Tag Archives: life

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Prison


It was Tuesday, they say, when the Quest Committee came to Rower’s Pokey. Or Sunday, if you trust Mac Dallas. Don’t. They seemed like any other gang when they were booked, tougher than a fresh lander; but this couldn’t have been any more than their second circus. Babe Listowel looked like the ringleader at first, had the hat to pass for one; but they all looked at Dawson “the Marble” Filter when anyone asked them a question. There were two others; Twelve-Anne Stradivari and Sylvester Denny. They both looked like the accountant type.

“What are you in for?” Martin asked.

“Just doing what we needed to to survive,” the Marble said. That was good enough for most everyone.

Sylvester was whitling next to Mac when the ‘nmates started to think they might be different.

“We’re going to (unintelligible) out of here,” Mac said he said.

There was genius in talking to Mac. Every single person in Rower’s Pokey was going to “break out.” But no one else would have said that kind of thing to Mac Dallas. Mac’d tell anyone. Sure, everyone knew about the Quest Committee’s plan; but given that Mac spread it, any of the Marble’s gaggle could deny the plan to the guards.

Rower’s Pokey was built in the base of a freighter; in holds 4-6. The freighter was in the Pacific, which contains too much water. There’s something you need to keep in mind about D. Marble F., though: he happened to have extensive knowledge of oil pipelines in the Pacific. Twelve-Anne’s good with the ears and the hearing, and heard one of the guards, Pike Hammer, say that the slammer’d be passing into British Columbian waters in about a month.

One day, while the ‘nmates were on wall-dusting duty, Babe Listowel (Babel, as Pope called him) slid a note under the captain’s quarters. Apparently there was going to be a glorious flock of fulvous whistling ducks at some cove around the time the freighter was in the B.C. Maybe Babe was telling the truth, but honestly, he’d earned enough of a reputation as a fabulist that I’d bet against it if anyone was willing to take bets against the author that controls truth in this story.

The Marble convinced a guard to give him a shovel. Said it was for his back pain, but everyone knew he had other plans for it.

And they dug. Babe Listowel did most of the grunt work, probably because of his rippling biceps; but Twelve-Anne kept watch and Sylvester hid the hole every night by sleeping over it. Many prisoners were confused about the exact purpose of the hole, but it felt important, and people respected it. Jackel even arranged for some of the other prisoners to dig down through the rest of the hold’s floor to make the hole’s indent less obvious, and to help Sylvester rest better.

Two weeks before Rower’s Pokey was due to be in the duck place, the Marble tapped the bottom of the hole with his fist. The sound resonated through the hold, and he said that was enough digging for now.

And they waited. Until one day, everyone agreed it was Thursday, the Marble said to hit the hole one more time. Babe did, and the Marble told him to hit it ’till it leaked. About five strikes later, and having gained an audience in just about all the guards, the hole sprung. The Quest Committee and everyone else who could swim dove into the opening that day. Swam into an oil pipeline. Through 20 kilometres of oil they swam, and came out the other side, they say. Most of the escapees were found, and brought back to ol’ Rower’s. The four who started the thing thing, though, they were never found. They were legends, they were.

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.

“Truth.”

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 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.