When our story began, it was 2016. Dawson Filter asked Sylvester Denny to join him in the search for the True Meaning of Feelings. Sylvester agreed because his great-uncle Barack was dealing out his inheritance; and Sylvester wanted nothing to do with his uncle’s blood money (I can’t expect all of you to believe me; but I never intended this to be a political reference when I first wrote it. I have no comment on Barack Obama’s policies). Barack planned to give Sylvester his money on 17 February; and Dawson Filter assured Sylvester that the quest would extend past this date, allowing Sylvester to avoid all cash flow from his aging relative.
Early on in their quest, they stumbled across a time machine. They, along with Babe Listowel and Twelve-Anne Stradivari, had a splendid time whizzing about the universe until Sylvester Denny died in an explosion in Manhattan. To save him, the others traveled back to 2015, losing the time machine on the moon shortly after their arrival. They found other ways to whiz about the universe, one of their favourites being the rocketship. Nearing the end of 2015, they set off on a voyage to the edge of the universe to break a hole in a steel wall that had trapped all those who call the universe home. They returned from this voyage on 19 January 2016.
Sylvester Denny’s telephone rang the following day. It was his great uncle.
“Hello, my boy. I was just making sure you’re up for inheriting my money next month.”
Sylvester Denny stopped blinking. He’d forgotten all about his uncle’s desire to give him things. He couldn’t take his uncle’s money, he knew; but he couldn’t reject it for fear of offending the man. Oh, wait, he remembered, those are both perfectly legitimate options. He chose the one he wanted to.
“No, dearest great uncle Barack,” he said, “I reject your money and your lifestyle. Do not call this number again unless you have a reason that I like.”
Barack chucked with laughter. “Oh, Sylvester, you and words. Remember: Money, it’s a gas. Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash. New car, caviar, four star daydream, think I’ll buy me a football team.”
“Oh, don’t you tell me about caviar, uncle of mine. ‘A delicacy consisting of salt-cured fish eggs of the Acipenseridae family,’ eh? More like ‘A delicacy consisting of salt-cured fish eggs of the black tar heroin family!'”
“Money: It’s a hit. Don’t give me that do goody good rabbit nonsense. I’m in the hi-fidelity first class traveling set; and I think I need a Lear jet!”
Sylvester breathed directly into his telephone’s microphone, hoping the sound would irritate his uncle, thereby removing any inkling to give Sylvester his inheritance. In the time Sylvester was breathing, however, he was not speaking. Barack saw this as an opportunity to hang up and have the last word.
Sylvester Denny slumped to the floor. He sighed. Dawson Filter, seeing his friend’s quivering shoulders, reached out his hand to comfort his glum chum (gloomy roomy, sad comrade). Just as a smile broke across Sylvester Denny’s face, they heard a knock at the door. It was Barrack Swelton-Denny, sadness-propagator extraordinaire. Clad in a 4-piece suit and sunglasses dark enough to eclipse the fire in his eyes, he held out his telephone. In his other hand, he held a cheque for $7,000,000.
“It’s pre approved,” he said, “so you have to cash it.”
The final nail in Sylvester’s coffin.