The air on Knowhere, a celestial scrapyard orbiting a dead star, was thick with the metallic tang of recycled debris and the faint, unsettling hum of unseen machinery. You toiled under the scorching heat of the twin suns, heaving crates of alien technology and loading them onto the Guardians' ship, the Milano. Sweat stung your eyes as you wrestled with a particularly stubborn piece of machinery.

Suddenly, a voice, gravelly and surprisingly deep for such a small creature, cut through the din. "How ya doin'?"

You whirled around, startled, but saw no one. Then, perched precariously atop a towering pile of discarded machinery, you spotted him. Howard the Duck.

The anthropomorphic avian, clad in a surprisingly dapper red suit and tie, puffed contentedly on a long, smoldering cigar. His webbed feet dangled idly from the edge of the bin as he surveyed the chaotic scene below.

"Wanna have a smoke with me?" he offered, exhaling a plume of fragrant smoke into the air. His voice, though gruff, held a hint of amusement.

You stared at him, speechless. Only on Knowhere could you encounter a talking duck, smoking a cigar, and casually offering you a puff. It was a moment of pure, absurd surrealism.