This isn't his worst nightmare, not by far, but it's bad enough that it actually manages to mortify him, despite what a difficult feat that is. Why does his dick have to be so... so camera shy? He quickly looks around for some pants, willing to take anything, even if they're booty shorts. This being a dream, a pair of running pants just happens to be draped over a nearby chair, and when he goes for them, the crowd of cameras (well, it feels like a crowd to him) follow, shouting what he's certain now to be French-- but not like French French. This is like Babelfish French. Hey, he remembers enough of his high school French classes to pick up on the fact that, while familiar, these words are all wrong and awkwardly jammed together.

It's a challenge to yank his newfound pants up without his junk flopping out of the robe, but he manages, thankfully, and as soon as those pants are on, the old men cluck their tongues disapprovingly and move on to their next victim, who seems to take direction far better than Marty.

Well, the show must go on. Whatever the show is.

Marty uses this opening to make his escape. Rushing past Felicia-- he barely even registers her presence-- he makes for some double doors and pushes them open, only to come face to face with... a wall of water.

Oh, they're in the ocean.

To Marty, this makes perfect sense. He slams the doors shut and turns to Felicia, now staring at her long enough for the familiarity to click. He leans closer to her and points at the door, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Hey. Hey. I can't go out without an umbrella."

Boy will his face be red once he realizes this is like those dream invasions his sister used to do all the time.