Dawson Filter as He Relates to Barbershops

The pseudo-yaks slowed to a halt. Benedict Oakley stepped out the only one to display a police siren and bicycle rack on its roof panel; incidentally also the only one to be parked directly facing Sylvester Denny’s face. Benedict drew out a clipboard from his satchel, and checked off a box marked “eye contact”; holding the paper at an angle which forced Sylvester to conjure far worse images of things boxes could be marked. “Orphan puppies relocated to lower intestines with malice in my heart” came to his mind, though was dismissed after it became a more pressing issue that Benedict had taken a mallet from beneath his waistcoat, and had begun to say “Those are quite the kneecaps you’ve gotten, sad-lips-Sylvester. It’d be a shame not to-“, after which he paused for a few seconds to contemplate how he could make his sentence worthwhile, before continuing “donate them to a more deserving candidate.”

“No one deserves to have kneecaps; they just happen. You of all of the people ought to know that, Wayne.” Sylvester retorted, gazing at a lump on the inner portion of Benedict’s left wrist. Benedict blinked, knowing that he had already won the bet he had made with Pontius Smith that would have him do otherwise, and crossed his arms, calling over a stout man who seemed to be perpetually combing his hair in order to keep the part on the Easternmost side. He ordered the man to direct Sylvester and company to a barbershop for further questioning.

The man, who’s official name was Lance, though as they taught us at the academy: “Documents are only as official as they are rabbits”, brought Dawson, Sylvester, and Babe to a railed track. The track appeared remarkably similar to that of a standard railway, but with small shops and average-sized bed and breakfast inns rather than train cars. Dawson asked the gent, who shall be referred to as “Lance”, for the sake of simplicity, and to stick it to my tutors, where they happened to be going.

“Here.” Lance replied, pointing to the the opposite side of Ganymede, and meaning the place upon which the humans about whom I’ve tended to write lately stood. “We’ll be taking the long way around, though. Energy conservation isn’t really a thing on Ganymede.” He showed a guard a plastic lanyard hanging about his throat; spurring the guard to congratulate him on his promotion, and admit the four into the barbershop.

Dawson Filter sat in a chair toward the rear of the establishment, taking a moment to continue the crossword puzzle he had started twenty-four years prior. “Eckart Witzigmann’s drug of choice” √41 down read. Recalling The Eckart Witzigmann Project from his youth, Dawson wrote “cocaine” in the squares, getting a small rush of adrenaline from finding this to fit perfectly, without any of the additional underscores he typically had to write in order to complete crosswords. He thought more of The Eckart Witzigmann Project, and how closely the other contents of its website reflected his life. The parallels seemed endless.

Later in life, Dawson Filter would come to decide that he must have misremembered all of the happenings of the years of his quest. Things like that don’t quite happen, he knew. He would assume he was simply a bank teller or some such, had had remarkably vivid daydreams, and a boring enough life to forget about. Until that time, however, his journey was as real to him as the day is long, only its completion beginning to seem like a fantasy.





Dawson Filter as He Relates to Yaks

Dawson Filter tightened his belt to the fourth notch, and thought several words, many with the letter “w”. After 0.21 seconds o’ deliberation, he decided to raise his left arm, to spite his critics and everyone along the way who ever doubted that he could, doing so just in time to wave the arm’s accompanying hand at the Sylvester Denny who had seemed to arrive in the room.

“Hello Sylvester,” Babe Listowel said, in order to compete with Dawson’s welcoming gesture, “and how are you on this here fine day?”

“I am well, thank you,” Sylvester replied, shuffling a deck of working cards, “and you?”

“Oh, well I do declare: I am well as well can be. Have you come to free yourself from the burdens of the stuff in this world that doesn’t involve questing for the true meaning of feelings?”

Sylvester nodded his head on purpose, and used its mouth to say “Yes, yes, mainly the burdens caused by running about with a man who reminds me that I am his property every four to seventy minutes. It’s like when my great-uncle Barack was trying to make me inherit his blood-money; but I feel like with this one he knows I don’t like it. It’s almost gotten to the point were I dislike it, man.”

Babe Listowel knew from his time as rocker that when someone, say, Norman, has gotten some problems, it is best to pat him on his most convenient shoulder, and talk him through the DOORKNOB cycle:


Other negativity


willful and deliberate misKoNduct


Better stuff than the other parts

In doing so, Norman feels okay to be Norman, and Norman`s problems feel dead. Babe began to sing:

“Denial, hmmmm, denial (X4)

(refrain): Don’t you wish some other things/but it’s all DOORKNOBS everywhere

Other negativity, hmmmm, other negat-” but was fortunately cut short when a gaggle of blind human beings riding golf carts painted to look like yaks came riding o’r the plains to downgrade the Spandex Room’s Easternmost wall to a pile of rubble.

“Raise your hands until they’re up.” Ordered the first. He paused for a few seconds, guessed that the company had put up its hands, and snarled, as he had so many times before: “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

The golf cart-men weaved through Dawson, Sylvester and Babe, chanting that the Illuminati for The Blind is generally better than the general public. They were absolutely correct, assuming that the Javan Rhino Mafia is included in the general public, which Norman and I have both decided they ought to be, so it’s two to one, “James”. Dawson Filter leaned his trembling body in Sylvester’s general direction. “Do you recognize anyone in this people collection?” He asked, fully expecting an answer.

“Do I ever!” Sylvester replied, patting down his ever chapping lips with his tongue. “There’s Wayne Rubblefish by the post, and Twelve-Anne behind the eye patch. I don’t think that Wayne’s all that blind, by the by. The ridiculously tall one’s Pontius Smith, and the one wearing too much green for his own good’s name is Luther. If you see anyone here, there’s about a one-in-eight chance that his name’s Luther, unless you already know it’s something else, then it’s probably not. Take Stanford Wynter; I know his name’s Stanford, right? Watch this: Hey, Stanford!” Sylvester called, flailing his arms, “Your name doesn’t happen to be Luther, does it?” Arnold shook his head. “See. I’ve gotten this system pretty well worked out.”

Dawson Filter as He Relates to November

Morning came to the Illuminati for The Blind headquarters at 12:00 am, partially out of habit, and partially out of spite for 1:26 pm, who had hosted Harry Houdini’s death, despite Morning’s protests. As she came, Life-Choices-Luther strut into the Spandex Room, a lit match between his lips and a Norwegian casserole between his left hand and the air seven inches above said hand. Seeing that Dawson Filter’s eyes had been pointing at the flame, as much as spheres can point, Luther explained that his physician had recommended matches as a healthy-ish alternative to kerosene soaked Cuban cigars; assuring him that they were an order of magnitude hipper, anyway.

“Ah.” Dawson mouthed, complemented by his voice. “Thank you again for the food you’ve brought out of the kindness of your heart into the hollow recesses of ours. It’s quite neat how you give us stuff. Case in point: it’s neat now, and you’re giving us stuff.”  Feeling a need to justify Dawson’s sentiments, Life-Choices handed him the casserole most convenient to hand, which happened to be the one discussed in more detail in the previous paragraph.

After an unspecified time of things, said casserole became eaten, largely due to the efforts of Dawson Filter and Babe Listowel. As Babe set what I have decided to call the last piece, out of my obsession with the practice of recreational lie-telling, into his mouth-parts, he noted the existence of a thick, beige-spined book lying at the top of the bottom of the dish which once housed, at assorted points in its time as a thing: a stew, forty-nine forks, four litres of lithium, countless broken dreams, and a casserole. The volume was barely moist, with “The IFTB’s Guide to Being” printed, presumably to act as a title, in golden 34-point Times New Roman letters.

“Rule and/or regulation #1” Babe read, “Double the negative, double the fun.”

“That’s quite the sort of thing that is.” Dawson commented, startling himself with his voice’s temperature, which he had briefly forgotten to expect as non-existent. He leaned far enough to see the parts of the text which were meant to be seen, wondering why a book which seemed to have likely been published independently by and for an organization with “for The Blind” in its favourite name. The book seemed to yield very few answers, containing instead a boatload more rules and/or regulations (many of which were simply more general tips on maximizing fun-levels); as well as various conspiracy-outlines and a diagram of November marked “of a fair amount o’ importance”, which Babe took as an invitation to tear the sheet from its special place, sliding it into the satchel you didn’t know about (these are just some more words to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition, pay them no mind).

The diagram consisted mainly of an empty space approximating the size of the paper sheet, with several arrows pointing to assorted sections of the expanse, all labeled with coordinates corresponding to locations on the moon Io, save one, which was marked “The Amazonian Basin” in fresher ink than the others, and the only one yet to be stroked through in panda venom.

Babe Listowel offered a weak smile, far weaker than one would expect from someone with his jawline; and suggested to Dawson that they finish lining their stomachs with the casserole, forcing me to reveal that they still had four casserole-units left to eat, and the rest of society to come to terms with the loss of the lack of existence of this sentence.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Walruses

Fear was quite a thing for Dawson Filter as he surveyed the room. It closely approximated itself during the last time it had been surveyed, but this time it housed a stout, Lithuanian man with a shorter-sleeved shirt than the one he would wear the next day, and unlike his future self’s shirt, this one read: “I am NY”, and smelled of cottage cheese.

“Hello,” he said, peering down at a tattered piece of paper he had been saving for such an occasion as this. “Babe Listowel, Sylvester Denny, and Dawson Filter. I’m here today. I’m here today to tell you that I will be here tomorrow to feed you with food. I’m a bit of a chef that way. I’m named, by the way: Luther O’Finn. My chums call me Life-Choices-Luther, though, on account o’ my my smoking.” The portion of the room’s people who were not named Luther nodded, and thanked the other quarter of the population for the future food. As this quarter exited, what was now the third named Sylvester turned about to Dawson Filter with a glare that would make itself exist; if it needed to, which was far from the case, as it was already existing in the highest regard by the time it gained this property.

“You are the liar of the hour, “Dodecadawson.” Sylvester noted in Dawson’s direction.

“What ever have I done?” Asked one in the company, likely Dawson Filter.

“You told the one who is me that your name was Dodecadawson. Given that chefs know all and cannot tell untruths, the name of you is Dawson Filter; and by extension, your most recently revealed characteristic is the one of a liar: the property of lie-telling.” Sylvester scorned as Dawson hung his head in buckets of shame. He spoke to apologize, apologizing in the process; but Sylvester turned his scalp and assorted other bodily parts dear to him to the door to leave them all behind and face the truth. The exodus of people named Sylvester Denny was cut short, though, when Benedict Oakley became a fourth person for the room’s space; promptly after which he opened a brief case of smaller brief cases, and spoke.

“What do you know of walruses?” He snarled between clenched lips at the very man who had been the cause of Sylvester Denny’s attempted departure.

Walruses have, at times, been called nature’s most elusive creatures worth knowing about. Six-sevenths are completely benevolent, earning the title “Costa Rica’s Homicide Corks: putting a cap on murderous crimes since 1953”, as figure (1) clearly demonstrates.

Do like all graphs? Oh. You'll like this one.
figure (1): The First Figure

Of the 853 Nobel prizes awarded (as of 2012), 459 laureates lived in the eight countries home to walruses, showing these forks of the sea to be one of the main driving forces in world progress. When the number of walruses in a 100 km area is plotted against the area’s estimated neatness, the trend line line increases logarithmically by nine times for every 50 walruses, leveling off only when the walruses become the area’s centre of mass. Dawson Filter, the ignorant lump of porridge that he was, knew none of this.

“I don’t even know!” He exclaimed for a while.

“That’s good.” Benedict implied by saying “Good.” Shortly after the last echoes of the letter “d” finished coursing through the spandex room, he left the room through its very own door, in an act of betrayal to be known by future generations as “March of The PengBETRAYAL” for reasons which would require the explanation of far too many inside jokes in far too many languages to document in this entry. Sylvester Denny then recalled his discord with Dawson Filter on whether it was acceptable for Dawson to build their entire relationship upon a stack of lies, for him to sit atop and eat lie-cherries, spitting their pits of deception on the Sylvester Denny below; and followed Benedict Oakley in his act of departure.

As Babe Listowel shrieked the English word “no” to the skies, hope of the party ever discovering the True Meaning of Feelings enjoyed a series of crumpets in her lair, absent from the public eye for a moment, but mustering the strength to enter said eye again with a thrust and a battle axe at any hour.



Dawson Filter as He Relates to Spandex

Dawson Filter looked upwards. He did this several times throughout his life, though the instance most relevant for the sake of story development was the one in which he found himself to be seeing Sylvester Denny falling into a pit which Dawson had recently begun to think of as “that place where I am right now”. He was quite willing to accept the reality that it had become a place in which Sylvester was also located, and accommodated his position accordingly, namely four feet to his left. Sylvester was greeted by the ground, only recently aware that he had ever parted from it. Unsatisfied with the ground’s pleasantries, he instead opted to greet Dawson Filter, Babe Listowel, and Benedict Oakley.

“Hello, Dodecadawson, Babe, other man who claims to be the owner of me, who I am the predisposed to dislike with all that is within me.” Sylvester said with a spleen.

“Fo’ future reference, you may call me Wayne Rubblefish.” Benedict informed Sylvester, his apostrophe and lack of footnotes undermining his statement’s credibility for publication.

“Bah,” Sylvester whinnied. “I feel like I won’t call you that. The thing which I came to tell you, of which the thing which I just happened to tell you four seconds prior has little to no relevance, was that on my way out o’ a cabin I helped whittle, I heard, via my ears, two men plot to thwart all o’ my life goals, and warn you that the finding of the true meaning of feelings with you is one o’ said life goals, and by extension, seems like the sort of thing that would be included in a statement such as the one which they made.”

“Were they Hip Cats?” Benedict inquired of Sylvester, his spine where you would expect; exactly where he would want you to expect.

“(Name removed for publication) said a thing which was that, yes.” Replied Sylvester, smug in his confidence of his answer. It became apparent that Benedict had begun to fill his burlap sack with Dawson Filter once Benedict had filled his burlap sack with Dawson Filter; just as it became apparent that he had filled the pouch with Sylvester and Babe several seconds prior, man.

“This is less legal than the thing you were doing before!” Dawson recited  from his last thought.

“Perhaps it was on the Saskatchewan-most regions of Earth; but this, my pal, is Ganymede. Here, Saskatchewan law stretches only as far as The Illuminati for The Blind will allow. By the decree of The Hip Cats, if my Sylvester Denny is to be trusted, then his life goals are to be kept away from achievement; so I feel like taking the only three people in all the land who you three are to the Spandex Room is a fairly amazing life choice on my part.” Mr. Oakley explained, throwing the sack of humans over his best shoulder.  He proceeded to waltz up a flock of π10^3 stairs, whistling a butchered rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody as he went. Once he had finished, he opened a kindly door, and dumped the burlap carriage’s passengers onto the door’s room’s floor.

The floor was quite good, perhaps a 8.7/10, and as soft as the day is long. The group took little comfort in this fact, though, for they only took it as a reminder that this room was twice as spandex as their dreams ever could be.