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.


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