This chapter has been designed to be read in real time. For full effect, read at the pace indicated in blue at the beginning of each paragraph.
(Read at your own pace) Dawson Filter had always been a bit of an adrenaline junkie. He was also a personal safety junkie, and a lawfulness junkie, which kept his other addiction in line; but he had to admit that he liked it when things happened. Or rather, he would have had to admit it if he was asked, and silence and lying stopped being possible. Granted, he’d only set off on his quest through time and space to complete a crossword puzzle to delay the onset of dementia; but his reasons for enjoying the quest were primarily excitement-based. He liked explosions for similar reasons; but, and I realize I’ve been using the conjunction far too often in this paragraph, explosions which kill your best quest-mate 98 years in the past just didn’t quite inspire the same sort of glee as clowns blowing each other up at his local wheat festival.
(1440 words per minute) He took a second of his own time to think; taking some comfort in knowing that whatever was going to happen, it already did.
(288 words per minute) “Can we travel back in time to the year before Manhattan exploded to take Sylvester out of the city?” Dawson asked every single one.
(360 words per minute) “We really have no idea what the rules of time travel in this story are. Whatever physics suits our author’s fancy, I should imagine; unless he’s some sort of thrd party writer for a micro-managing publshing mogul, but we don’t seem quite thouroughly enough edited for that.” Twelve-Anne said, mainly in response to Dawson’s question.
(411 words per minute) “Why don’t you just find the man who built our time machine from sweat and math, and ask him what sorts of things are possible.” Sylvester Denny said through the intercom.
(28 words per minute) Babe Listowel ran with all the speed of the rest of his body to the time traveling machine, joined by Twelve-Anne ‘n’ Dawson, whose names also had a “w”. Unlike the time before they started running, it was 6:13 PM for the portion of the Quest Committee who refused to be named Sylvester Denny, and would be for the following 34 seconds. Babe Listowel stooped down to read words and the character “©” at the base of the machine. Felix Sports’ Machine For The Doing of Good Things ©2067, Felix Sports
(720 words per minute) “2067: It’s a year, and it’s a year worth dedicating a sentence to!” Babe Listowel declared; twisting the only dial in sight to 2067, resulting in fast acting relief for the issue of not being in the aforementioned year.
(864 words per minute) Felix Sport’s Machine For The Doing of Good Things brought the Quest Committee sans Sylvester to a room, the first time it had done so from the Committee members’ perspectives. It was a decent room; it might have been better if I felt like being descriptive, but it was certainly better than murder. In the room I used to be talking about before I started this sentence, which uses itself as its subject, sat a man. He looked about 6’7″; and might have looked taller still if his legs were longer. As the char-man reached into a bowl of oregano, Dawson Filter cleared his own throat.
(298 words per minute) “Who is it?” The man said before Dawson Filter had a chance to use his newly cleared throat, “And an even better question:”
(946 words per minute) Dawson saw that the man was pointing at him, and decided that he might try his throat out for a spin after all.
(246 words per minute) “Oh! You mean the question I was going to ask. That’s nice. You seem fun. Ack! None of these are questions. How’s the weather in 2067?”
(Read at your own pace) And then I had other matters to attend to, with local festivals and whatnot; so I stopped writing.