Phantom and the Clockwork Catastrophe

The evening sun dipped below the skyline of Crestwood, spreading a warm palette of oranges and purples across the sky. Inside Silk & Satin, Chris Hanson stocked the last few shelves, adjusting the placement of decorative pillows in an entirely unnecessary but strangely therapeutic manner. His mind was already racing ahead, summoning images of his alter ego: Phantom, the city’s most unusual superhero.

“People don’t appreciate good pillow placement like we do, Simson. Just look at these shades!” Chris beamed, showing his sidekick Simon Douglas—known to the world as Simson—how the pillows brought out the subtle hues of the comforters.

“Yeah, Chris, it’s thrilling,” Simon replied, rolling his eyes while trying to suppress a grin. He slipped into his plain black hoodie over his aging frame, a cunning disguise that made him blend in like a shadow. “But we’ve got a city to save in a few hours. Pillow design can wait.”

Chris straightened up, his expression shifting to one of mock seriousness. “Right! The fate of Crestwood rests upon our remarkably feeble shoulders. The older we get, the more dramatic it becomes.”

“More like the more dramatic we become,” Simon said, chuckling. “When’s the last time we fought a real villain? It’s been a while since… was it Professor Soggy Pants?”

“Ah yes! The dastardly villain who wanted to drown Crestwood in melted ice cream. A truly sticky situation, I tell you,” Chris replied, nodding solemnly.

Suddenly, the shop's door swung open with a bang, snapping them out of their playful banter. A man, short and stout but surprisingly agile, burst in. It was Gerald, the evil Hobbit scientist, who had spent years trying to take his revenge on the duo for thwarting his plans multiple times. This time, he had a peculiar gleam in his eye.

“Phantom and Simson! It's time for my ultimate plan!” Gerald announced with an exaggerated flair, not quite understanding that he was supposed to be scary. “I’ve constructed the Clockwork Cataclysm—an explosive device designed to bomb this fine city into oblivion! And there’s nothing you two old timers can do about it!”

Chris and Simon exchanged incredulous looks. “You want to blow up the city? That’s original,” Chris said dryly.

“Works every other time,” Gerald shot back, adjusting his oversized goggles. “And this time, I have robot minions!”

Just as he said that, a chorus of whirring mechanisms sounded from outside. Small robot creatures rolled in, each one carrying a tiny bomb, blinking lights, and all sorts of gadgetry built from spare parts.

“Ooh! Look at that!” Simon exclaimed with faux enthusiasm. “So cute. Too bad they’re about to be flattened.”

“Right!” Chris said, his training kicking in as he straightened his back and slid into a fighting stance that looked less fierce and more like someone trying to pick up a dropped remote. “Prepare yourself, Gerald! We’re going to give you a taste of your own medicine!”

Simon launched himself into the fight first, striding confidently towards the approaching robots. “Hey, gizmo goons! Let’s dance!” As he kicked, he miscalculated and instead tripped over one of the rogue robots, landing flat on his face. “Ow!”

Chris burst into laughter, shaking his head. “You call that combat? You should’ve gone for the ‘elderly grace’ technique!”

With a determined huff, Simon scrambled back to his feet. “Elderly grace? Is that what you call tripping? Just you wait!” But he promptly dodged another mini bomb—this time a direct aimed throw courtesy of Gerald’s little henchmen.

As the robots began to swarm, Chris charged into the fray. He struck one robot square in the chest, only to have his fist bounce off like he’d just punched a brick wall. “Okay… who built these robots? The Hulk?”

Gerald cackled at the chaos. “Good luck with those! You’re just an old manager and a—”

“An old student of martial arts!” Chris yelled, swinging a nearby coat rack and knocking the heads off two unsuspecting robots in one swift movement. “Hang on, Simon! I’ll handle this!”

Simon swiped at a robot’s knees with his trusty baton, the same one he used to ward off unruly shoppers back in the store. “This is a genius battle plan!” he shouted, exuberantly whacking the robots on the head like he was conducting an orchestra. “Just so you know, none of us are ever getting government pensions after this!”

“Tell me about it! My 401k is taking a dive with all this hero work!” Chris hollered, spinning and launching himself into the air, miraculously performing a perfect somersault that would’ve impressed even the most seasoned acrobat. He landed with his hands on his hips, striking a pose. “And Urgent Care is going to start denying my claims soon.”

Simon gasped, dodging another errant bomb. “We can’t let that happen! Save the city! Save the pension!”

As Chris and Simon ducked, dove, and improvised their way through the chaos, the din of metal and explosions mixed with their laughter and the sound of their combat. Suddenly, with one final rallying cry, they charged together at Gerald, performing a poorly executed double kick that sent both of them tumbling to the floor, tangling in each other’s limbs.

With an indignant squawk, Gerald fired an emergency button. “You haven’t won yet! The countdown is on!”

Chris pulled himself up with a grunt. “Countdown? Are you serious?” He whipped around, finally taking stock of the digital timer now glowing ominously on the wall across the shop. “Oh, for the love of—Simon! We need to disarm that thing!”

“Get it, Phantom!” Simon shouted. “I’ll distract him!”

“Your distraction involves tripping over your own feet again, doesn’t it?” Chris quipped, but there was no time for puns or planning.

Summoning their last reserves of energy, the duo sprang into action. Simon swerved around Gerald, forcing the villain to dodge right into the obstacle course of robots that he had previously unleashed. As robots tumbled like dominos, Chris leaped towards the timer.

His fingers flew over the keypad, as memories of every ridiculous movie cliché flashed in his mind. “C’mon! Just one more second… or was it two? Or three?!”

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

With just one second to spare, an explosion of lights erupted, and the devices powered down. A collective sigh of relief echoed through the store.

Gerald, now standing dazed amidst his malfunctioning robots, stared wide eyed at the two unlikely heroes. “What just happened?”

Chris awkwardly adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Long story short, this city is safe. And you—well, you might want to improve your craftsmanship. Those were some cheap parts!”

Turning to Simon as he dusted himself off, Chris smiled. “Well, buddy. Old superheroing ain’t so bad after all.”

Simon grinned back, weary yet triumphant. “So, pillows next time? Or maybe retire?”

“Oh, please! There’s still one last case to solve—the mystery of the missing cranberry scones from the bakery!”

And with laughter resounding in the air, the two heroes of Crestwood—Phantom and Simson—slipped back into the shadows, leaving behind a city safe for now, but always in need of their quirky blend of combat and humor.

Death straightened his tie in the break room mirror, obsessively adjusting the black silk until it hung as precisely as the sword of Damocles. Today was his annual performance review, and HR had been particularly insistent about "business casual" this year. The tie felt like overkill, but Sharon from Accounting had given him a stern look last time he'd shown up in just the traditional hood.

"You've got something on your..." Linda from Pestilence gestured vaguely at her own face. Death patted his skeletal cheeks, finding a sticky note that read "COLLECT MR. JENKINS - TUESDAY 3PM" stuck to his zygomatic arch.

"Thanks," he muttered, crumpling the note into his pocket. "These things multiply like Instagram influencers during fashion week."

The break room coffee maker – a relic that had witnessed the fall of civilizations and survived three office renovations – gurgled ominously. Death grabbed his mug, a novelty item his sister had given him that read "LITERALLY DEAD BEFORE MY COFFEE." The coffee inside was black as a tax auditor's heart and probably just as bitter.

"So," Linda said, stirring her green smoothie that writhed like living things, "ready for your review with the big guy?"

"As ready as a millennial with student debt is for retirement." Death slumped into a chair that creaked like the gates of the underworld. "Apparently, my 'collecting metrics' are down 2% from last quarter."

"Mercury retrograde," Linda nodded sagely. "Gets everyone eventually."

"That's not even a real thing," Death grumbled, then checked his phone – the latest iPhone, because even immortal manifestations of human mortality had to keep up with the times. "Besides, try explaining that to Management. They're still using Excel 97 to track the apocalypse."

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a printer jammed with the wails of the damned. Just another Tuesday at Cosmic Forces Inc.

"At least you're not Fate," Linda offered. "Poor thing's been in meetings all week trying to explain why free will keeps messing up the quarterly projections."

Death snorted, a sound like autumn leaves skittering across a parking lot. "Yeah, well, maybe if they'd upgrade from that ancient prophecy system. I mean, who still uses stone tablets? We have cloud storage now."

His phone buzzed: "PERFORMANCE REVIEW - 5 MINUTES - CONFERENCE ROOM C (THE ONE WITH THE VOID)"

Death stood, straightening his tie one last time. "Well, time to face the music. And by music, I mean the endless droning of KPIs and target acquisitions."

"Break a leg!" Linda called after him. "Or you know, someone else's. Whatever works for your department."

As Death walked down the hallway, past cubicles where various cosmic forces pushed papers and updated spreadsheets, he couldn't help but wonder if other anthropomorphic personifications had to deal with this level of corporate bureaucracy. Perhaps somewhere, in another office, Father Time was trying to explain why daylight savings time kept messing with his time sheets.

The door to Conference Room C loomed before him, its ancient wood carved with runes that spelled out "PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING" and "NO FOOD OR BEVERAGES IN THE VOID."

Death took a deep breath he didn't technically need, clutched his performance metrics folder, and knocked.

Just another day at the office, really.

Why am I so serious about being an angel

For one reason only it a joke to everyone

No one know how much angels joke around

Let me tell you they are always partying

I will never believe they spayed cheese whiz in my perfectly good hair

Angels are wild and angry sometimes

We let loose our crazy sides sometimes

Even I do too

However, I rather take my guardian angels duties seriously

That unless someone makes me really mad

Then someone better hold my halo

Then run away from me

I go full bat crazy when I get mad

Liora sat cross-legged in one of those uncomfortable vinyl chairs in the waiting room, flipping through an old magazine she had grabbed from the rack. The headline screamed *“Top 10 Most Bizarre Celebrity Baby Names of 2024!”* She rolled her eyes but started reading it anyway. Tymothe, slouched next to her with his foot propped up—still in that walking boot—was scrolling aimlessly on his phone.

“You’ve got to hear this,” Liora said, not looking up from the magazine. “So apparently, some celebrity just named their kid *Zamboni Zeppelin*.”

Tymothe snorted, still looking at his phone. “Wait, like the ice machine? That’s... wow. Kid’s either destined to be a hockey legend or a heavy metal frontman.”

Liora giggled, flipping the page. “Oh, and it gets worse. Listen to this one: *Epoxy Almond*. What the hell is that? A snack or an adhesive?”

“Sounds like something you’d order at a vegan café,” Tymothe muttered, finally looking over. “I’ll have the gluten-free granola with a side of Epoxy Almond, please.”

She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Seriously, these people act like naming a kid is an avant-garde art project. Like, what happened to just naming your kid something normal? There’s nothing wrong with a good ol’ *Kate* or *Mike*.”

“Yeah, but how could they ever be the center of attention at yoga class with a name like *Kate*? You’ve gotta spice it up, make sure the world knows you’re too cool for basic vowels.” Tymothe stretched his arms over his head, clearly enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. “And the parents think they’re doing something groundbreaking, when really, they’re just dooming the kid to a lifetime of therapy.”

Liora chuckled. “For real. Imagine going through middle school as *Banjo Spatula* or *Moonbeam Harvest*. You’d never recover.”

Before Tymothe could respond, the receptionist called out, “Liora Throckmorton?”

Liora sighed, rolling her eyes again. “That’s me,” she muttered, standing up slowly. She shot Tymothe a look. “God, I hate hearing my last name in public. It sounds like I should be hosting tea parties for people with monocles.”

Tymothe grinned, watching her shuffle toward the desk. “Just lean into it. I’ll start calling you *Lady Throckmorton*, and we’ll get you a fancy cane.”

When she returned, they shared a quick glance, Liora settling back down beside him. “I mean, come on. Throckmorton? Who did my ancestors have to piss off to get that?”

Tymothe chuckled. “It does sound like you should be knighted or something. Sir Liora of the Throckmortons, Guardian of... overpriced antiquities?”

Liora groaned, resting her head in her hands. “You know, it’s bad enough dealing with all the doctor stuff. I don’t need to sound like I’m straight out of a Dickens novel while doing it.”

Tymothe shrugged. “At least it’s memorable. No one’s gonna forget a Throckmorton anytime soon.”

“And you,” Liora shot back, eyes glinting mischievously. “You can’t exactly talk. Tymothe? Really? With a ‘y’? That’s like a hipster knight who only drinks cold brew and solves crimes in his spare time.”

Tymothe laughed. “Oh, trust me, I’ve been having an identity crisis about that ‘y’ since high school. I thought it made me look cool and sophisticated.”

“Yeah, real sophisticated,” Liora teased. “You sound like you belong in a bad indie movie. Like the tortured lead character who writes poetry about abandoned warehouses.”

“And Throckmorton is somehow better?” Tymothe shot back. “Sounds like your ancestors ran a tiny, haunted village where all the kids disappeared.”

Liora cracked up, clutching her stomach. “Honestly, it fits. Maybe I’ll start introducing myself as *Liora, Mistress of Throckmorton Manor*. You know, the one where the lights flicker and the butler’s been missing for 15 years.”

Tymothe chuckled, shaking his head. “Great. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Tymothe, the coffee shop philosopher with more opinions than sense.”

They both laughed harder than they probably should have for a waiting room, but neither cared. It felt good to be loud, to be ridiculous, in a place that always seemed too quiet and too serious.

After catching her breath, Liora wiped her eyes. “We’ve really hit the jackpot, huh? Throckmorton and Tymothe. Two names that sound like we belong in some twisted Victorian mystery novel.”

Tymothe nodded sagely. “Or a band. Definitely a band. *Throckmorton & Tymothe*, playing all your favorite obscure tunes no one’s heard of.”

Liora smirked. “First hit single? *Zamboni Zeppelin*.”

“And the B-side,” Tymothe added, “*Epoxy Almond*.”

They both burst out laughing again, drawing curious looks from the other people in the waiting room. Liora grinned, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

“Throckmorton and Tymothe,” she said softly, leaning back in her seat. “We’d be unstoppable.”

“Damn right,” Tymothe replied with a wink. “But first, we conquer this waiting room.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, still grinning like a pair of mischievous kids who’d just pulled off the best prank ever.

Winston Thaddeus Montgomery III adjusted his bow tie (a particularly distinguished paisley number from 1962) and scowled at his reflection. The wrinkles around his mouth had arranged themselves into what he deemed a most scholarly formation, like ancient manuscripts folded by time. His salt-and-pepper mustache – meticulously trimmed to exactly 3.7 centimeters – twitched with disapproval.

"Why so serious?" his neighbor's child had asked him that morning, while bouncing a rubber ball against his prized hydrangeas.

The audacity! The sheer impertinence! Did the small human not understand that life itself was a solemn undertaking? That every moment required the utmost gravity? Harold had spent forty-three years perfecting his signature expression of profound contemplation (eyebrows raised precisely 0.8 centimeters, forehead creased in exactly three parallel lines).

He smoothed his tweed jacket (authentic Harris Tweed, acquired during the Great Liquidation Sale of '98) and practiced his most dignified harrumph. The sound resonated with just the right mixture of authority and weltschmerz – a skill he'd mastered during his tenure as Assistant Deputy Library Chairman (temporary).

"Serious?" he muttered to his reflection. "I'll have you know that I maintain exactly the appropriate level of gravitas for a man of my station." The fact that said station primarily involved cataloging his extensive collection of Victorian butter knives was, he felt, entirely irrelevant.

His cat, Lord Wellington IV, yawned from his perch atop a stack of unread philosophical treatises, clearly appreciating the weight of the moment. Or perhaps he was just hungry. It was so difficult to tell with cats – they possessed nearly as much natural dignity as Harold himself.

Almost.

The fluorescent lights seeped from the ceiling. Jerome stood in line at the DMV.

*How peculiar that I, a man whose intellectual peregrinations have traversed the labyrinthine corridors of continental philosophy and whose treatise on the metaphysical implications of breakfast cereals garnered such acclaim among the cognitive elite of the Portland coffee shop intelligentsia, should find myself here among the unwashed masses, held hostage by the Kafkaesque machinations of bureaucratic tedium.*

The line moved forward three feet. A child dropped his juice box.

*Indeed, one might posit that this very queue represents a microcosmic manifestation of society's inexorable descent into entropy — a physical embodiment of the collective unconscious's struggle against the ossified structures of post-industrial malaise. Why, my mere presence here surely elevates the proceedings to a sort of performance art, a living installation piece commenting on the arbitrary nature of civic legitimacy.*

Take a number, the woman behind the counter said. Jerome took ticket A47. The digital display showed A12.

*How fitting that they should reduce us to alphanumeric abstractions, we who contain multitudes! Though I dare say few here possess my capacity for metacognitive reflection on the inherent absurdity of our situation. My consciousness expands to encompass both participant and observer, like Schrödinger's cat — if Schrödinger's cat had published in several mid-tier academic journals and maintained a moderately successful blog on the intersection of phenomenology and reality television.*

The ceiling fan turned slowly. Paint peeled in one corner. Someone sneezed.

*I find myself reminded of that summer in Geneva, debating ontological uncertainty with a rather fetching doctoral candidate whose name now escapes me, though I recall with crystalline clarity the way she arched her eyebrow when I explained my theory about the hidden symbolism in traffic signals. What intellectual vitality we shared! What paradigm-shattering discussions! Until that regrettable incident with the fondue and her father's rare book collection.*

A47, called the counter. Jerome stayed seated, lost in thought.

A47, the voice repeated. Someone tapped his shoulder.

*The touch startles me from my reverie like Proust's madeleine in reverse, though in this case the sensory trigger is less patisserie and more proletariat. Nevertheless, I shall demonstrate the graceful forbearance that has made me such a celebrated figure at faculty wine mixers.*

They called A48. Jerome stood up too late. The line reformed without him.

*Naturally, this is precisely the sort of temporal displacement one would expect in a system designed to suppress the revolutionary potential of original thought. I believe I shall incorporate this experience into my next paper: "Waiting for Go, DOT: License Renewal as Existential Praxis in the Age of Digital Reproduction."*

The lights buzzed. Jerome took a new number. B12. The display showed A49.

Outside, the sun set. Rain began to fall.

The day I realized I was becoming my mother, I was standing in the frozen foods section of Walmart, aggressively squeezing bags of peas. It wasn't even about the peas, really. But there I was, channeling her signature move: testing produce like it had personally wronged me.

"Ma'am," a teenager in a blue vest said, hovering nearby, "the peas are already dead."

I laughed, but it came out as more of a snort. Mom used to do that too – that weird hybrid sound between amusement and defeat. "Just making sure they're fresh," I said, immediately wanting to stuff the words back in my mouth. Fresh. Frozen peas. Christ.

The kid – Marcus, according to his nametag – raised an eyebrow with the kind of judgment only a sixteen-year-old can muster. "They're frozen."

"Listen, Marcus, when you've spent thirty-five years eating disappointingly freezer-burned vegetables, you develop trust issues." I dropped the bag into my cart, where it landed next to discount shampoo and the kind of cheap wine that comes with a twist-off cap. The holy trinity of a divorced woman's shopping cart.

"Thirty-five?" He glanced at my face, doing that subtle math thing people do when they're trying to figure out if you're lying about your age.

"Forty-two," I corrected, because honestly, who was I kidding? "But I started having vegetable-related trauma early."

That got a genuine smile out of him. "My mom's the same way with bananas. She's got this whole system about the exact right amount of spots they should have."

"Smart woman. Bananas are sneaky bastards." I started wheeling my cart away, then stopped. "Hey Marcus? Thanks for not calling security on the crazy pea lady."

"No problem. But maybe try the fresh produce next time? Less chance of disappointment."

I laughed – a real one this time. "Where's the fun in that?"

---

The thing about becoming your mother is that it doesn't happen all at once. It's more like a slow-motion invasion, like those nature documentaries where a parasitic fungus gradually takes over an ant's nervous system. One day you're a normal person who can walk past a slightly wilted houseplant without saying "Well, I guess we're both having a rough day," and the next you're anthropomorphizing produce in the middle of Walmart.

My sister Katie finds this hilarious, of course.

"You're not turning into Mom," she said over FaceTime that night, while I was cooking dinner. "Mom would never buy frozen peas. She'd grow them herself and then guilt us about not appreciating them enough."

"I caught myself deadheading the petunias yesterday while telling them they were doing their best."

"Okay, that's a little Mom-ish."

"A little? Katie, I'm one garden gnome away from full transformation."

She snorted – the family trait strikes again. "At least you haven't started collecting those creepy porcelain angels."

"Yet." I stirred the pasta sauce I was making, which was definitely not as good as Mom's. "Did I tell you David's getting married?"

The silence on the other end was brief but loaded. "Shit. Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah, I'm great. Nothing like your ex-husband marrying the woman he left you for to really put those self-help books to the test." I tasted the sauce. Definitely needed more... something. Mom would know what. "I got the invitation yesterday. It's very tasteful. Cream-colored cardstock, little gold flowers. Very 'we didn't mean to fall in love while you were taking care of your dying father.'"

"Jesus, Mae." Katie's voice got soft, the way it does when she's worried about me. "You don't have to be funny about it."

"Actually, I do. It's either jokes or arson, and I look terrible in orange."

"Mae..."

"I'm fine. Really." I turned down the heat under the sauce. "You know what's funny? I caught myself doing Mom's thing earlier – you know, where she lists all the ways something could be worse?"

"The 'at least' game?"

"Yeah. I was sitting there looking at the invitation, and I actually thought, 'Well, at least they didn't use Comic Sans.'"

Katie laughed, but it was gentle. "That's pure Mom energy right there."

"I know. Next thing you know, I'll be sending passive-aggressive care packages full of newspaper clippings about divorce rates and self-help books about finding love after forty."

"She means well."

"She always does." I sighed, looking at the sauce that would never be as good as Mom's. "You know what the really scary part is?"

"What?"

"I'm starting to think she might have been right about some things."

"Like what?"

"Like how you can't fix people. Like how sometimes love isn't enough. Like how frozen peas are never as good as fresh ones."

Katie was quiet for a moment. "You know what Mom would say right now?"

"At least we're learning?"

"At least we're learning."

We both laughed then, that weird snorting laugh we inherited along with our trust issues and our tendency to talk to plants. Because maybe becoming your mother isn't the worst thing that can happen to you. Maybe it's just another way of admitting that some battles were fought long before we came along, and some wisdom has to be earned the hard way, one bag of frozen peas at a time.

Besides, I'm pretty sure Mom was right about the peas. They really are better fresh.

Greetings. Howard Alexander Roark here. Charmed.

A little about me. I stand 6'3" in bare feet. My eyes are a piercing cerulean shade of blue. My steely reserve is often mistaken for smugness or conceit, which it may well be. I intend to move the earth itself with my innovative designs of a vague nature. I am the golden god you've been waiting for to accompany you to Joker: Folie a Deux and then perhaps a late dinner.

What I’m doing with my life:

Calming hysterical ladies with my penis; making lesser men feel inadequate; designing unique and innovative structures that cause anger and confusion. 

I’m really good at:

Is this a trick question?

The first things people usually notice about me:

My aforementioned large stature; my innovative designs; my shocking orange hair; my dislike of consent.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food:

I don’t really have time for such plebeian pleasures. I prefer a glass of Cognac and a partially willing lady in my lap.

The six things I could never do without:

Cognac

Ladies

My penis pump

Valtrex script

A vaguely Semitic foil

T-square

I spend a lot of time thinking about:

Innovative building designs, like putting a slide in a cracker factory. Ladies’ rumps, as long as they are alabaster and tight like a drum.

On a typical Friday night I am:

Standing at a bar looking suave; giving a lady the best thirty seconds of her life.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit:

I’m a bed wetter.

I’m looking for:

An alabaster skinned free market goddess with the morals of a fruit fly and a publishing deal.

You should message me if:

You want to be mistreated by a handsome, dashing, devil-may-care architect. You don’t mind the hour of penis pumping it takes for me to reach full capacity.

i was pushing me cart

i was looking for schlitz

when a stench like mum's soup

came and scattered me wits—

i looked left and sniffed

then turned right and whiffed

mercy me

'twas both of me pits!