Dawson Filter as He Relates to Swords

Dawson Filter leaned toward a potted birch tree in the back-left corner of the courtroom; as a result leaning toward Twelve-Anne Stradivari, his best defence attorney. Perhaps that was his motive all along.

“Twelve-Anne?” He said, pointing to the centre o’ the courtroom with one of his fingers “Do you see that gold-plated man whose nose I’d be poking out were my index finger twenty seven feet longer?”

“Probably;” She replied, “my eyes are open and everything.”

“Could you call him up to the armchair of justice? He looks like a younger rendition of Wayne Rubblefish, and given that I’m being accused under the assumption that I’m Wayne, I feel like you could probably question the facts right out of that bloke.”

Twelve-Anne nodded, and stood, which her grade eleven art teacher always told her was like a full body nod. She pointed at the man of whom Dawson spoke, and said “I would like to call you to the armchair of justice, man of gold.”

The man, whom I’ve decided to call Benedict Oakley until it is formally revealed that his name is Wayne Rubblefish, sauntered to the chair; and sat down upon it with his left hand rested against his only chin like a true thinker.

“Would you care to tell the jury your name?” Twelve-Anne asked.

“Yes, of course,” he said, “anything for the jury. I hereby formally reveal that I am Wayne Rubblefish, born and raised!”

“Now, that’s not a particularly common name. Do you have any connection to this case?”

“No, m’lady, I’ve never seen the defendant before in all of my days. And it’s not all that irregular.”

Sylvester Denny arose, ready to speak. He waited for the rest of the world to catch up with him, and moved his vocal parts. When transcribed, the sounds he made look like: “Mr. Rubblefish, I know about the kneecap on your wrist!”, complete with the permalink and everything.

“What!” Wayne Rubblefish said, likely using the word as more of an exclamation than a question, a possibility supported by the punctuation I chose. “Fine! Yes, I’m just as involved as involved can be with this case! I am president of human affairs for the Illuminati for the Blind. One month ago – one month from my perspective, to clarify – an older version of myself, also named Wayne Rubblefish, proving that it really isn’t such an uncommon name after all, came to me in a time machine I bought last week from a man named Mortar Reality – again, last week from my perspective – and told me that one day a man would be born named Sylvester Denny. I gave me a file folder of information about him and his quest buddies, and told me to oppose all of his life goals. I wrote up papers saying that I own him, told his nine year old self to give up on his dreams, and framed his comrade Dawson for tax evasion. I’m sorry-ish for all of this; but do NOT tell the world of my knee problem!”

Twelve-Anne grinned a mighty grin, turned to the judge, and said “Your honour, I’d like to move for a full dismissal of this case.”

The judge stared at the jury, analyzing them, deciding what they would say. “Motion moved.” He announced, reaching under his desk, “Dawson Filter, I bestow upon you the Sword of Patrick as compensation.” He tossed an épée to Dawson Filter’s hand; and Dawson thrust the blade through his left pocket, which he intended to use exclusively as a hilt until he found a more traditional way to store the sword. Ah, that Dawson and his traditions.

The Quest Committee sprinted to the door, arms flailing and enemies failing. They felt very, very, alright; and for the first time since Life-Choices-Luther pointed at Dawson and said “Wayne Rubblefish, you are under the arrest of the Official Government for tax evasion and comic mischief. Come with me.”, they thought that perhaps they felt just as alright as the situation required.


Dawson Filter as He Relates to Thumbtacks

“I would like to call Odysseus Packard to the armchair of justice!” The nameless lawyer proclaimed, for the sake of the entire human race. Except you.

Odysseus used his ears to hear said lawyer; and fulfilled the man’s desire, submitting to his exclamation mark’s authority.

“Would you please describe the events of 2:47, February 11, 2113, Mr. Packard?” The man who only wished he could be named Mr. Packard asked.

“Yes. Oh, yes.” Odysseus confirmed. “Yes, well I took a single bite from a stalk of celery; promptly after which I spied with my very left eye a man-yes, a man-walking. I turned my head to see another man, a replacement man; but truly only a little silhouetto of a man, for he seemed to be evading taxes. I shouted ‘You’re not the man you once were my friend, but only a faded silhouette.’ He turned to me and said ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there’; then he made a triangle around his ear with his fingers. I, yes, I, fired off a few dozen warning shots via gun; and he, yes, he, ran; but not before dropping his birth certificate. I picked it up, put it in my left pocket, and then 2:47 was over.”

“Thank you, Mr. Packard, I know this is hard for you.” The lawyer said, violating his probation by closing his mouth, concealing the firearm he stored within. “I have no more questions.”

Twelve-Anne Stradivari nodded to Dawson Filter, and strolled to the armchair of justice, as though it were possible to simply stroll to the armchair of justice.

“Mr. Packard,” She began “Did you get a decent look at the offender’s face?”

“We will never look back, look back at the faded silhouette.” Odysseus replied, cryptically as the day is long.

“What was the race of the man you saw?”

“Caucasian, with some gold plates about his arms, torso, and legs.”

“And would you care to state the race of my defendant?”

“I refuse allow ethnicity to influence the verdict of this case!”

“Can you confirm that he is of  a different race than Caucasian?”

“He is everything a Caucasian is and more!”

Seeing that this line of questioning was somehow yielding no results, Twelve-Anne decided to try to convince the jury that time travel was a thing, so that they would have an easier time believing that Dawson Filter et al. were time travelers.

“Do you see this thumbtack?” She said, pulling a thumbtack from her right pocket.

“Yes.” Odysseus replied, predictably.

“Do you know the make of this thumbtack?”

“No, miss.”

“This is an Interwell Lp04, my good man, my father used to work at the company. I found it by a vending machine in 2016. According to my research, they stopped making these in 2037; they said the young generation didn’t deserve the superior quality that only an Interwell can provide. Tell me: do you see any rust defiling its flawless surface?”

“No, I do not.” Odysseus Packard replied.

“Would it therefore be safe to say that this thumbtack traveled through time?” Twelve-Anne prodded.

“As safe as it is to say that I can say whatever I want to with no consequences, if not more so.”

“Then is it not also reasonable to say that my defendant, with whom this thumbtack and I were found, is a time traveler, and did not exist at the time of the offence?”

“Yes, I suppose that yes, him being a time traveler is reasonable enough; but even then, there’s no reason under the sun why he couldn’t’ve committed tax evasio-”

“No further questions.” Twelve-Anne interjected, turning to sit back down on the good bench.

The members of the Quest Committee who were already seated on the bench clenched their fists, and pointed their thumbs up for Twelve-Anne; using the common hitchhiker’s symbol to congratulate the weary traveler on a job well done.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Armchairs

“May order fall down upon the court in the case of Wayne Rubblefish against the Official Government for tax evasion and comic mischief.” A lean man with in a leather robe declared, in a voice his mother had always told him to save for his uncle’s ranch. “Mr. Rubblefish, how do you plead?”

Dawson Filter shuffled his knees in thought, unsure whether answering to this lie of a name would count as perjury.

“Bah, what’s in a name,” He said, “innocent.”

A beige-clad man motioned for Dawson to sit in a matching armchair, promptly after which said man began to speak, continued speaking, and finished speaking, respectively.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

Dawson hung his head inside  of shame.

“Who do you think you are? Justice is a verb!”

The jury applauded.

“Tell me: do you like taxes?”

“No, sir.” Dawson confessed. “I downright dislike them.”

“A motive!” The lawyer cried, neglecting to insert a verb into his sentence as beads of air streamed down his face. “Where were you the 2:17 of February 11 of 2113?”

“I don’t think I existed then.” Dawson Filter said, deciding to trust the legal system to trust him. “I am a time traveler.”

The esquire chuckled, in order to lighten the spirits of the jury , and demonstrate his ability to mix business and pleasure without sacrificing his performance. He held up a birth certificate to Dawson Filter’s right eye. “Can you confirm that this is a picture of you?”

“Yes.” Dawson Filter sighed, fearing that this would be the end.

The man turned to the judge on his way to turn to the jury. “This was found by a police officer, who reports that it could be, and was dropped by a man evading taxes at 2:17 on the eleventh of February, 2113. I’ve gotten no further questions.”

The man mimed dropping a microphone, which Twelve-Anne Stradivari took as her cue to ask Dawson the sort of questions defence lawyers tend to ask. She rapped her fingers on a nearby stool, and said:

“Mr. defendant: what is your name?”

“Dawson Filter.” Replied someone in the witness armchair.

“Tell me, Dawson Filter: is, in your opinion, Wayne Rubblefish the same name as Dawson Filter?”

“No, ma’am.” Dawson said.

“Is it true that Post Toasties are crackling with fresh corn flavour?” Twelve Anne asked, deciding that Matlock was one of Andy Griffith’s more difficult roles to imitate, and so opting for a sponsor spot she’d once seen him perform.

“Objection: relevancy.” The beige-clad man interjected.

“Objection overruled; I get paid by the hour.” The judge replied.

Dawson Filter was less familiar with obscure 1960’s pop culture than Twelve-Anne, and so did not know that the correct response to her question would be “yes”; but didn’t feel like risking perjury again, and so stared blankly into the eyes of one of the spectators. Just as he recognized the audience member, Twelve-Anne announced that she had no further questions, and dismissed Dawson from the chair. She walked back with him, and they exchanged a glance unworthy of further description.

Babe Listowel passed a note to Dawson. You have gnarly stage presence. You’d make a “Dawesome” magician. Dawson smiled.

“It’s still quite possible that you’ll get out of this, Dawson.” Sylvester Denny assured.

“Wonderfully possible.” Corrected Twelve Anne.


Dawson Filter as He Relates to Rowboats

They* say that justice is a verb.

Bah, this was supposed to be written in the past tense.

“Justice is a verb.” They said, over the prison intercom to mark the hour.

“This could wind up being downright bad.” Dawson Filter remarked, never stopping to take his feet off of the ground.

“We’ll probably get you out of here.” Twelve-Anne assured. “It’s probably pretty hard to find a person guilty of tax evasion committed by someone with a different face.”

“We cannot leave matters of things that matter to the system!” Babe Listowel pointed out, raising his fist to the sky, which was visible through the prison’s sunroof. “We sail out of here tonight.”

He pulled a rowboat from his real pocket, and watched Sylvester Denny grin, as sunlight stolen by the Earth moon shone down upon a grinning Sylvester Denny. Dawson offered a bout of applause, and Twelve-Anne feigned a cheer; but the frenzy was cut short by the mighty scissors of fate.

“Blasts!” Babe exclaimed, turning. “I’ve forgotten the oars.”

“We could call a lawyer,” Twelve-Anne suggested, “or ask someone good what happened.”

Sylvester Denny snapped one of his fingers to signal a guard. One such guard came to his side, saying “Yes?”, although not expecting a yes or no answer.

“I was just wondering if you could legally tell us what happened to force the officers of the system to write this fine, young anti-villain into their book of un-good things.” Said Sylvester.

“Well,” The man responded, wasting a full four letters, “this fellow was seen evading some taxes out by the deli; and we can’t have that, so my comrade Odysseus W. Packard fired some warning shots at him. Odysseus told me ran the man ran off; but not before dropping this.” The guard reached over to the evidence coffee table and picked up a birth certificate.

Birth certificuit

“May I please have a lawyer?” Dawson asked, well.

“If you can find one in the next fourteen hours.”

“The trial is in fourteen hours!” Dawson exclaimed with an exclamation mark.

“I’d understand your alarm if you had anything to prepare,” Said the guard, “but I can tell from the look in your eyes that to say such a thing as this would be to say such a thing as a lie.”

The guard turned about, and trotted off to attend to the desires of another prisoner. Sylvester and Dawson sighed in unison, and were about to do it again when Twelve-Anne said: “I could try to lawyer for you, Dawson. I had to take a course in law to qualify for the art school I went to, so I know some laws; and I watched Matlock.”

“Thanks.” Said Dawson, gratefully; because he knew it was better to be grateful than hateful.

“Also, I think I know enough conspiracy theories to convince the jury that time travel is a thing, so we might even be able to tell the truth.”

The Quest Committee set to work, writing down defenses, and thinking of cardless solitaire variations for Dawson to play in jail when those defenses would inevitable collapse. After several hours, the group separated by gender and degree of incarceration to sleep.

Six hours after that, they awoke to the sound of a gavel resonating through the courtroom which they had silently carried them to.

*They written in brown refers to indistinct members of The Official Government.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Tax Evasion

Dawson Filter stepped. I wouldn’t usually mention it; but this time, he stepped into the world’s most Amazonian basin. According to some accounts, he mimicked his step after Erwin Schrödinger’s 22222th. According to some accounts, he was wearing a hat; so you ought to take that with a grain of salt.

As Babe Listowel too crossed the threshold to the land of parts, Dawson contorted the middle of his neck to make his correlating head’s face face Babe Listowel’s lower torso’s upper torso’s neck’s head’s face.

“Do you yet know the True Meaning of Feelings?” Asked Dawson, stooping over to split infinitively adjust his right sock.

“Nay,” Babe Listowel said, “I suppose my instincts lied.”

“By darkness!” Sylvester Denny bellowed. “Did not even one of your instincts remain loyal to The Quest Committee?”

“It’s fine.” Twelve-Anne said.

“We can still rise above my instincts to find The True Meaning of Feelings!” Babe proclaimed. He looked to his stomach. “You told me I’d know the answer to our quest if we went to the Amazon Basin! That wouldn’t typically be a problem, but it wasn’t true! I do not forget, and I do not forgive!” He punched himself in the abdomen, and guffawed at its weakness.

As Babe Listowel lay as close as he would ever get to the ground, hornèd hat at his side, The Quest Committee heard the low hum of sirens. A stout man, clad in a dark blue woven waistcoat emerged from a cloud of mist which he appeared to be generating with a portable fog machine.

“Wayne Rubblefish,” he said to Dawson, “you are under the arrest of the Official Government for tax evasion and comic mischief. Come with me.”

Dawson Filter was relatively bewildered by this life-development; but followed the man into his pitch black van.

“The paint’s so dense light can’t escape.” The officer explained, putting a lit match into his mouth. “We’re safe, though, because we’re not light. When we have children come from the place of children, I tell them ‘If you’re too bright, the paint absorbs your soul, so be sure to never study.'”

“You should probably quit that.” Dawson Filter said, pointing at the match. “I had a friend, or, no, that’s a pretty rotten way o’ describing him, I knew what I assume was a human called Life-Choices-Luther who smoked matches. Do you want to know where it led him? He was a chef.”

“Given that my chums call me Life-Choices-Luther, I’m not a chef, and I’ve never seen you before, I’d go so far as to say that that is a lie.”

Life-Choices-Luther motioned for Twelve-Anne, Sylvester Denny, and Babe Listowel to join the fellowship of the van; and, once they had, pressed his ring finger against a button, not in opposition to the button, but in exactly they way the button wanted. The engine purred a mighty purr, and the vehicle set into motion. After approximately the perfect amount of time, it pulled into the lane of a building marked “Prison”, and Life-Choices-Luther told The Quest Committee to exit the van, which he showed them how to do by exiting the van.

“You!” He squealed at Dawson Filter, under the delusion that this counted as a sentence. “Get in an expletive removed cell!”

Dawson Filter obeyed, waving to his fellow Committee members.

“And You!” Luther continued, pointing now at the others. “Get into the chamber of visitation, and visitate the chump!”

All complied to the man’s order, confused, but not unused to the feeling. They only hoped that they would one day be able to find out what the feeling truly meant.