As Dawson, Sylvester, and Babe sailed, they all consecutively looked up to the sky. Sylvester, the last to conjure his neck to point his face away from the only non-sky portion of the universe, sniffed the semi-frigid air four times; blinked nine times; and said “I’m really not all that fond o’ the fourth cloud from the left.”, wishing the vapour dead.
“Sigmund Freud probably said that everyone has a nemesis. Even if he was right, mine would still be Sigmund.” Babe Listowel replied, his kidneys hard at work.
“If you haven’t anything nice to say, don’t be saying anything at all.” Dawson suggested, knowing that no one aboard had anything nice to say; and thinking silence would be a pretty dandy addition to the vessel.
Sylvester began to make the sound of screaming; and the the half of the rest named Babe joined him in in his quest for two-thirds of the crew to scream together. When they realised that they had met their goal, they quieted themselves. This moment of silence ended, however, when the steamboat’s passengers saw that they had run adrift on what appeared to be an abnormally large tumor, five kilometers across, if I can be trusted. Dawson Filter was the first to step off of the boat; and the last to circumnavigate Ganymede, though that event would have yet to take place for twenty-four more years.
“Well I sure stepped out of a steamboat.” Sylvester said, promptly after joining Dawson on the tumor, “And it looks as though you have, too, Mr. Listowel.” he continued, equally truthfully as his first statement.
“Is this the right basin?” Dawson questioned, shockingly stoic for the second third of his question. Babe notified him that the tumour was not the Amazon Basin; and Dawson let his decision to take up speaking pay off as he said “Oh”.
“This is a tumour.” Sylvester confidently stated.
“That’s kind of a lie.” Babe Listowel told Sylvester’s face, almost matching Sylvester’s confidence.
“No it’sn’t. There’s more than one kind o’ tumour, you narcissistic barbeque. There’s the bodily one with no friends; and the one only the people reading about us and I know about, which is anything someone calls a tumor. This is the latter.” Explained Sylvester, heart beating as his knees buckled, man. Two years after I wrote the word “man”, and four seconds after Sylvester said the word “latter”, Dawson Filter saw and then turned a dial on the tumour so that it pointed to the number “2040”. All present watched as the ocean to their left morphed into a stone slab which the company would later discover was the largest moon in their solar system.
“That could’ve made more of the sense.” Dawson noted with a couple of knees. Babe Listowel noted the rightmost one of these knees; and began to perspire his fluids heavily.
“Has your right knee always been so symmetrical?” Babe asked as a result of that he wished to know whether or not Dawson Filter’s right knee had always been as symmetrical as it now was.
Dawson bent his torso to look at the knee of the hour; and upon doing so, he said “No.”, after which the party of true-meaning-of-feeling-ists knew that this tumour had surely heightened the fanciness of their quest to a much higher degree.