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.