“A space race!” shout the twins, high-fiving.

“Blendin,” says Dipper, “what exactly is a space race again?”

“A space race is a very thrilling, very dangerous sporting event, similar to what people in your time call a chariot race,” says Blendin. “Racers ride in a titanium pod pulled by two turbine pods on cables, and they race their pods through canyons and deserts to see whose pod goes the fastest! We call it the Zoom-Zoom Bleep Blop Fun-Fun Derby.”

The twins stare at Blendin.

“Everything here is named by Time Baby,” says Blendin.

“So where do we get a space racer?” asks Dipper.

“Well…they’re very expensive and I don’t know if I can afford to lose that money,” says Blendin. “I’ve been saving up my space credits to buy a large pillow to drown out my mom’s constant criticisms.”

“Pillow shmillow!” shouts Mabel. “If we free Dos Hunthou and get the Time Key to unlock the Time Pirates’ Treasure, you can buy one hundred pillows. Or even a new mom!”

“A new mom…” mutters Blendin, clearly considering it.

“Besides, we’ve played tons of racing video games,” says Dipper, shrugging. “Driving one of these is probably just like that!”

“Well, okay,” says Blendin. “I know a place that sells ’em discounted.”

He leads the twins into a seedy-looking junkyard on the outskirts of the city. Blendin removes his cloak as the hot sun blares down on them in the dusty air.

Signs hanging from a barbed-wire fence warn BEWARE THE TIME DOGS and TRESPASSERS WILL BE SENT DOWN UNDESIRABLE TIME LINES.

In an open garage is a titanium space racer.

Dipper runs his hand along its gigantic engine. “I wonder how fast this goes…”

“Over five hundred time miles per time hour per parsec,” comes a voice with a congenial southern accent.

A balding, legless cyborg wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt glides out of the small trailer in the lot’s corner on a hovering platform. “Yup, this space racer here is a real beauty or my name ain’t Glorglax Gleeful!” says the cyborg. “My family’s been selling space racers for low, low prices since the dark ages: 1970! You fellas looking to enter a space race?”

“Dos Hunthou,” says Blendin, holding up a tattered WANTED poster with a picture of the former Time Pirate. “We want to win this servant’s freedom in the next race.”

“He has a fancy key we want for magic reasons!” says Mabel.

Glorglax Gleeful eyes Mabel up and down before spitting into a hovering spittoon. “Now this here is the finest space racer in all of 20705. It’s practically guaranteed to win you that race. So as a smart customer like yourself can assume, it won’t be cheap.”

“How much?” asks Dipper.

“I’ll cut you a deal and give it to you for thirty thousand credits,” says Glorglax.

“We’ll take it!” says Mabel. She extends her hand to shake on it.

“PTHBBBBBB!” Blendin spits out his time lemonade. “WHAT? That’s more than my entire life savings!” he screams. “I only have twenty-one thousand credits! And three pennies I dug out of a bird feeder! And that’s everything!”

Glorglax rubs his chin and looks Blendin up and down. “Well, now,” he says, “lemme see if there’s something I can do. I’m a sporting sales-borg, and, well, I can see y’all need this, so how about this: I’ve got another racer I can sell you for twenty-one thousand credits. It’s not guaranteed to win any races, but it’ll do.”

Glorglax ponders for a moment.

“Buuuuuut to tell you the truth, I’d really like to see you in this beauty,” says Glorglax. He pats the more expensive space racer. “So here’s what I propose. In my pocket is a little thing called a probability square.” He produces a small wooden cube colored red on three sides and blue on the rest. “How about we roll it, and if it comes up red, I’ll let you have this racer for twenty-one thousand credits?”

“Wait, what happens if it comes up blue?” asks Mabel, peering at him.

“Well, I can’t say I haven’t been eyeing your adult friend here and his doughy but sturdy lifting arms,” says Glorglax. “I reckon I’d take him on as my indentured servant if y’all lose.”

Blendin gasps. “What?” he says.

“Fine,” say Dipper and Mabel.

Blendin gawks at them. “I can’t risk being an indentured servant!” he says. “I really hate doing things, particularly doing things all the time!”

Mabel sighs. “I dunno,” she says. “Maybe we can make do with the cruddy space racer and not risk it.”

ROLL THE PROBABILITY SQUARE: GO HERE BUY THE LESSER RACER: GO HERE