Tag Archives: helicopter

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.”

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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.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Lamp Posts


Twelve-Anne took a deep breath. The air tasted slightly different than the last breath she’d taken; less nitrogen-y, somehow. When she stopped to think about it, she couldn’t detect a terrible amount argon, carbon dioxide, neon, methane, helium, krypton, or xenon, either. The breath seemed to contain primarily hydrogen and oxygen. Peroxide? No, her lung infection didn’t seem to be improving at all. Ah, yes; water! This idea was supported by that her previous breath was taken in a space shuttle approaching the Atlantic Ocean.

She felt a tug at her wrist, which was promptly followed by the saving of her life as she was pulled up onto one of the larger pieces of the wreckage.

“Oh, hello Dawson Filter,” she said, brushing an ocean off of her blouse, “you have just saved my life.”

“That is accurate.” Dawson noted. He tossed a paddle-lengthed strip of metal in her hand’s direction. “We’re in the Gulf Stream now, so we’ll need to paddle like highly motivated ants to avoid Europe. Fortunately, however, I phrased the clause including work (namely the one about paddling) in the future tense; so we should have plenty of time before we need to start doing things.”

Out from his pocket Dawson pulled an object, with which he did a thing with for a length of time. (And no, Joanna, this story is not addressed to you, so our contest to see who can go the longest without saying the word “time” stands to one another stands. And even though the previous sentence had your name at the beginning, it doesn’t count either, because it is in brackets.) Twelve-Anne moved her eyepatch over her good eye so that she could rest undisturbed by the shiny pest we all call grit our teeth and call “the Sun”, and the Quest Committee’s raft drifted Northeast, carrying with it your emotional investments.

.  .  .

A man was named Hank, just like he was every afternoon; but on this particular day, he was flying a helicopter. It was sort of a job he had. He would fly defective lamp posts from Great Britain to the United Stated in a helicopter to deliver them to an Ohio exhibition dedicated to demonstrating that all British technology is defective, and America ought not trust the island on any matters ever until the end of time. The helicopter would generally run out of fuel and crash; and the exhibition would note that the helicopters were British-made. The reports Hank filed said the helicopters crashed, at least.

Hank looked through his window to see two human-shaped people sailing on a subpar raft. He took a sip from his glass of earthenware, and prepared to land on not-land.

Dawson looked upward, and, seeing that there was a helicopter in the direction he was looking, continued looking upward until he was able to look forward and still keep the machine in his line of sight. He nudged Twelve-Anne awake, and they agreed to accept Hank’s offer of “Get in the helicopter or see Europe; and I’ve gotten, like, thirty pamphlets from my boss in here why you should pick the former.”

“Where shall you take us?” Twelve-Anne asked, “Additionally, who are you? And hello.”

“Hi; I’m Hank; and I’ll probably wind up taking you wherever you like. Or better.”

“Manhattan would be peachy, if it wouldn’t be too troubling.”

“That sounds like a wonderful place to start over again.” Hank took hold of the copter’s controls, and did the sorts of things that make helicopters go to Manhattan. After an hour and four minutes of flight, the machine landed on a platform; and as the craft landed, so too landed the line representing the level of the opposite of the Quest Committee’s spirits on the y-axis when such levels were graphed.

This is to say that the Quest Committee’s spirits were high.