“You know what, Dipper? Let’s not take our chances,” says Mabel, putting her hand over the probability square. “I’m having a bad hair day and that usually means it’s also a bad luck day.”

Blendin lets out a huge sigh.

“I guess we can make do with the junky racer,” says Dipper.

“Well, the part of me that lives for the thrill of gambling is plumb sad to hear you say that!” says Glorglax Gleeful. “But the part of me that wants my customers to leave happy is all right! The part of me that is cyborg is neutral.” The sales-borg pulls a sheet off a much junkier, rusted-out, dust-blasted space racer. Possum-like alien creatures skitter out of it. “It doesn’t have puncture-proof fuel tanks, but it’ll do. I’ll draw up the paperwork and arrange to have this sent to the races. Who’s paying for it?”

The twins push Blendin forward. “That’s on this guy!” says Dipper.

Mabel leans toward Blendin to whisper, “Don’t worry, we’re gonna get your money back.”

“We win a lot,” says Dipper. “You’re on the heroes’ side now.”

Blendin stumbles into the signing office.

“LADIES AND GENTLE-BORGS, PUT YOUR VARIOUS DISGUSTING APPENDAGES TOGETHER FOR THE 20705 SPACE CAPSULE RACES, SPONSORED BY PITT COLA EXTREME BLAST: THE SODA THAT IS SENTIENT AND FEELS PAIN WHEN YOU DRINK IT!”

The roar of a hundred thousand creatures from all across the galaxy shakes the ground as the twins enter the arena. In the mouth of an enormous canyon hover fifty space capsules glistening beneath the hot midday sun. Racers are busy making final adjustments to their vehicles.

Blendin runs up to the twins. “All right,” he says, “so I’ve entered us into the race and struck a deal with Emperor Snorgshnog, the current owner of Dos Hunthou. If we win, then he’ll free Dos Hunthou, who’ll be able to tell us where to find the Time Key, but if we lose, we’ll have to wear metal bikinis in his space casino for the rest of our lives! Which I would argue isn’t that empowering!” Blendin motions toward Emperor Snorgshnog, who watches through opera glasses from a private hovering balcony.

Beside the emperor, with a shackle around his neck, is a ragged, shirtless bald man with an enormous hourglass-shaped scar across his face. He breathes erratically, like a chained animal. Carved on his neck shackle is the name DOS HUNTHOU.

“Man, the future is a weird place,” says Dipper. “And I really wish my soda would stop screaming at me.” He pours out his shrieking Pitt Cola as he grabs a racing helmet and starts to get in the space racer.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says Mabel. “What makes you think you’re driving?”

“What?” says Dipper. “Mabel, I beat you in racing games every time. Plus, I don’t start dancing when Sev’ral Timez comes on the car radio.”

“Pssssh, you trippin’! This is clearly a Mabel job,” she says, putting on a helmet. “Who’s better at riding bikes?”

“Hey, that wasn’t my fault! I just have short legs and couldn’t reach the pedals!” says Dipper.

“GUYS! The race is about to start. You need to pick a pilot!” calls Blendin.

The twins look at him.

“How about you pick?” Dipper asks.

“Ah, jeez…” says Blendin. “Uhh…uhhh…”

DIPPER DRIVES: GO HERE MABEL DRIVES: GO HERE