Dawson Filter as He Relates to Game Shows


Dawson Filter stooped down to pick up a cardboard box. He missed. He stooped over once again, this time with his eyes open, and placed the box on top of another box. The other box was similar to the box: both were made of cardboard, they were the same shade of beige (that being #FFF8E7), both had recently been picked up by Dawson Filter, and both were boxes.

Dawson Filter turned around, and in the process ended up seeing Sylvester Denny. Upon hearing Sylvester ask ‘What ever are you doing?’, Dawson decided that it would be appropriate to answer the question with an answer.

“I am currently building an office for Hank.” said Dawson, whose surname was Filter. “It may be made of cardboard; but it is a box office; so it’s something of a pun, and as a result I am happy.”

“Oh.” Sylvester said, having not been able to hear Dawson over the sound of the words coming out of Dawson’s mouth, “I was thinking about our quest to find and retrieve the True Meaning of Feelings, and how we’ve so far made absolutely no progress; and then my mind started to hurt from all o’ the thinking, so I turned on the television to numb the pain. On said television was a local game show. On said game show, contestants were asked questions, and they had the tendency to get them right. Suddenly, I had an idea, and the idea had me, and we were finally together: I could become a question-writer for the show, and then the contestants would have to tell us the answer to our quest if they wanted free coupons to the Oistermill Spa Chambers.”

Dawson raised arms to indicate that he wanted to raise his voice, but had been having some throat trouble lately.

“No, I dislike this idea; and so reject both it and its creator.” he said, afterward clearing his throat, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I’ve been having some throat trouble lately. It is the only idea we have. Let us begin.”

Dawson and Sylvester agreed that Sylvester’s resume would be more impressive it was written entirely in questions, and began writing. Before long, it became impossible to write any more; because writing is impossible if you don’t try, and they had no reason to try, what with the resume being complete, and Sylvester waiting at the game show office to drop it off.

“You know when you feel like you’re going to die, and then you remember that you’re going to die?” the receptionist asked, whittling her desk into a whale.

“No, sorry, I’m here to drop off a resume. My resume. I’d like to become a question writer for the show.”

“I approve. I usually have to write up the questions myself; which makes me essential, and then I can’t get promoted. It’ll probably be a while before someone sees your resume. Everyone else who works here only comes when we’re filming, which is Tuesdays. They also can’t read, so if you want your chances of scoring a job to skyrocket to Not Zero, you could prove yourself by helping me generate next week’s questions. We don’t have to write the answers or any such nonsense, the host uses magic to know them.”

“Sure,” Sylvester replied, “I can start now, as you probably could have guessed from how I’m here now, and don’t look like the sort of person who would ever have prior commitments.”

“Neat. How about, ‘You are trapped on the moon with a lawyer, a drill sergeant, and a seamstress. On the second day, the seamstress disappears, leaving only a single lock of her hair in her sleeping bag. On the third day, the drill sergeant disappears, leaving only a single lock of her hair beside where you had laid the first lock. On the fourth day, the same happens to the lawyer. On the fifth day, you find the three locks of hair in your satchel; and a shuttle arrives to take you home. What is the right thing to do’?”

“Good question. Do you approve of ‘What is the True Meaning of Feelings’?”

“That’s good.”

After some time, Sylvester and the receptionist introduced themselves; and Sylvester went back to the office to rest. He would come back the next day. He enjoyed the mysterious atmosphere of the game show headquarters; so many questions, so few answers. If he needed to have to have one job to keep his first job, he wanted this to be it.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Snake-Related Injuries


Felipe, an intern of sorts, took a gander out of the nearest window. He turned the goose over in his hand; and upon seeing that it did not meet his standards, set it back. As he stooped over to put the gander back in the window, he happened to look outside. Outside appeared to be primarily unremarkable, save only for a helicopter which was landing on a nearby patch of grass.

“Oh, a helicopter landing on a nearby patch of grass.” he was able to remark. Motioning for Dawson Filter to join him, he ran to the outmost side of the office to greet the helicopter pilot. The only other helicopter pilot Felipe had known was his stepfather Giovanni, and he wanted to get a better impression of the sky-men.

“Hello, Dawson Filter.” the pilot said, “Not to brag, but I’m Hank Monroe.”

“Hello Hank.” Dawson answered. Filipe smiled. His stepfather never greeted anyone. “What sort of thing brings you to this area?”

Hank leaned against the helicopter door; “I heard about your little start-up. It didn’t sound like you had any steady source of revenue, so I thought to myself ‘Hey, they sound like pretty subpar business people. I bet that if I posed as someone who would help them make money, that they’d hire me, and then I could embezzle from them freely.’ I disregarded the majority of that thought; but it gave me the idea of helping you make money, under the condition that I have complete access to your resources.”

Dawson had some minor doubts about Hank, but Felipe had come to trust him like the back of his hand.

“Sure, man!” Felipe began, “As an intern it is most definitely within my pow’r to offer you a job. You’re like the step dad I never had. I’d like to offer you more than I job. I’d like to offer you a career.”

“You’ll have to interview for it, of course.” Dawson interjected, “We could even start now, if such a time as now tickles your fancy.”

Hank nodded via his head, and followed Dawson into the office. He took a seat on a box opposite Dawson, and Dawson called over Twelve-Anne and Sylvester.

“This is Hank Monroe,” Dawson said, “he’ll be interviewing for the position of director of the money-making department.”

Twelve-Anne took a clipboard from the floor, and began to read off of it, “Do you have any prior experience with directing departments, Mr. Monroe?”

“Oh, I’ve studied the art of direction, miss.” Hank said, twirling a deck of cards in his fingers.

“Do you have any health issues we should know about before hiring you? And if you have a health card that you could show us, that would be lovely of you.”

“Is this your card?” Hank asked, removing a health card from the deck, “And yes, I have several snake-related injuries that shorten my attention span to three hours. It’s still about 1400 times longer than average, but I used to hold the record. They just found the rocker who did it to me on the moon.”

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”

“I see others before myself and the present before the future.”

“Why would you like this job?”

“To prove to the world that helicopter pilots are able to settle down and have healthy relationships.”

“Are you currently employed?” asked Felipe.

“No.” Hank replied.

“Wrong.”

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Offices


Sylvester took a broom from the closet designated for such sticks; and began sweeping up the streamers the room had accumulated in the last hour. Upon seeing what an eyesore the floor was when bare, he gave up; and made plans for burning the broom. He looked up to see Dawson Filter, who happened to be talking to him.

“Now that you know what a sham your life turned out to be, would you like to join us on our quest?” Dawson said, twirling a real screwdriver between his two best fingers; “We run about through time and space trying to find the True Meaning of Feelings; making little progress and suffering semi-regular breakdowns.”

Sylvester Denny had been having an awful lot of feelings lately. He’d wondered what they meant for some time; and one of the most pervasive of the feelings was boredom, which a quest seemed likely to remedy. As a result of these, and seventy-three other factors, including that saying ‘yes’ is how one agrees to a proposition in most English speaking countries, Sylvester said “Yes.”

“About the time and space and whatnot, we did forget our time machine on the moon.” Twelve-Anne reminded Dawson; having taken a course on the legal repercussions of false advertising to qualify for art school.

“Ugh! Disillusionment!” Sylvester moaned in English, “I still have seventy-two reasons to say yes, though; so I’m still illusioned-up enough to come along on your quest.”

“I am currently pleased, largely due to your decision.” Dawson affirmed, “Is there anything you’d like before we re-embark on this journey of love, loss, and hope?”

“Well, I am somewhat fond of stability.” Sylvester noted, “Could we set up an official quest-office to discuss the sorts of things people discuss when in offices?”

“My landlord rents out office space in Nebraska in his spare time.” Felipe interjected, “It’s more of a hobby than anything, so the cost is pretty low; and there are a lot of streetlights around. There’s this one that I’m particularly into; and every time I walk by, I can’t help saying to myself: ‘nice post’.”

“Simply perfect.” Twelve-Anne said.

Dawson nodded; because he agreed.

Felipe leaned back against a wall, twiddling his thumbs on his stomach. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been reconsidering my career in the field of body storage. This internship isn’t really working out for me; so if you need an intern of sorts for your office, I would accept the position in a heartbeat.”

Everyone in the room shook Felipe’s hand, welcoming him onto the ground floor of what would soon be (spoiler warning) a grand operation, complete with real money. And at that time, the ground floor of the Quest Committee Office was the top floor.

.  .  .

Twelve-Anne passed Dawson another cardboard box to unpack. Dawson unpacked it, as well as the smaller box inside, the still smaller box inside of that one, and a series of sixteen other boxes.

“There.” he thought to himself, and anyone nearby who might have been reading his thoughts. He looked over the boxes. Thirty-seven in total, he counted. That should be enough to start them off.

Sylvester walked into the room. He turned around several times to inspect the new office, and handed Felipe a stapler he’d just bought at the local black market.

Thirty seven-boxes and a stapler. Sylvester finally had his stability.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Parties


Houses were not the sort of thing Dawson Filter broke into on the average day. In fact, he broke into nothing on the average day; the average day being January 14, 1632, based on twelve factors determined by the Northwest Northern Ireland Fun Facts Database. But then, Dawson Filter didn’t exist on the average day. On the day in which this chapter happens to be set, though, Dawson Filter did exist; as did the fact that he was preparing to break into a house.

I use the word “house” only in the sense that it was being used to store humans; one of whom Dawson intended to save. This was how Dawson justified breaking into the house to himself.

“I bet there’s a door.” He bet Twelve-Anne, pulling a nickel from his money-pocket; “We could always break that down.”

Dawson pulled a sword from his other pocket; and thought to himself: “I am currently holding a sword.”

Twelve-Anne and Dawson charged to the house; and although they reached it, they never reached a home.

“You were wrong.” Twelve-Anne said, “We can’t break down this door. It’s made of wrought iron, appears to be no less than eight-inches thick, and is additionally already broken down.”

A young, python-esq man came to the doorway; and, upon seeing Dawson’s disappointment at not being able to break a thing, allowed the Quest Committee inside. “Inside” consisted of a lengthy hallway, lined with mint-condition doors and photographs of regular graphs. At the end of said hallway stood another door, this one with leather panels, iron casing, and a sign reading “These are not the words that were on the sign. The author is a liar. Stop reading these words if you value reality.”

The man shook Twelve-Anne’s hand, and said something not unlike “Hi, I’m Felipe, an intern of sorts. Can I get you anything?”

Twelve-Anne nodded, “We were just looking for Sylvester Denny. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, we’d like to save his life.”

“Yes can do!” Felipe flourished his arms, “I bet the galaxy that he’s in the room marked ‘Sylvester Denny’.” The intern of sorts ran to the door he spoke of; and, before Dawson had a chance to slash it down, opened it.

The trio entered the room. Sylvester was strapped to an office chair facing a projector. He had headphones about his ears; and was watching what he’d assumed were his hands on the projector, serving a customer of Walter’z Breakfast and Midday Snack House a midday snack.

Felipe slid off the headphones as Dawson flicked the light switch. “Excuse me,” Felipe said, “there are some people here who want to tell you that your life is a lie; and, on a cheerier note, would like to save it.”

Sylvester turned around, revealing his perturbation at this development in his already subpar week.

Felipe took a boombox from behind the door; and began talking, in the hope that that would fix things. “Are you alright? Probably not, right? I bet a party would help.” He threw a handful of streamers into the nearby air, and began to play suitable party music on the booming box. Dawson flailed his arms to the beat, unsure of the best way to comfort his friend; who, from his perspective, didn’t yet know Dawson. Twelve-Anne looked away, hoping to save making an impression for when it became possible to make a good one.

After some time, Sylvester took a streamer, and tossed it upward. He smiled. He wasn’t happy, exactly, that his life was a lie.

But the party did have a considerable amount of merit.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Taxis


Hank pulled an impressively long beverage straw from his overcoat, slid it into his company helicopter’s gas tank, and hopped off of a helicopter pad. He placed the other end in a convertible which presumably belonged to him, and proceeded to holler “Hank the Embezzler siphons again!” from the various portions of his lungs.

Dawson watched Hank drive in the general direction of the horizon; and turned to Twelve-Anne to say “So that was that person.”

Twelve-Anne nodded, as if to say “Yes”. She flailed her arm at a would-be-passing-by taxi. Upon seeing her arms, the driver changed his earlier plan of not stopping to a new idea of his, which revolved heavily around the concept of stopping. The Quest Committee clambered into the cab, only to find that they were in the cab. The door’s lock locked the door behind them; and the taxi master turned around to collect the fare.

“You’re probably wondering why I just turned around.” Said the man, in an accent he’d picked up from playing too much tetris, “It’s to collect the fare. I enjoy the concept of money, and I think there might be some laws about labour saying that compensation needs to exist. But you know all about laws, don’t you, Dawson Filter?”

The driver ripped off a Paul Simon mask from his face; revealing that his true identity was something more along the lines of Wayne Rubblefish.

“I am currently surprised!” Dawson exclaimed; and made a note to himself to use the word ‘currently’ more often. It had a sort of ‘pop’ that was typically reserved for names, and all of those R’s in a row sure did a throat good. When I say it had a sort of pop, I do mean this exclusively in the past tense. ‘Currently’ was pronounced completely differently in those days, using vowels unheard of in modern culture.

“Here is our fare.” Twelve-Anne placed a wad of six dollar bills in Wayne’s hand. “It is now in your hand. Speaking of your hand, what is it and your assorted other parts doing here? Also, another thing I should say: we would like for you to use the fare to take us to a shack on 79th street. Or rather, we’d like you to take us to a shack on 79th street, which is why we are paying you. We would like for you to use the fare for clean living and legal fun.”

“Sure to the part about 79th street. And to the question, I say this. This is also included in what I say. As is this. And to finish off, I say to you that I am here to mentally torture you; and to watch over what belongs to me. You do recall that I have a deed on Sylvester Denny, don’t you? Or were you too busy saving his life to be good at things?”

“Maybe you owned him on Ganymede, but look out of your window.” Dawson Filter said, “That’s no moon. And do you want to know a thing? That fistful of wads of taxicab fare is all in Canadian currency. And it just so happens that Manhattan’s not in Canada.”

Wayne Rubblefish unlocked the door closest to Twelve-Anne. “Fine. You win.” The door opened. “The cab hasn’t been moving, by the bye. That helicopter pad belongs to the shack you were so mad about getting to. Thank you for the money and the memories.”

Twelve-Anne and Dawson left the taxicab, just as you might have imagined. They looked up to the skies; and knew several assorted facts, including that they were one step closer to saving Sylvester Denny’s life than the last step.