My favorite daydream

Every once in awhile I catch myself slipping into daydream at the most inopportune times.
I'll be walking down a crowded platform through droves of eyes-straight-ahead strangers attempting to avoid their multitude of moving obstacles when suddenly I begin to contemplate just how wonderful it would be if I could simply leap up to the ceiling and crawl along the metalwork above all of their bouncing heads.
The more I allow this image to gestate the less I pay attention to where I'm going and inevitably I walk straight into the only person sipping a scalding hot cup of coffee and holding a baby to their chest.

Then there are the times when I'm dancing around like a fool in a bar full of I'm-far-too-sexy-for-you drinkers and have the secret vision of myself where I mount the nearest table, barstool, or the bar top itself, whip out my cleverly concealed batons and with a flick of my wrists launch the ends into rapturous flames and proceed to shock and impress everybody with my incredible array of daring stunts and fantastic confidence.
By the time this fantasy has completed itself I'm spilling beer onto the only girl wearing a white shirt and she turns out to be a lesbian and thus thinks there is absolutely nothing sexy about it.

And my favorite daydream would have to the one where, when walking through the dodgy part of anyplace, I imagine a whole slough of armed and dangerous individuals crowding around me, brandishing a variety of menacing weapons.
I look around at them, smirk slightly, set down my bag, then say something uppity and just-a-little-condescending but ultimately icy cool like "you really should've stayed home" or perhaps "this just isn't your lucky day". And flying into a myriad of jaw-dropping martial arts moves wherein I climb up walls, flip over whole piles of people, and transition between each blow with the precision and grace of a seasoned gymnast, I completely disarm and totally incapacitate each of the would-be marauders. This ends with me standing in the center of all the fresh carnage where I brush off some stray dust from my shoulder, pick up my bag, and step over the leader of the pack (who's favoring his recently vacated eye-socket) and utter a timeless parting line like "I wouldn't try that again if I were you" or "next time leave the fighting to your mother...oh wait, she's dead, you see I killed her with my thoughts."

Or something like that.

And again, by the time I've allowed my mind to carry me this far I've completely lost track of where I was walking and then begin to realize that I'm totally turned around and about as likely to conquer and crowd of roaming miscreants as I am not to need directions.

The worst part of these cruel fantasies is that they provide me with such a genuine thrill, a rush of excitement and adrenaline, like the world actually is full of the potential for such adventure and dashing affair. And then it's gone.
As soon as I am made to remember that they're only in my head I come down so hard that I feel every tread in my shoe's footprint like there's a giant weight pressing me further into the ground with each stride.

And from such a gritty grind there is no waking.