Time. It really is a wonderful phenomenon isn't it?

To some, it is a miracle of science, a harbinger of growth and change. To others, it is the most terrifying force of nature, a harrower of souls and a destroyer of worlds. As enough of it passes, every living being crumbles to dust under its immense and inevitable pressure. That pressure, for some, leads to the creation of diamonds. For others, they get wiped away and lost, their legacies engulfed and forgotten in the sands of time.

In fact, it is quite the paradox, even now, bringing attention to the phenomenon of time. To sit here and bring focus to the seconds ticking off the clock, spending time to discuss the passage of time, the irony is not lost. We shall not waste those fleeting moments.

We see a man. Not just any man, but a rusted and dusted hobbit of a man. Granted, not nearly as charming or handsome as a Sam Astin or an Elijah Wood, but more gnarly and decrepit, with a scarred face and a hunched, twisted back. His skin appears to be slowly melting off his frame, bringing thoughts of what it would be like if a man with dwarfism came up on the unfortunate end in a hypothethical zombie apocalypse.

His teeth are stained a dark yellow with a tinge of dirt and ash as offensive as the dropping of an atomic bomb. Its as if he hasn't brushed his teeth in at least eighty four years. His clothes, all torn and frayed, haplessly stitched together as if they haven't been washed or replaced in at least eighty four years. The stetch, oh Lord, the stetch, it is as all encompassing that you would have to run straight ahead at full speed for at least eighty four years just to escape it.

For now, we will call him Dontrell. In short, time has not been kind to Dontrell.

He stands in a burnt field, his hair black as used oil, pomp and slicked back. The only thing darker than his hair is the leather jacket across his back, emblazoned with the bright red letters "Vanquishers of Valentine". He is surrounded in the field with a pack of similarly hideous, ugly men, them all adorning the same black leather jacket, and the same jet black hair.

They're raiders. In this post-apocalyptic world, that is all a lot of people have left. The ability to take what they want. The ability to take what they can get. The Golden Rule isn't all unicorns and rainbows here, its dog eat dogmeat. It's not about right and wrong, its about what's left and who's still standing to claim it. Amorality is what the hip kids are calling it.

"Call the boss in, I think this area is clear," the man known as Dontrell calls to the others. "But I think he might be a little disappointed with this expedition."

"BAAAAAWS!" One of the other raiders bellows out. This one is slightly larger than Dontrell, built more like a battletoad than the crypt keeper. He's still short, and can only accurately be described as looking like an oompa loompa that ate another oompla loompa and then promptly retired from the Wonka Chocolate Factory to go impersonate Elvis on the Vegas Strip.

In walks Jace Valentine, the Host with the Most, the Face that Runs the Place. The hair, unmistakable. The gleaming sunglasses. The cool, casual demeanor. The smug smirk on his face, all unmistakable. In fact, it looks like he hasn't aged a day since 2017.

It seems that fictional characters can simply just choose to do that.

"Calm down, Dingus, calm down! I'm right here. What is this all aboot?"

"We have eliminated all of the dissenters in the area, my lord," Dontrell starts, his voice trailing with a lack of confidence.

"ALL of them??? What about the women? Don't tell me that you killed them as well. I told you that all women come alive and writhing."

"It appears that there is no booty." Dontrell continues with exasperated disappointment. "We were not able to locate even a single woman at this settlement."

"No booty??? Tell me, soldier, what is the name of this kingdom where there is not even a singular molecule of snatch in the lot of it??"

"This place," Dontrell explains. "Its called Mansfield. Its a territory of an area known as Pennsylvania in the old world."

"Mansfield? MANSFIELD??" Jace cuts him off. "I tell you and your merry band of retards and rejects that you can be my wingmen to go get some strange and you lead me to a place called MANSFIELD?? NO WONDER THERES ONLY MEN HERE."

"My deepest apologies sir, we could search other territories in the area. There's Mansborough and New Mensico."

"That would be an utter waste of time," Jace scoffs.

"What else would we do?" Dontrell asks.

"What if we just change the name of it?" Jace ponders.

"How would we do that?"

"I'm the King of Canadian Controversy, I can do whatever I want."

"I haven't heard you use that tag line in over 300 years my liege. What would we even call it?"

"What? No. I mean, this is my kingdom now, we will call it Canadian Controversy."

"Wonderful, today truly is a blessed day."

Jace looks up and into the eyes of his raider subordinate.

"What is your name, soldier?"

"They call me Dontrell."

"I think it would be cooler if your name was Donatello. You know, like the ninja turtle."

"What is a ninja turtle?"

"You know what? Nevermind. I am just saying, if I were the one telling this story, your name would be Donatello." Jace says, nodding.

Donatello also nods.

"How old are you?" Jace asks.

"I just turned twenty three" Donatello answers.

Time really has not been kind to this guy.

"Wow, damn, me too," Jace responds. "Twenty three with three hundred and seventeen years of experience at it."

Another snarled, toothless, exceptionally ugly man interrupts the conversation.

"Hello, liege Valentine. They call me Grumpus. Lord AnHellica brings word."

"Then spit it out, Grumpass! What's she want??"

"She has arranged a date of sorts for you at the upcoming Frozen Over event with the upstart Lilliana Primrose."

Jace's demeanor changes instantly, the smile returns to his face. Lilliana? That sounds like a female name. Maybe even a pretty female's name. A female, one of those things with the coochie and the tits, only spoke about in legends.

"This news gets me rock hard with anticipation, Grumpus! The only thing that excites me more than the sweet blood of the innocent is the sweet flesh of the innocent, if you get what I am going on aboot," Jace says slightly, licking his lips.

"There is only one area of concern, Lord Valentine. The mistress Primrose has aligned herself with Jaiden Rishel."

"That little gutter punk is still alive after 300 something years?? How does that even happen? Nonetheless, I have no problem taking what I want from little Justin Junior. It will be like taking candy from a baby. Ya know, if Candy was the name of the stripper at his bedside. He can have my sloppy seconds as soon as I'm done with her. He might just have to get her some mouth wash and a fresh towel before she's ready to go another round."

The confidence and machismo is just oozing off of Jace as he fantasizes about something he hasnt been able to do in approximately eighty four years.

"So you're not even the least bit concerned if Jaiden makes an appearance?" Dingus chimes in.

"No, Jaiden can sit right down in the cuck chair and watch me manhandle his prized little princess. He can watch in wonder as she goes for the best ride of her life - this isn't Disney World, no, this is Disney Plus Ultra Omega XL Premium - the ride allllll the way to the top of Jace Mountain and to experience that wonderful climax and the sudden realization why they say that Jace is truly the Face that Runs the Place. Lilliana will know my true power when she feels it poking through her guts, when she feels it prodding away at her loins. She will taste my superiority in the back of her throat as she tries not to gag. They say every rose has its thorn, but you know what we do to that thorn, boys?"

Dingus, Grumpus and Donatello all shrug.

"We pluck it and fuck it!" Jace hollers.

"We pluck it and fuck it!" Dingus repeats back.

"We bag em and tag em!" Jace yells.

"WE BAG EM AND TAG EM!" Grumpus adds, starting a chant.

"We rope em and grope em!" Jace and the raiders are getting fired up, getting louder with each repeating chant. "WE ROPE EM AND GROPE EM!"

Valentine and his Vanquishers have one thing on their mind. Well, three, I guess. Tits, ass and pussy. Wait, four, if fighting, maiming and killing to get the booty is required. Fuck, that's like six. We digress.

Next, Jace and the raiders do something not quite substantial, but also not so mundane. Whatever it is, it takes approximately eighty four years and adds approximately eighty four more words to the end of this story.

It could be anything, even (riding) a boat.