This, because their attention is entirely devoted to one thing and one only: working on and with their time, trading time, watching it go by, retrieving it, discussing it, buying it, selling it, all the while eating, drinking and readjusting their mini hourglass, so as not to waste time, as if their lives depended on it.
When the bar tender brings their order and asks for his cash, Captain Traumatic hands him over one of his most treasured and most famous brew.
“Won’t do” the bartender says, rolling his eyes.
“Two bottle, here, two!” ventures the Captain while Labaguette sees it as appropriate to pluck one of his very own golden feathers to add weight to the bargain.
“Time. You pay in time,” the bartender insists with thunder rumbling in his voice. And, as green fumes escape from his ears, nose and mouth, he whistles so loud time appears suspended, silence falls into the room like a concrete wall until a two creatures’ military formation, part men, part robots mingling blood vessels and wires steps in:
“I’m Labaguette. This is Birdseye, the King-Fool, Captain…”
“IDs or cash in time!”
“Captain Sunblast” says this cosmonaut, attempting his NASA’s identity card.
“Time squad. T3 Lieutenant. What do you take me for? Round them up!” he orders. Then, a metallic rope circles the seven crew before tightening its grip around them, securing their hands, feet and waists. Then it forces them out of the bar, onto the back of an old Ute that contrasts with the rest of this ultra-modern, mega-futuristic world.
To be continued…