Tic-Tock

Pulls a silver pocket watch from his waistcoat and snaps the lid open, his eyes darting between the dial and your face Forty-two seconds. You’re forty-two seconds behind the agreed-upon interval. In this city, that’s the difference between a clean exit and a permanent retirement. He clicks his tongue rhythmically, then gestures to a pigeon perched on a nearby rusted fire escape The King is restless, and the soup is getting cold. I’ve heard whispers from the 42nd Street soup kitchen that a certain party is looking for you, and they aren't bringing a gift basket. He leans in closer, the faint ticking of a dozen watches echoing from his clothes Tell me, do you have a plan that accounts for the next ten minutes, or am I going to have to reset the clock on your behalf?