The Royal Road to the Unconscious

Last night, I dreamed I was sitting in some sort of restaurant or banquet hall. At the next table sat a father, balding and clad in a black leather jacket, and his seemingly awkward son. We each had toy pistols and were firing suction darts at one another, for whatever reason. After a few rounds, the young man misfired, and his father proceeded to belittle him in front of everyone. I decided to walk over to see what was the matter, hoping not to rouse suspicion before quickly drawing my pistol and planting one between Pop's eyes. To my surprise, the old man dodged the oncoming projectile, though, perhaps, I had not intended to hit him after all. He returned with a stinging glare, and I countered by telling him he loves his son. Upon hearing my words, he began to weep.

Does anyone wish to play Freud?