Tag Archives: prison

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 Ice


Being in Antarctica, Dawson Filter was cold. He made a comment about this to Sylvester Denny, who said that he was also cold; but was worried what his friends would think if he mentioned it. Babe Listowel placed his hand on Sylvester Denny’s forearm; and, feeling no difference in temperature between their respective skins, determined that he must also be cold.

“I bet that we would be less cold if were not in Antarctica,” bet Sylvester Denny.

“We should not be cold. We should not be in Antarctica,” reasoned Dawson Filter.

“We would not be in Antarctica if we left” ~ Babe Listowel, 2026.

“We could leave with a boat,” said Twelve-Anne, who was also there.

Babe Listowel instructed the group to close its eyes. After 8 hours, he told them that they could re-open their eyes, revealing a sailboat he had carved out of ice.

The sides of the ship were rough, and the sail was too octagonal to win any beauty pageants. The ship was only twelve seconds old, and was therefore too young to win any lotteries, either. Still, the sea didn’t really have any standards as to which boats were worthy to enter its waters, so the craft was deemed seaworthy.

The Quest Committee boarded the vessel, and adjusted its sail due north, to Murderville.

Dawson Filter rested his head against the halyard and followed an especially blue patch of sky with his eyes. Sylvester Denny set about chasing all the rats off of the ship, and Twelve-Anne worked on her memoir. Babe Listowel bailed out water that must have leaked into the boat. Dawson, Sylvester, and Twelve-Anne broke from their activities to sing some shanties; but Babe Listowel remained unable to find where the water was coming from.

“Is it raining?” he asked the others.

Sylvester Denny checked his barometer.

“No.”

Science Background for this Portion of the Story:

Ice can melt. When it melts, it becomes water. Water is dangerous, and ought never to be touched. Our heroes are forced to face this reality when their ice-boat begins to melt. Water, when heated to 100 °C, boils and turns into water vapour. This provides one method of escape for our heroes, namely to evaporate the ocean, making the water benign; however, this requires more time and resources than they currently have, which is why they opt to scream for help.

“Aaaah! Help!” our heroes screamed.

Hearing their cry of distress, a group of people dressed as sailors turned their boat to face the crew of the ice boat. The leader held up a resealable bag and a lifesaver.

“We’ll rescue you if you buy these illicit drugs from us.”

“Alright,” Sylvester Denny said.

“Jokes on you. We’re undercover cops,” the leader said, pulling out a badge.

“THAT’S ENTRAPMENT!” Sylvester objected.

“Silence, you degenerate. I’m going to throw you these handcuffs, and you’re going to put them on. That goes for the rest of your crew, too. You’re everything that’s wrong with this ocean.”

A tall woman with a police-officer-ish face threw four pairs of handcuffs that were fastened to a pole with ropes into the ocean. The members of the Quest Committee fastened them onto their own wrists; loose enough to be humane but tight enough that they felt the weight of what they’d done. The officer who’d spoken turned a crank, hoisting them onto the coast-guard ship. A burly, toothless man with custom sunglasses labeled “Luther O’Finn” chained them together at the knee, and threw them into a room labeled “Prison.”

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Rowboats


They* say that justice is a verb.

Bah, this was supposed to be written in the past tense.

“Justice is a verb.” They said, over the prison intercom to mark the hour.

“This could wind up being downright bad.” Dawson Filter remarked, never stopping to take his feet off of the ground.

“We’ll probably get you out of here.” Twelve-Anne assured. “It’s probably pretty hard to find a person guilty of tax evasion committed by someone with a different face.”

“We cannot leave matters of things that matter to the system!” Babe Listowel pointed out, raising his fist to the sky, which was visible through the prison’s sunroof. “We sail out of here tonight.”

He pulled a rowboat from his real pocket, and watched Sylvester Denny grin, as sunlight stolen by the Earth moon shone down upon a grinning Sylvester Denny. Dawson offered a bout of applause, and Twelve-Anne feigned a cheer; but the frenzy was cut short by the mighty scissors of fate.

“Blasts!” Babe exclaimed, turning. “I’ve forgotten the oars.”

“We could call a lawyer,” Twelve-Anne suggested, “or ask someone good what happened.”

Sylvester Denny snapped one of his fingers to signal a guard. One such guard came to his side, saying “Yes?”, although not expecting a yes or no answer.

“I was just wondering if you could legally tell us what happened to force the officers of the system to write this fine, young anti-villain into their book of un-good things.” Said Sylvester.

“Well,” The man responded, wasting a full four letters, “this fellow was seen evading some taxes out by the deli; and we can’t have that, so my comrade Odysseus W. Packard fired some warning shots at him. Odysseus told me ran the man ran off; but not before dropping this.” The guard reached over to the evidence coffee table and picked up a birth certificate.

Birth certificuit

“May I please have a lawyer?” Dawson asked, well.

“If you can find one in the next fourteen hours.”

“The trial is in fourteen hours!” Dawson exclaimed with an exclamation mark.

“I’d understand your alarm if you had anything to prepare,” Said the guard, “but I can tell from the look in your eyes that to say such a thing as this would be to say such a thing as a lie.”

The guard turned about, and trotted off to attend to the desires of another prisoner. Sylvester and Dawson sighed in unison, and were about to do it again when Twelve-Anne said: “I could try to lawyer for you, Dawson. I had to take a course in law to qualify for the art school I went to, so I know some laws; and I watched Matlock.”

“Thanks.” Said Dawson, gratefully; because he knew it was better to be grateful than hateful.

“Also, I think I know enough conspiracy theories to convince the jury that time travel is a thing, so we might even be able to tell the truth.”

The Quest Committee set to work, writing down defenses, and thinking of cardless solitaire variations for Dawson to play in jail when those defenses would inevitable collapse. After several hours, the group separated by gender and degree of incarceration to sleep.

Six hours after that, they awoke to the sound of a gavel resonating through the courtroom which they had silently carried them to.

*They written in brown refers to indistinct members of The Official Government.

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Tax Evasion


Dawson Filter stepped. I wouldn’t usually mention it; but this time, he stepped into the world’s most Amazonian basin. According to some accounts, he mimicked his step after Erwin Schrödinger’s 22222th. According to some accounts, he was wearing a hat; so you ought to take that with a grain of salt.

As Babe Listowel too crossed the threshold to the land of parts, Dawson contorted the middle of his neck to make his correlating head’s face face Babe Listowel’s lower torso’s upper torso’s neck’s head’s face.

“Do you yet know the True Meaning of Feelings?” Asked Dawson, stooping over to split infinitively adjust his right sock.

“Nay,” Babe Listowel said, “I suppose my instincts lied.”

“By darkness!” Sylvester Denny bellowed. “Did not even one of your instincts remain loyal to The Quest Committee?”

“It’s fine.” Twelve-Anne said.

“We can still rise above my instincts to find The True Meaning of Feelings!” Babe proclaimed. He looked to his stomach. “You told me I’d know the answer to our quest if we went to the Amazon Basin! That wouldn’t typically be a problem, but it wasn’t true! I do not forget, and I do not forgive!” He punched himself in the abdomen, and guffawed at its weakness.

As Babe Listowel lay as close as he would ever get to the ground, hornèd hat at his side, The Quest Committee heard the low hum of sirens. A stout man, clad in a dark blue woven waistcoat emerged from a cloud of mist which he appeared to be generating with a portable fog machine.

“Wayne Rubblefish,” he said to Dawson, “you are under the arrest of the Official Government for tax evasion and comic mischief. Come with me.”

Dawson Filter was relatively bewildered by this life-development; but followed the man into his pitch black van.

“The paint’s so dense light can’t escape.” The officer explained, putting a lit match into his mouth. “We’re safe, though, because we’re not light. When we have children come from the place of children, I tell them ‘If you’re too bright, the paint absorbs your soul, so be sure to never study.'”

“You should probably quit that.” Dawson Filter said, pointing at the match. “I had a friend, or, no, that’s a pretty rotten way o’ describing him, I knew what I assume was a human called Life-Choices-Luther who smoked matches. Do you want to know where it led him? He was a chef.”

“Given that my chums call me Life-Choices-Luther, I’m not a chef, and I’ve never seen you before, I’d go so far as to say that that is a lie.”

Life-Choices-Luther motioned for Twelve-Anne, Sylvester Denny, and Babe Listowel to join the fellowship of the van; and, once they had, pressed his ring finger against a button, not in opposition to the button, but in exactly they way the button wanted. The engine purred a mighty purr, and the vehicle set into motion. After approximately the perfect amount of time, it pulled into the lane of a building marked “Prison”, and Life-Choices-Luther told The Quest Committee to exit the van, which he showed them how to do by exiting the van.

“You!” He squealed at Dawson Filter, under the delusion that this counted as a sentence. “Get in an expletive removed cell!”

Dawson Filter obeyed, waving to his fellow Committee members.

“And You!” Luther continued, pointing now at the others. “Get into the chamber of visitation, and visitate the chump!”

All complied to the man’s order, confused, but not unused to the feeling. They only hoped that they would one day be able to find out what the feeling truly meant.