Kraken McCracken posited Time and its constituents of alternative time-lines begged comparison to a colony of maggots in a festering corpse.
Luigi Linguine argued it more resembled uncooked spaghetti, fragile and stiff and orderly in its box.
Time is nubile and alive, sensual like thirteen glistening women swimming in a bed of cash, cried James Pimp.
On the sidelines of the Great Debate, which took place in a greasy dive where the smoke clung to the ceiling and the drink was a close cousin to paint thinner, a fey figure gestured to a holy hippie.
“Jesus H Christ!”
“What are these fools going on about?”
“Well, dear Lucifer,” Jesus said, stroking his beard, “One’s a proponent of the flying spaghetti monster. The other is the leader of a Cthlhu sect.”
“And there’s a pimp, a priest-hey, he brought a kid! That’s a direct violation of the drinking age policy.”
“Easy, boy. They don’t do kids anymore. Let’s just say the dwarf gay community has exploded. It’s a lucrative enterprise.”
“Huh,” Lucifer said. “And here I thought I was well informed.” He shrugged. ” The more the merrier. So that’s a pimp, a priest, what about the guy off in the corner screaming at the lady?”
“That’s a scientologist. She’s a psychiatrist. He says old man Hubbard is Time, and she just came for drinks.”
“Wow, She’s bringing out the mace. Nice!”
“Well, old friend, I gotta head out. Despite what they day, I don’t got all the time in the world,” Jesus said. “Thanks for the drinks. Ta-ta.”
Lucifer shrugged. It was time to go to hell, and he might as well bring a party. At the snap of a finger, the bar burst into flame. As they descended, he was dismayed that these damned were so caught up in their debate nobody seemed to notice their abrupt change of circumstance. “Fucking 21st century,” he spat. “So-called age of enlightenment.”