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.