Dawson Filter looked up from his right knee to the sickeningly un-red landscape beneath his feet for 97°; and for another 16° to this stone-planetoid’s sky. After he had finished this exercise, he noticed that he was being greeted by a gold-plated man holding an burlap sack of memories. Recognising the man as the old bloke who was trying to have some fun on his last day before retirement twenty-four years previously, Dawson pranced over to where the man stood, offset by two-and-a-third metres, and forced himself to say “Hello, you neck-scruff-defiling goon. It’s been what, two days since last us spoke?”, setting grammar aside in this moment of reunion-istic fun.
“Twenty-four years, but you probably didn’t know your tumor was a time machine.” The old bloke replied, his eyebrows growing cold. “How ever has your crossing-word puzzle been?”
“Pretty dandy, mostly, is the answer to the question which you just asked. It’s having a bit o’ difficulty getting me to fill out 57 down; but come the time when I know the true meaning of feelings, I do declare: I shall fill out that whole line of boxes within the four following minutes.” Dawson tricked his vocal chords into saying; completely unaware that the level of symmetry of his left knee had just swelled to meet that of his right.
“Who ever are the people-beings to your backward left and backward right sides, respectively.” The golden man asked; put off by the recent developments in the state of Dawson’s knee.
“To the best of their truth-telling abilities, their names are Babe Listowel and Sylvester Denny.” The man you would have expected to reply replied; motioning for Babe and Sylvester to join him in standing within five meters of the old gold-plated bloke.
“Ah, yes,” the bloke verbalized, turning his face at the most Sylvester-Denny-ish human present. “You’re the one I own.”
“Oh, go build yourself a moose; that’s not even that legal!” Sylvester blurted in his owner’s direction.
“The reality of a situation has very little to do with its legality, Mr. Denny.” The gold-plated man, who will hereafter be referred to as Benedict Oakley, until it is formally revealed that his name is Wayne Rubblefish, stated. “Saskatchewan law may not allow for human-ownership; but I’ve hidden your possession rather well, never exploiting it for any purpose other than bragging rights. I didn’t even report you on my taxes, so I suppose I’ve broken at least two laws; haven’t I, you boatload of boatloads of yourself? You’ll never be able to prove either of them in a court of law, though; and you know it in your bones.”
Babe Listowel patted Sylvester’s head in an effort to comfort the waiter, until the head began to move, along with the corresponding body, which sped to a brisk jog as its mind became more sure that its little eyes were spying a large, cinnamon-flavoured, industrious building. The group followed Sylvester, to see that across the closest wall was printed a simplistic representation of an ear, enclosed in an equalatamazing triangle, with the words “The Illuminati For The Blind Headquarters” printed below; and, below that particular set of words, in marginally smaller print, “Sorry, we didn’t see you there.” Upon seeing and processing this image, the company blinked forty-six times in total; and began to wonder what this crossword puzzle business had become.