“Har, ha, we’ve bested the system!” Babe Listowel told the world, beating his fist against his chest. The world was indifferent, but thankfully, so was his chest; and as he ran ahead of the others in his Feelings-quest posse, Twelve-Anne called out to correct him.
“Well, no; Dawson was innocent, and we proved to the system that he was innocent. It was more of a helping the government help us situation than anything.” She said, after which she began to dash toward him, in the hope that she could tie him in a footrace to wherever he would end up in about six seconds. Sylvester ‘n’ Dawson did the same; but alas, the winner was a dark horse.
“Ho, ho, ho, I’ve gotten y’all now!” Guffawed the unexpected winner after pulling ahead of the flock. He was clad in an black eye mask with eye holes cut out, a beige cardigan with armholes, and trousers you wouldn’t care about. The man raised an empty pistol, and asked the Quest Committee for their collective funds.
Dawson Filter chose to quiver helplessly in his clothes, while Sylvester Denny spoke his words out.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “Our funds are safe, my neighbours. That gun’s running on empty; and funds don’t even have souls, so that really wasn’t a huge concern anyway.”
“I’m sorry,” Dawson Filter said, leading in to him telling Sylvester that they had no way of knowing the contents of the gun, “but I hereby tell you that we have no way of knowing the contents of the gun.”
Sylvester Denny turned his head to face Dawson; choosing to rotate it clockwise, because the direction was 274º shorter than the alternative, and he wished to waste no time. “Dawson,” he began, “do you remember when I told you that we’re being written?”
“Yes…” Dawson Filter said, tripling the standard number of periods to show that his sentence (my sentence, by copyright law) is three times as finished as the average.
“The real reason I know is because I can read us.” Sylvester said. “That gun as is empty as our author is honest.”
The bandit man threw his gun downwards, and pointed at his cardiganèd arms. “No matter,” he said, “I’ve still got these guns.” The Quest Committee realized that the guns the gunman was referring to were his arms, which were too busy being used to point at themselves to be a concern.
“Debilitated!” Babe Listowel shouted, pointing, with a finger on his hand and a place in his heart, at the bandit.
The gunman let out a cry of defeat, and Babe pulled a pair of hand-tailored cuffs from behind the man’s ear to interrogate him.
“What do you know of the True Meaning of Feelings?” Is what Babe Listowel said.
“I’m a child on the matter, really;” The bandit promptly responded, after which he motioned his head in the direction of Wayne Rubblefish carting off Life-Choices-Luther in a burlap sack, “but that man yonder told me that I was supposed to ask the questions, and even then, to speak with my arms; so I could well be middle aged on the matter, and a senior citizen of a liar.” He made a hand flourish appear from thin air, rolled into a nearby bush, and coughed.
The Quest Committee was alive; and any committee worth its salt is alive, so that’s nice.