After blinking for the 76159442nd time in his his life, Dawson Filter decided that it would be at least a borderline-good idea to introduce himself to the Phineas Gage-esq woman who’d just agreed to join his quest through time and space to find the answer to 56 down in a crossword puzzle which had yet to be printed for another eight months.
“Dawson Filter,” He began, flourishing his allegedly securely attached arms, “(insert colon here) the name of every man, woman, and child whose mother shares mine’s tastes.”
“Ah. Personally, my mother’s thing has always been more Twelve-Anne Stradivari, but let’s let our parents fight their own wars,” Twelve-Anne Stradivari replied, staring at a spot of mustard on Sylvester Denny’s life.
“I’m the Sylvester Denny of our clan.” Said the waiter, shoulders akimbo, but with his heart in exactly the right place.
“And I,” Babe Listowel proclaimed, calculating exactly how loudly he was able to speak before repercussions began, “am Babe Listowel.”
“Does the group own a name?” Twelve-Anne asked, promptly after wondering that very question.
“No.’ Dawson Filter replied, hoping that the apostrophe would trick you into thinking the quotation was over.” Sylvester said, grinning.
“What about ‘The Georgian Harrisons’?” Babe Listowel suggested, wishing to relive his days in his high school band of the same name.
“Or ‘the True-Meaning-of-Feelings-ists’. Our author calls us that, so it’s all neat ‘n’ stuff.” Sylvester offered, hoping to defer attention away from ‘The Georgian Harrisons’.
“Or,”~ Twelve-Anne Stradivari, 1 January, 2016. She would go on to say such things as “since we all know what plywood is, we could emphasise this common ground by, when it seems like an appropriate time to call ourselves a thing, we could call ourselves ‘Plywoodn’t Give Up On Our Dreams’.”
This was generally regarded as an overall poor idea, but Twelve-Anne was new, and Babe Listowel looked as if he was about to speak again, so Dawson and Sylvester nodded each other’s heads, and didn’t speak for another twelve minutes. During this time Babe produced ‘The IFTB’s Guide to Being’ from his waistcoat pocket, which he’d found at the bottom of a casserole in the Illuminati for The Blind Headquarters. If you found the previous sentence unclear as to whether he’d found the book or his pocket at the bottom of the casserole, know that it was both. As he leafed through its pages, he notices that they appeared to be growing progressively brighter. He concluded that this was likely the result of the Sun’s rising relative to the book, but was surprised that he’d never noticed how acutely sensitive to light he was.
The time of Dawson and Sylvester’s silence ended when Sylvester remarked that they were currently going nowhere (relative to the Earth), rather than toward the Amazon Basin, as they’d planned. This was especially troubling, because it seemed to be the only plan they had, save for a commitment to oppose the system whenever convenient.
“This tumour which we call our own relocates to a different place for each year we travel to, yes?” Babe asked, secretly using his last word to double as the answer. “So we need only find a time which places us near said Basin. We could ever so very easily travel back to eight hours ago, when we were in close proximity to our future selves, and ask them when such a time starts to exist.”
Dawson Filter placed his cool, bone-filled hand upon the tumour’s dial, and prepared to turn it to 2016, until he became aware that to do so could hardly be called turning, and so, he kicked the machine, to find that this was indeed a good idea, just as it is a good idea to end a piece of writing with a comparison that sounds more meaningful when you don’t think about it.