Flannel ain't got Shit on Goose Down

One night I dreamed I was ensconced in a flannel hammock.
Though bitter cold nipped all about my checkered cocoon I was as warm as toast.
Suddenly my dreaming self recalled his own dream, one of rigid chill, of discomfort.
But as the bubble inside the bubble grew thin and weak, and sub-sub conscious eyes began to flutter, warm flannel was layered over my shivering body.
The bubble burst and I was a glowing coal.
Through a small hole in the fabric I saw shirtless and pant less figures smiling down upon me.
My eyes frantically searched their faces for familiarities before they were washed away by the smoky cold breath of some lurking predator. I darted from face to face and though I was already red with warmth, I blushed, realizing I was in the presence of flannel royalty. King Borland and Arch Duke Vedder neither flinched or shivered as the tidal wave of frozen breath lurched over them. Prince Nirvana threw himself headlong into the mist. Count Young and Lucas the Sorcerer simply turned their backs as the ice cloud crystallized their bodies. Horrified, I burrowed into the rows of flannel as ice axes and frosty barbed wire battered the soft walls of my shelter. The barrage passed and all was still. Then, a sickening crackling and snapping of flannel ripped through the calm. My muscles recoiled as layer after layer of flannel shattered like lake ice. My mind, unprepared for what horror would surely consume me, forced itself back into consciousness. I did not get out of bed that day.