and my partner coming across a distressed man, probably twenty-something in age, who was babbling about how someone had taken his little brother and was going to do something bad to him. We told him to calm down, and then we called in to the precinct again.
What amuses me about all of this calling-in is that neither me nor my partner spoke in anything resembling proper police codes. Shows how little I know about actually -being- an officer of the law.
When we showed up to the precinct, I had that feeling again; that overbearing suspicion that there was something the other policemen and policewomen weren't telling me. I almost wanted to shake someone down and see if I could rattle the information right out of them, but I had to rise above that. I might know nothing about being a cop, but that doesn't mean I know nothing about self-control. Police certainly don't have a monopoly on that concept. I went to speak with my senior, to tell him about the situation, and I found myself hoping he might have an answer to what was going on with everyone else.
My memory goes blank here for a while.
The next memory I have is of being in some office building that definitely wasn't the precinct, stepping into a room with two people who were conversing about some unknown matter. I recognized one of them as my old job counselor, Jeff, and addressed him as such. We spoke for a bit, briefly catching up with each other and just making idle chatter. I never thought to ask what he was doing there. I don't think my mind even registered how strange it was for him to be present, right at that time.
Then, somehow, we all heard the twenty-something from earlier downstairs, making a lot of noise and yelling about his little brother. Recognizing how volatile the situation was going to be, I calmly and quickly ushered Jeff and his companion into a nearby elevator, looking to get them away from the commotion. Even though we were already two floors upstairs of it. I'm not sure I understand what my own thought process was like at that moment.
Another blank spot in my memory here.
Things must have progressed extremely far after the previous point, because my memory jumps to me and my partner at the top of an office building (the same one, or a different one?), watching a child who I can only assume by the context was that distressed twenty-something's much sought-after little brother. There was another man with us, someone I only mildly recognize who could have been a stranger or a relative of someone I know. We all spoke calmly, as if the worst of things was over, and I remember the third man saying something about how difficult it is to be a cop. I told him that, as much as I never would have expected to say it before, I agreed with him.
After this point, my memory goes blank again.
The next thing I recall is finding myself in some high-end venue I know doesn't exist, something that has to be straight out of a movie or a music video. The lighting was dark and intense, the place was full of people I know had to be strangers, and the stage was oddly close to the center of the main floor for some reason. I couldn't help being reminded of strip clubs and how they have stages set up in a mostly identical position, so everyone can see the goods, even if they don't want to.
I'll get to why that analogy is ironic in a moment.
There were bands playing. In particular, I remember hearing at least one Coal Chamber song, and towards the end, there was a band that was uncannily similar to Slipknot (to the point that I thought they -were- Slipknot) playing entirely different songs with similar names. I knew the names to all of them, but they were nothing like they should've been. It was like seeing some parallel universe version of what I grew up listening to.
Upon the start of Slip-Not's last song, my vision changed immediately. The place went from live concert to music video in the blink of an eye, complete with changing camera angles and production values that were far too high. The song was titled "Snuff", but was more like something off the self-titled album than the real Slipknot's song of that name. I liked it, but something about it seemed hollow.
The visual aspect was amazing, though.
Somewhere halfway into this sudden, inexplicable music video, I became aware of a crowd of extremely rabid and disturbingly hyperactive people surrounding the band members in each scene of them playing. Some were rolling on the floor, some were jumping around like fools, some were throttling each other to the sound of the band. Some were beating themselves on the floor like human drumsticks, and others were banging their heads to the music. Against everything in sight. Until they bled.
I'm pretty sure I remember someone stabbing himself in the throat with something. Whatever it was must've been sharp, because it turned his neck into a giant, cherry-flavored fountain.
When the band was done playing, I found myself on a couch not terribly far from the stage. I had a drink in my hands that I didn't remember purchasing, and on the whole, I was a lot more comfortable than I should have been after I'd just experienced metal music live, much less after witnessing what had taken place just a few moments ago. I watched the members leave, each in their own way, and caught sight of someone who looked more like he belonged in Hollywood Undead than the band he was leaving with.
Both him and the member most resembling Chris Fehn did some sort of strange robot dance as they left. I remember laughing and being very confused at the same time.
As things returned to normal and the studio music playlist interspersed between each band in the concert started playing again (because yes, every concert that isn't in a warehouse or a beaten shack has one of those), there was a woman who caught my attention. She was stunningly attractive in the way that only a model or a pornstar might be, with carefully styled blonde hair, a short white dress and several matching accessories. She didn't quite belong in a place like this, but for whatever reason, my mind never processed that.
Remember what I said about the irony of the strip club analogy?
She came up to me, in a way that was both natural and very obviously-intentioned. She introduced herself as "Hooker #1" (which, in retrospect, seems like a very unsubtle introduction even by prostitute standards), and then she asked my name. When I told her, she got me off the couch and asked if I wanted to get out of there. I knew what she meant. Even if she hadn't introduced herself as a hooker, I'd have gotten the hint from how she said it. I don't always catch those kinds of signs, but she made it very clear. Must've been well-practiced in that sort of thing.
I remember feeling a little too excited when I said "Sure. Get me out of here." I felt like she could see that for herself, but I don't think I cared.
We walked out of the venue (I made sure to finish my drink and set the cup somewhere random before I went-- waste not, want not), and as we did, my mind filled itself with plenty of vivid images of what I might do to her once we arrived wherever it was she was taking me. She asked me about myself, about my vices and what kinds of drugs I liked, and I remember answering her in a way that was very...myself. Then I stopped and thought to myself about the fact that I shouldn't have that much money left. In fact, I should have been flat broke right then, but something told me I had enough to pay her. Just enough. The prospect made the trip all the more exciting for me. I still don't understand why; I'm usually terrified of spending all of my money on one thing.
We stopped in some alley area nearby, and she left me to my own devices for a while. I remember two other hookers striking up a conversation with me soon after. One was a taller, somewhat older black woman whose best years seemed like they were quite a ways behind her. The other was a short Latina girl, a bit stout, but brimming with much more life and youth. I look back and realize both of them were wearing a near-identical black dress, though the Latina's was a bit tighter around her body. As we talked, I was somewhat pleasantly surprised to learn that they'd been at the concert as well. (although now that the dream is over, that does make me wonder how they managed to get into the alley before me and Hooker #1 did; the timing seems quite off there) I very definitely remember the Latina girl remarking on how the show "was some sick shit" in a way that made it clear this had been her first time at such an event. The black woman seemed to agree in a more seasoned, "I've seen it before and liked it" type of manner, which struck me a bit, since she didn't come off as a woman who listened to the kind of music that was playing.
Never judge a book by its cover, I suppose.
Soon enough, Hooker #1 returned, and the four of us walked the rest of the way to some nearby--

[Hotel suite? Apartment complex? Condominiums?]

--where they led me into a unit through an open doorway with bead strings in place of an actual door. I looked around at the interior, and was strangely unsurprised to find that the place looked like absolute shit. From top to bottom, the whole unit looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years, and probably wouldn't be for years longer. And then it hit me that the place looked distressingly identical to an old apartment I'd called home when I was much younger and still living with my mother and sister.
I voiced as much to the trio of hookers, and they simply laughed.
Hooker #1 went off to one of the rearmost rooms, probably to get herself ready for me. I remember my excitement being at an all-time high right then. There was something exhilarating about the whole thing, like I was doing something I knew was bad for me and just couldn't wait to dive headfirst into the sin of it all. It was that strange, dichotomous sensation of feeling like a kid and knowing you're an adult, being naive to an aspect of the world and being certain you're about to learn everything there is to know about it.
Can you tell I've never actually been with a hooker before? Because at this point, it should be obvious.
The dream ended before I could do anything, because as far as real life is concerned, I'm almost always so unlucky. As I type this, I feel like I've already forgotten some of the more important details, but I doubt there's any way for me to retrieve them, and I'm not about to try. The last time I tried to "return" to a dream that ended on a note like this, the next leg of the dream ended in me being killed.
I wonder, perhaps, if that was what was going to happen to me if the dream had continued. The tone of it had remained consistently dark throughout most of it, especially prior to my meeting with Hooker #1 at the gentlemen's-club-esque music venue. An ending like that certainly wouldn't have been out of place.
If so, I'm glad I woke up when I did. Better to end on a good note, even if that good note could have been so, so much better.