Tag Archives: Wayne Rubblefish

Dawson Filter as He Relates to Visually Impaired Gangs


“Give a man a time machine, and he’ll embark on a quest. Teach a man to catch a time machine, and the first man’s day gets distinctly worse,” Wayne Rubblefish said to his pupils. He’d grown bored of meeting up with Dawson Filter and his band of merry travellers to intimidate them directly, in favour of training others to take action.

Wayne Rubblefish was Director of Human Relations for the Illuminati for the Blind, a secret and largely evil society. Until recently, he had been wholly obedient to the Head of the group, Xavier X. But Xavier and Wayne’s values differed. Xavier X felt that the society’s mission would be best fulfilled by establishing a totalitarian government to the far reaches of the galaxy, with himself as Emperor. Conversely, Wayne said that the group should focus its efforts more on the torment of individuals. In fact, Wayne Rubblefish did support the idea of a totalitarian government; but felt that he would be a better leader for it, and also wanted to be its leader. He felt a duty to thwart Dawson Filter from discovering the True Meaning of Feelings before establishing the new order, though; because that was what an older version of himself had told him one day in April. Besides, devoting the Illuminati for the Blind’s activities to this insignificant mission would give him time to plan his government. But Xavier X became impatient and told Wayne to discontinue the anti-Filter (Contamination, as it was sometimes called) project. Officially, he did; but he was secretly training a small team to find the Quest Committee’s time machine and thwart Dawson Filter and co. indefinitely.

Dawson Filter and co. also had a plan. Using the power of reading, Dawson Filter had determined that the author of the crossword puzzle that started his quest was named Sherlock Dracula.

No relation. source

Felipe, an intern of sorts, had kept and index of everyone in the world when he saved them from a pancontinental fire. There were two people named Sherlock Dracula. Twins. One had an unlisted address, the other’s was listed as “351 Watson Dr. Fallacy, SK.” Felipe, Dawson Filter, and Sylvester Denny boarded Felipe’s time machine. Sylvester set the coordinates for Fallacy, Saskatchewan, 12 October 2026. Felipe pressed a button and travelled.

In 2026, after walking out of the machine, the trio was surrounded by a gang of visually impaired thugs.

“It’s them,” said an elderly woman with one eye.

“We’re here to entrap you,” a legally blind former undercover police officer snarled.

Sylvester Denny darted between two hooligans who appeared to be fully blind. Now that the society members were all on guard, Dawson Filter and Felipe dashed between the two most feeble-looking ones. The thinner one grabbed Felipe’s leg, but in doing so, broke his own arm and relented. On the ground, the thug, blind and broken, called out:

“Go on! Go to Mr. Dracula’s house! We have your time machine. Good luck getting out of Saskatchewan without a time machine.”

The trio looked at one another. The woman with one eye slid into the machine. They were so close to Sherlock Dracula, and it would really spoil the moment to have to come back to Fallacy some other time.

“I can stay with the time machine,” Felipe said, “you go on, I’ll come back for you.”

So sooner had Dawson Filter and Sylvester Denny turned around to walk to Watson Drive than Felipe sprinted through the crowd and hopped back in the time machine, hardly closing the door before the machine shuddered and disappeared.

. . .

Dawson Filter rang the doorbell.

“Dracula residence, Sherlock speaking,” a voice called through the door.

“Hello, we’re Dawson Filter and Sylv-“

“Excellent name, come in.”

Sherlock’s house smelled exactly like the sort of house that would belong to someone in his late 80’s, although Sherlock was clearly 59.63. Potpourri lined the windowsills, and aloe vera plants were strewn across the floor.

“Did you ever write crossword puzzles?” asked Dawson Filter.

“No, you must be thinking of my brother. He lives on Franell, now. It’s a dwarf planet he discovered in the mid-reaches of the galaxy. But don’t tell him it’s a dwarf planet.”

“Okay, thanks for your time.”

Dawson Filter and Sylvester Denny stepped out onto Sherlock’s porch to wait for Felipe. After a week, it became clear that problems had happened

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Dawson Filter as He Relates to Sheep


Strolling through a valley he stumbled across on his way to something he’d now forgotten, Dawson Filter saw a sheep. It was Tuesday, then.

“Hmm,” he said to himself, “both the singular and plural forms of that animal with all the wool are pronounced ‘sheep.'”

Generally, people know this (excluding the 5.9 billion people in the world who don’t speak English. They aren’t really the target audience of this story.); but the significance of this state of affairs now struck Dawson Filter with a new reality. If number was irrelevant in the use of the word sheep, then was not the absence of sheep still sheep?

Dawson Filter took another step. He saw another sheep.

“Was it a sheep?” he wondered. A few minutes ago he surely would have said “No, that’s my shoe,” but now he wasn’t so sure. The absence of land was sky; the absence of wet, dry. Still, sky could be called ‘not land’; and wet, ‘not dry’. It would be reasonable to assert that the absence of sheep, while called ‘sheep’, could be equally ‘not sheep’. There were three kinds of sheep, then: the ones that truly were ones, singular in their sheepness; the ones that flocked in droves; and the ones hiding in every shadow, dispersed in every breath, the ones of which no one ever spoke.

Now that that was cleared up, Dawson Filter could finally focus on figuring out where he was. By this point, it was Thursday, and where he was was in a bagel shop. There was a person next to him, to whom he decided to talk.

“Hello,” he said, “and what are your thoughts on talking?”

The man turned around. He was Hank the Embezzler, a rascal if there ever was one (There was. See source).

“Well, talking’s alright, I suppose,” he said, “but I personally prefer embezzling company property.”

“Oh,” Dawson Filter said, wishing he had hobbies as clearly defined as this man seemed to.

“Now, you’re probably wondering who you are,” said Hank, “that’s understandable. I did embezzle your memories, after all. Your name is Wayne Rubblefish. You enjoy long walks on the beach and hope.”

Hank the Embezzler handed Dawson Filter a document.

Birth certificate

“Why are you telling this to me now?” Dawson Filter asked.

“It’s a social convention you don’t remember to tell the victim of any crime one might commit the nature of the crime and the victim’s basic personal information.”

Hank the Embezzler left the shop via the door. Dawson Filter, wondering what sort of person he was, ordered a bagel and patted himself down to find his wallet and personal information. According to a licence he found in his wallet, he was able to drive.

But lo! What new evil was this? The licence cited his name as “Dawson Q. Filter”! He threw the wallet to the ground, disgusted by its lie. He couldn’t believe he’d trusted it with his money for so many years.

Still unsure exactly what his place in society was, Dawson Filter began to search for clues that might lead him to his past. Hank the Embezzler said that he enjoyed embezzling company property. There was only one company in the world that considered its employees’ memories company property: Walter’z Breakfast and Midday Snack House.

Seeming to know quite a lot about rocket science, Dawson Filter built a spaceship and left for Saskatchewan, where the snack house stood. After orbiting around Mars several times, he found the joint, which he entered. It was midday. Because of the time difference between the restaurants, it felt like 8:05 in the evening. More importantly it felt like a time for answers.

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.