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.