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.