Tag Archives: game show

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Orbs of Steel

One day, Ethanol Silverspool set about to wrangle up some dragons for a game show for which she worked. Her uncle, Jeffery Silverspool-Banks, lent Ethanol his front end loader; so the task took only the first half of the afternoon. She stored the dragons in a warehouse she found while riding a tandem bicycle with her coworkers; and spent the evening learning Nordic dragon lullabies in order to prevent death.

The following day, a whole motley o` things happened: the sun appeared to rise, a deer birthed a fawn, a butterfly flittered down to rest upon the the head of said fawn as a single drop of dew formed on a nearby flower, and Ethanol Silverspool opened the dragon warehouse. It was Thursday, the day The Local Game Show recorded its episodes. Barry Dextrous stepped into the light, where the light was better; and spoke words:

“Good evening, Murderville! We’ve got a real crackerjack episode prepared for you tonight. We’re experimenting with a new format; so instead of answering questions, our contestants will be slaying dragons. Oh, look, there are some contestants over there!”

The cameras focused on several humans in contestant attire before centring on a dragon being carted out of the offscreen warehouse. The contestants ran across the empty lot to the beast. Their lack of a plan should be frowned upon, although they did not suffer because of it. A door at the base of the dragon opened. In truth, it was not so much a dragon as a large sparkly wooden box. From the dragon box stepped Wayne Rubblefish and J. Gordon Whitehead. Wayne was clad in a brown leather jacket that neatly complemented his gold plating, and J. in a black suit jacket; if you were wondering. The contestants stepped back as Wayne spoke.

“Hello. I am Wayne Rubblefish, Director of Human Relations for the Illuminatti for the Blind. My associate, J. Gordon Whitehead and I are here today to disappoint you. You might have noticed that rather than slaying a dragon, you are listening to a monologue. Isn’t that a shame. And that isn’t even the worst of it. Oh, what’s this? I’m building suspense before I reveal what new evil I have done? I bet that strikes terror into your hearts. And what’s more: I won’t even be the one to reveal the new evil. Subversion of expectations!”

J. Gordon Whitehead looked past the contestants to face the camera. Brandishing his fist, he spoke:

‘Round the universe,

Wayne has forged an orb of steel;

There is no escape.

Watching the filming, Dawson Filter was among those disappointed. This was the second time Wayne Rubblefish had trapped him. The first was in a burlap sack, the first contact Dawson Filter had with Wayne. Dawson was able to escape that prison; but that was before being punched by J. Gordon Whitehead, which had a history of crippling people’s escaping abilities.

“Due to our disappointment,” said the contestants in unison, “we have decided to join these self-proclaimed evil doers. This life choice may not make complete sense; but in our systematic effort to build a better tomorrow the mistakes have been made call for desperate measures, fleece. Yours, D’Glester Hardunkichud and friends.”

The dragon box split in half, revealing a smaller box inside. This box was not truly a box, however, nor was it a pipe. It was a dragon. Wayne Rubblefish; J. Gordon Whitehead; the contestants; and Krillthorn Seembirth, whose conversion to evil was not notable enough to include in the story, climbed aboard the dragon to fly away.

Dawson Filter watched the dragon cross over the horizon. Ethanol Silverspool joined him. They had never appreciated their freedom until it was gone. They’d never even been out of the universe before the orb existed; but now that the voyage wasn’t an option, they felt claustrophobic. They watched the sun join the dragon over the edge of the visible world, taking solace in the knowledge that the game show episode would be the best Murderville had ever seen.


Dawson Filter as He Relates to Conferences

Twelve-Anne Stradivari banged a newly purchased gavel against the surface of a newly purchased table in a room of people with priceless friendships.

“Hank’s money-making department has had something of a successful week.” she said, “This is to say that we now have money.”

The Quest Committee stood for a round of applause.

“He has told me that he has been able to absorb the company responsible for creating The Local Game Show into ours, which is how we plan to fund every future project we take on. This brings me to Babe ‘The Autumn Tradesman’ Listowel, who says he has an idea for one such project.”

“I have been informed by my intuition,” Babe Listowel began, “that if we slay enough dragons, we shall surely be granted the True Meaning of Feelings, and our quest shall be complete. Dawson, Sylvester and I have refined our method of besting the brutes; that being Dawson slicing off one of the dragon’s vertical edges, bears wearing away at each remaining edge, promptly followed by Dawson delivering one final blow to the dragon’s weakest side. I have drawn a diagram to correct the blank stares upon the faces of Hank’s new staff.”

Babe Listowel held up the diagram, pictured in figure 1.

Dawson's Night Out
fig. 1

One of Hank’s subordinates stood to speak. “Hello, my name is pretty much Ethanol Silverspool. I’m the receptionist for The Local Game Show, among other things. I think that the Autumn Tradesman’s slaying method is swell and all, but I bet we could bolster our efficiency beyond human comprehension if we merged the dragon slaying department with the money-making department. Game show contestants would be told to slay the dragons for us, and we could steal any information they might gain.”

Dawson Filter replied, “That would be a pretty nifty merger; but does not darkness shroud The Local Game Show with respect to The True Meaning of Feelings? When I asked the contestants that particular meaning earlier, one of them punched me in the stomach, putting me into a three month comma.”

“Dawson Filter,” Twelve-Anne said, “you needn’t be so negative. Just remember our town’s motto, ‘Murderville: Where nothing ever seems to go wrong’.”

Dawson Filter conceded that Twelve-Anne was right. Ethanol Silverspool’s idea was funky and fresh and super legal. He signed the merger, along with everyone else in the Quest Committee; primarily for reasons. The remainder of Hank’s staff introduced themselves. Their names were Kelton McArtherstone, the tallest among them; Krillthorn Seembirth, the least extraordinary; and Barry Dextrous, the only one to give his real name. They set to work at once at writing The Local Game Show’s revised ruled. Contestants would be taken to the outskirts of Murderville, Nevada; and told to slay a dragon by any means necessary. Barry Dextrous would continue to host the show; and the prize for victory would continue to be two coupons to the restaurant of the sponsor’s choice, under the condition that the contestants tell Barry of any true meanings that might pop into their heads as they slay. Ethanol Silverspool was given the position of Chief Dragonmaster, which pleased her more than wood itself, and Krillthorn Seembirth would be official helper.

The conference was over. It was over, if you prefer pronouns. I must say that I do; I am a pronoun, after all. And although it was over, Dawson Filter, Sylvester Denny, Twelve-Anne, Babe Listowel, Ethanol Silverspool, Hank the Embezzler, Kelton McArtherstone, and Barry Dextrous’ lives were just getting started.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Stomach Punching

“Who here can read words?” called out Barry Dextrous, the host of a Nebraska game show. The crowd let out a united cheer. “But seriously, folks,” Barry continued, “who here can read?”

Several members of the audience raised their hands, of whom Barry called up Dawson Filter.

“Welcome to the show, my good man.” the host said, flashing his new teeth, “The game show, that is! You’ll be our question reader this week. Don’t believe me? Just look at the future.”

Dawson took the stack of cue cards from the hand of Barry, allowing the hand of Barry to more freely flail about as he introduced the contestants.

“Oh, look, it seems we’ve got some contestants this week. And what’s this? It seems as though they have names! Whee! I’d like to welcome Luther O’Finn, Babe ‘the Autumn Tradesman’ Listowel, and J. Gordon Whitehead, who has a chair.”

Dawson began to read.

“Truth or dare?”

Babe pressed down on his buzzer, causing it to buzz like never before.


Barry Dextrous pressed on a buzzer of his own, to indicate that Babe’s response was not only correct, but also audible. Barry had two buzzers, one of fire, one of ice; the former to indicate a correct response, the latter to indicate anything less.

“Neat job, Autumn Tradesman.” Dawson said, “I am currently pleased that you survived the moon thing. It makes me feel better about forgetting to mourn your death. And from what I’ve tasted of desire, I’m glad you got the button you did. But if I had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice. I’m sorry; that sentence didn’t make as much sense as you probably would have liked. I suppose I’m just feeling Frosty today. I shall now ask another question. Prepare your ears. 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?”

“I would like to say” said Luther, preparing to say “that I am super outraged about your use of the word ‘right’. Man, my right eye doesn’t even do anything. Not even my left eye does things. In fact, in Lanc-”

Luther’s word continued, as did his sentence, and his life. All of these these things will remain undocumented, for reasons beyond, if not my control, at least yours.

Dawson arose from the chair upon which he was sitting, the chair I never told you existed, to ask yet another question.

“What is the True Meaning of Feelings?”

As the question mark echoed through through the room, J. Gordon Whitehead leapt up from his own chair, the one you know all too well; and ran to Dawson Filter. Why he ran as quickly as he did remains unclear to this day; life is about the journey, after all. When he reached Dawson, he pulled out a fist he’d been saving for such an occasion as this, and walloped Dawson’s stomach with the very same fist as the one I recently said he pulled out. He reached into his pocket to pull out a pair of sunglasses, which he placed over his eyes to shield them from what he was about to say.

“The Sun.”

Which is when I think the day sort of jumped the shark.

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.