“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be repenting,” says Harlequin.

“Aren’t you one of those sexy people?” says the Ticktockman. “On the fronts of romance novels? And I’m some kind of repressive figure…”

“I think that’s a harlot, not a harlequin,” frowns Harlequin.

The Ticktockman has a face like a clock with gears behind it, probably. “Well,” he says, “now I want you to repent for doubting my vocabulary.”

“Okay. Sorry?”

The Ticktockman punches a card with his mouth, like clocks did in 1960 or whenever.

“This story is dumb,” says Harlequin.

“You haven’t even read it!” says the Ticktockman.