CONCEPTION

I felt the initial wave of nausea during dessert after taking the last bite of my third piece of pie. Stopping to catch my breath, I tried neutralizing the discomfort by finishing my glass of eggnog. This gesture was ineffective. Not wanting to acknowledge my gut feeling, I excused myself from the post meal conversation and went upstairs to swap out my already unbelted, unbuttoned chinos for sweatpants. Even after changing and without tightening the drawstring, there was no relief.

Slowly navigating down the stairs and proceeding back into the kitchen, I grabbed a clean plate and snagged more sweet potatoes with marshmallows before they were transferred into a Tupperware container. Grandma looked up from washing the serving utensils and made the comment, “There’s a certain glow to you.” She turned as I walked by and rubbed my belly. This is when I accepted that I was pregnant with a holiday food baby.

This is not my first food baby. I had two last year (Easter and Fourth of July) with three the year before (Super Bowl Sunday, Valentine’s Day and Pop’s retirement party). So, by now I am immune to getting emotional. I know the routine. Unlike the 38 to 42 weeks required for a standard baby, the gestation period for a food baby is 38 to 42 hours. So, I understand the importance of getting things in order and preparing for my new little bundle of joy. Speaking of little bundles of joy, I ate six more buttered crescent rolls to tie me over until my snack before bedtime.

Nobody at the table was surprised when I shared the news. My one cousin did say, “Now that you mention it, I think I’m with child, too.” Just like her to try and steal the spotlight from my important moment. I knew it was a false pregnancy because of her uncontrollable flatulence. She wasn’t gravid. She was gassy.

FIRST TRIMESTER

My supportive family hastily organized a baby shower. With such short notice and the out-of-town kinfolk’s flights leaving the next morning, I couldn’t burden them by expecting anything extravagant. I didn’t even have time to register at Dunkin Donuts or Omaha Steaks. I did enjoy eating the meal of reheated turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy while appreciating their effort. And with the nearby grocery store still open, those in attendance were gracious in gifting me an eight-pack of Charmin (“Quilted for his pleasure”), some Wet Wipes and a bottle of Tums.

I solicited their opinions to help me choose which professional should assist in the delivery once my water breaks. Thankfully, I have a few hours to decide between:

1) A Gen Z pediatrician specializing in gastronome pregnancies.

2) A non-judgmental proctologist with a 5-star rating from Yelp.

3) The local Roto-Rooter man who is on call 24/7.

SECOND TRIMESTER

My ankles are swollen. Might be from the excessive ham I nosh on between trips to pee. Don’t know how my food baby is pushing against my bladder, but it’s annoying having to put down a fork full of mac and cheese every fifteen minutes so I can waddle to the potty.

Sleeping on my side took some adjustment. I found that a pillow between my bent knees makes a difference. Although the reoccurring dream of being chased by a giant, partially carved turkey while I throw homemade cranberry sauce back at it in defense is what’s really preventing me from getting a full eight hours of slumber.

The baby kicks a lot in response to me opening the refrigerator. Cute in a Pavlovian, gluttonous sort of way. It feels as if it is riding lower than before.

THIRD TRIMESTER

My body continues changing. I’m simultaneously experiencing brain fog, linea nigra and the mask of pregnancy. My mood swings like an unsecured shutter in hurricane force winds. Those within earshot try appeasing me with green bean casserole. It works.

All the cocoa butter in the world won’t erase the hideous stretch marks that creep across my belly. And don’t get me started on my hemorrhoids. I swear I am taller sitting down than standing up. Seriously.

As much as I enjoy the process of creating a food baby, I want this one out of me soon. Very soon. In keeping with the previous deliveries, I’m opting for a natural birth. But I am not opposed to the use of an epidural, C-section or Colace suppositories if complications arise. Nothing is routine when a food baby enters this world.

DELIVERY

Well, I am now the proud father of a three-pound, bobbing miracle. Cigars for everyone. Decided to wait a spell before naming the baby. I want to get a better feel for his personality. The resemblance to me is uncanny. We both have brown hair. The recovery is going well. I get some exercise in with multiple trips to scour the refrigerator for any leftover leftovers.

SOMBER EPILOGUE

Tragedy struck while I was having my food baby baptized. Some witness (I suspect my jealous cousin), flushed the toilet during the ceremony.

Goodbye, Beauregard Miller. Shine bright you little stinker. You’ll always be #1 in my heart.

I will be in mourning, wearing black because it’s slimming, until New Year’s Eve.

The “Holiday Season” is sometimes called “The Christmas Season”. I find this a bit unfair; we scapegoat the oddness of this month as if it were based on religious tenets. The “holiday season” of December is driven by retail needs. This is not a knock against retail, or against any particular financial system; every financial system has its own weirdness. But much of what might have been called “The Christmas Season” was driven largely by commercial, not spiritual, desires. Ain’t anything inherently wrong with that; but let’s not misattribute stress, eh? That’s seldom helpful.

5. TRICK OR TREATING.

More than one critic has noted that sweets played little to no role in the original holidays which created this season. And yet, who among us does not have fond memories of young persons going from house to house, promising pleasantries from Santa Claus or malfortune from Krampus if people did not ‘give up’ their spare sugarplums?

4. CANDY IN GENERAL

It’s my personal belief that we underestimate this segment of the season. As sober adults, we’re supposed to disclaim the utility of this acclaim for a food which is, dietarily speaking, both an evolutionary leap, and essentially poison.

But let’s be honest: candy is delicious.

3. WE ALL LOVE WEARING COSTUMES

It doesn’t matter whether you enjoy being a jolly Elf from Santa’s workshop, or a Krampus coal miner, or a holly wreath, or a decorated tree, or even a non-traditional costume, like a lamp with nine lights on it. Costumes are wonderful. They let us express our inner selves, our sense of humor, our imagination.

2. THE TV HOLIDAY SPECIALS

The idea of holiday specials on mass media goes back at least as far as the days of radio, and didn’t end with the phasing out of broadcast television; our favorite shows all created holiday specials. Almost every show does its seasonal specialty, and because they know everyone will be watching, each show takes the holiday spirit and puts its own spin on things. Sometimes this leads to the best episodes; sometimes, to the amusingly worst episodes. But if I can watch just one episode of any show, it’ll either be the first episode, or the special for this amazing season.

THE ANCIENT TRADITIONAL ORIGINS

Let’s not forget the real reason for the season:

Whether you see it as literal or metaphorical, we will always remember how Gandalf was able to light his staff to lead the company out of slavery in Goblintown. Without that miracle, we might, even today, held captive in deep caverns beneath the Earth.

So I say: It’s time to carve those Yuletide Jack-O-Lanterns, put up the fake bats, and light huge bonfires to ward off evil spirits. Enjoy the holidays, and feel free to get out there and extort some candy canes from the neighbors!

Look, I need you to understand something right off the bat—I'm not an idiot. (Well, mostly not an idiot. The jury's still out on my decision to wear Crocs to a robbery, but we'll get to that tragic footwear choice later.) You might be wondering why someone with a bachelor's degree in Contemporary Philosophy—yes, I know, LAUGH IT UP—would end up pointing a trembling finger-gun at a Korean corner store owner at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday. The answer involves three maxed-out credit cards, a gambling addiction I swear I totally have under control, and an ex-girlfriend who took my cat in the breakup. (Mr. Whiskers, if you're reading this somehow, I miss you buddy.)

But here's the thing about desperate times and desperate measures—they're basically first cousins who shouldn't date but totally are, you know what I mean?

The fluorescent lights in Kim's Quick-Stop buzzed like thoughts in my anxiety-riddled brain—incessant, flickering, probably in need of professional attention. I'd been standing in the chips aisle for twenty minutes, pretending to have an existential crisis over Doritos flavors (Cool Ranch vs. Nacho Cheese as a metaphor for the duality of man), while actually having a very real existential crisis about everything else.

My hand was in my pocket, wrapped around absolutely nothing, which—if we're being philosophical about it—is a pretty apt metaphor for my entire life strategy. The plan was simple: walk up to the counter, pretend to have a gun, grab the cash, exit stage left, pay off Kenny the bookie before he introduces my kneecaps to his favorite baseball bat. TOTALLY FOOLPROOF, RIGHT?

Wrong. So cosmically, catastrophically wrong that future civilizations will probably discover the wrongness fossilized in sedimentary rock layers and build entire religions around avoiding such spectacular failures.

Because here's what they don't tell you about robbing corner stores—the owner might be a former Olympic speed-walker. (I'm not making this up. There's literally a faded photo behind the counter of Mr. Kim power-walking his way to bronze in Seoul '88, a fact I probably should have noticed during my previous 3 AM taquito runs.) They also don't tell you that Crocs—even in Adventure Mode with the heel strap engaged—are surprisingly poor getaway shoes.

"Empty the register!" I shouted, my voice cracking like I was going through puberty all over again. (Note to self: if you ever attempt armed robbery again—WHICH YOU WON'T—maybe try voice coaching first?)

Mr. Kim looked at my pocket—my very obviously empty pocket—then at my Crocs (lime green, because if you're going to make questionable life choices, why not make them VISIBLE FROM SPACE), and did something I hadn't factored into my brilliant plan.

He laughed.

Not just a chuckle, mind you. We're talking full-body, shoulders-shaking, tears-in-eyes LAUGHTER that made me feel like I should either join in or offer to workshop better material for next time.

"You want money?" he wheezed between guffaws. "Maybe first you buy better shoes, eh?"

And that's when my fight-or-flight response kicked in, except—because I'm me—it manifested as more of a deer-in-headlights-then-trip-over-own-feet response. As I stumbled backward, my Croc caught on the edge of a display stand, sending approximately 847 packets of beef jerky cascading through the air like meaty confetti.

In the ensuing chaos—as I lay there, covered in teriyaki-flavored shame—Mr. Kim didn't call the cops. Instead, he made me tea. TEA. Earl Grey, served in a chipped mug that said "World's Okayest Speed Walker."

"You seem like you're having bad time," he said, sliding the mug across the counter to where I sat, thoroughly defeated, still picking beef jerky crumbs out of my hair. "Want to talk about it?"

And you know what? I did. I really, really did.

(Though I still maintain that the Crocs were a bold fashion choice, not a failure. Some people just aren't ready for that level of comfort-forward criminality.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As interrogation rooms go, this had to be the worst Kerridge had seen. He could hear the officers chatter through the thin glass of an obviously two-way mirror. The chair was appreciably uncomfortable. That was a good touch, and so was the loud infrequent drip from a leaky pipe. The table they had cuffed him to was paper thin, and so was the door.

“I don’t think you are taking this seriously.”

“See, this guy gets it.” Kerridge gestured to the cop, whose flop sweat gave away the fear he hadn’t been trained to hide.

The second man slammed his hands onto the desk, either side of Kerridge, leaning in with a lit cigarette pursed between dry lips, and a stoney glare. “You better start taking it seriously, kid. Understand the situation you're in. If you can.”

“Kid? Not all of us aged twenty years in the forties. We’re the same age.”

He leaned closer and ground his jaw. The danger would have seemed real, if flop-sweat hadn’t broken the illusion, by being afraid of Kerridge. “Why don’t you try being civilised? Never know, it might work.” Kerridge smiled.

A rumble of chatter came from behind the mirror, and Stoneface sucked in smoke between gritted teeth before, as expected, he pulled away.

“Civilised. Pah. What, you want a coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Kerridge was rewarded with a seething glare that told him he hit his mark.

“Out.” Stoneface told his partner. Kerridge was worried, until the angry cop fell in behind Flop-Sweat, out the door.

“You shoulda hit me.”

Stoneface stopped in the doorway, puffed out a long stream of smoke.

“Woulda if I coulda, kid.”

He gave his best attempt at a non-hostile grin, then slammed the door behind him.

Kerridge liked that one. Just not as a cop.

Five minutes later, Flop-Sweat came back, saying nothing, but placing down a cup of black steaming liquid.

“He couldn’t even bring it to me himself, eh?” Kerridge asked, smiling towards the mirror, knowingly.