par Bill Tiepelman
The Clockwork Primate
The Gilded Banana Heist In the dim belly of the Brass Bazaar — a market so thick with steam you could butter toast on the air — there lived a monkey who refused to behave like one. He was not born; he was assembled. Every bolt, every glimmering gear had been placed by a drunk inventor named Theophilus Quirk, whose primary design principle was “make it shiny and slightly inappropriate.” Thus, came into being Mimsy the Clockwork Primate. Mimsy was a menace. He swung from chandeliers, rewired pocket watches to explode into confetti, and once famously replaced a noblewoman’s hat with a live, caffeinated parrot. His tail — a flexible coil of polished brass — made a noise like an offended accordion whenever he twirled it, which was constantly. He considered himself not just a monkey, but a performer of chaos. Tonight, he had his goggles on crooked and a plan forming in that rattling clockwork skull. The target? The Gilded Banana of Belgravia — an ancient relic encased in crystal and rumored to contain enough energy to power a small city or one particularly large hangover. It was said to hum with old-world magic and the faint smell of overripe ambition. The Gilded Banana was kept inside Lady Verity Von Coil’s private menagerie — a place so secure it made bank vaults look like teapots. But Mimsy wasn’t scared. Fear was for organics. He simply polished his gear-teeth grin, flicked his monocle into place, and muttered, “Let’s make bananas interesting again.” Under the copper moonlight, he darted through the bazaar, past rows of mechanical parrots hawking poetry and steam-powered crabs playing violins. He adored the noise, the color, the scent of oil and ozone and mischief. He blended in perfectly — a tiny king in a kingdom of creaking dreams. He reached the gates of Von Coil’s estate — all wrought iron filigree and clockwork guards with faces like bored kettles — and grinned. “Oh, you darlings,” he whispered, flipping a switch in his chest. His eyes flared golden, gears spun, and from his back unfolded mechanical wings stitched with shimmering, fractal feathers. “Time for a little sky piracy,” Mimsy declared, leaping into the thick, velvet night. He soared over the estate, feathers glinting like kaleidoscopic lightning. The guards below gasped, mistaking him for a drunken angel — which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. He landed with a soft clink on the menagerie’s glass dome and peered down at the prize below. The Gilded Banana shimmered on a velvet pedestal, bathed in a light that whispered, touch me and regret nothing. “Oh, darling,” Mimsy said, voice dripping with mischief, “I never regret anything shiny.” He pulled a screwdriver from his tail, winked at his reflection, and began to unscrew the dome’s panel. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. Somewhere closer, a parrot belched steam. And somewhere deep in the gears of his mind, something clicked — destiny, perhaps, or just indigestion. Either way, the night was about to become very loud, very bright, and possibly naked. Bananas, Bafflement, and the Baroness’s Bloomers Mimsy crouched on the glass dome, glinting like a jewel thief in a jewelry store that had given up on morality. The last screw fell loose with a plink, and the panel sighed open. Below, the Gilded Banana waited — smug, radiant, and absolutely begging to be stolen. Mimsy licked his brass lips, though strictly speaking he didn’t have moisture to work with. He was more performance art than biology at this point. “Now,” he murmured, “a little descent, a little finesse, and—” The entire dome creaked. Somewhere in the mansion, a clock struck midnight — not because it was midnight, but because Lady Verity Von Coil’s clocks were emotionally unstable. One started chiming, the rest joined in out of solidarity, and soon the entire estate was ringing like a cathedral full of self-important bells. Mimsy winced. “Well, that’s subtle as a chainsaw in church.” He dropped through the opening, wings folding as he landed on a marble banister shaped like a screaming cherub. The menagerie around him hissed, whirred, and blinked awake — cages of mechanical beasts powering up, eyes glowing crimson in the darkness. He froze, and for one beautiful, absurd moment, every creature stared at him — the intruder with too much confidence and not enough sense. A mechanical ostrich blinked its jeweled eyelids. “Intruder detected.” “Darling,” Mimsy said, “you’re an ostrich, not a philosopher. Mind your beak.” That was the moment all hell unhinged itself. Cages burst open with hydraulic hisses, clockwork beasts stampeded through the polished corridors — lions of bronze, serpents made of slithering chains, and one rather anxious-looking squirrel that seemed to be powered entirely by caffeine and regret. Mimsy cartwheeled across the chaos, bouncing off chandeliers and decorative busts. He snatched up the Gilded Banana in one gleaming paw — it pulsed with an almost seductive hum. “Oh, you are deliciously naughty,” he whispered to it, holding it close. “You and I are going to cause so much paperwork.” A siren blared. Steam vents hissed. Somewhere, a recorded voice began repeating: “Unauthorized simian activity detected.” And that’s when she appeared — Lady Verity Von Coil herself, striding into the hall like a goddess who’d been interrupted mid-champagne. Her corset gleamed, her monocle glinted, and her mood was approximately volcanic. She was draped in violet silk and carrying what looked suspiciously like a cane, but was actually a lightning cannon disguised by etiquette. “Mimsy,” she said, voice smooth as oiled brass, “I told Theophilus to dismantle you years ago.” “Ah, Lady Verity!” Mimsy chirped, bowing with exaggerated flourish. “Still aging backwards, I see. What’s your secret, powdered envy?” Her monocle twitched. “Give me the Banana.” “Can’t,” he said. “It’s part of my balanced diet — one third potassium, two thirds criminal intent.” She aimed the cannon. The air buzzed, charged with energy. “Do not test me, monkey.” “Oh, but testing is what I do best,” he grinned, and flipped backward just as a bolt of violet lightning seared through the air. It missed his tail by a hair’s width — or would have, if he still had hair. He somersaulted onto a chandelier, swinging with gleeful abandon as glass shattered and sparks flew like rebellious fireflies. “Get him!” Lady Verity shouted, and her automaton guards surged forward — all stiff, proper, and terribly underpaid. Mimsy whirled through the air, releasing a burst of oily smoke from his back vents. The room filled with shimmering fog, and for a moment, no one could see a thing. When it cleared, the chandelier was empty, and only one thing remained: Lady Verity’s silk bloomers, pinned to the wall with a screwdriver and a calling card that read: MIMSY WAS HERE. ALSO, NICE CHOICE IN LINGERIE. Outside, the monkey soared into the storm, laughing — an echo of pure, manic joy ricocheting across the rooftops of the Brass Bazaar. He clutched the Gilded Banana, still humming with power. The wind howled; lightning flashed; somewhere, a drunk dirigible pilot swore he saw a winged monkey flashing him. He landed in his workshop — an absolute shrine to bad decisions. Half-finished gadgets littered every surface: a teapot that played jazz, a clock that insulted you hourly, and a half-built automaton labeled “DO NOT ENGAGE (again)”. Mimsy set the Gilded Banana on his bench and gazed at it reverently. “My precious golden fruit of chaos,” he whispered, stroking it with a wrench. “Let’s see what secrets you’re hiding.” He flipped open a hatch on his chest, revealing a swirling vortex of gears and flickering lights, and began connecting wires from himself to the relic. The Banana pulsed brighter — rhythmic, seductive, almost alive. “Oh, yes,” Mimsy said, eyes glowing brighter, “show me your naughty little mysteries.” The relic’s hum deepened to a low, resonant vibration that rattled the glass. Sparks danced across Mimsy’s fingertips. The air shimmered with electric mischief. And then — with one earth-shaking BZZZT — the workshop was engulfed in golden light. When it faded, Mimsy blinked, his brass ears ringing. The Banana was gone. In its place hovered a holographic sigil — spinning, fractal, and mesmerizing. It pulsed once, twice, then projected a line of elegant script into the air: “Congratulations, thief. You’ve just activated the Banana Protocol.” Mimsy tilted his head. “Oh, splendid. That sounds perfectly harmless.” The hologram blinked. “Self-destruct sequence initiated.” He froze. “Oh. Oh no. Not again.” Every device in the workshop began to hum, gears spinning faster, lights flashing crimson. Outside, lightning roared across the sky as steam vents screamed and boilers shook. Mimsy looked around wildly, flapping his wings. “Alright, alright — don’t panic — I’ve survived worse—well, slightly worse—okay maybe not this worse—” The sigil flared. The floor trembled. And in one last exasperated puff of smoke, Mimsy muttered, “This is going to ruin my upholstery,” before the entire workshop vanished in a golden explosion of fractal light. The Monkey, the Aftermath, and the Ministry of Peculiar Fruit When Mimsy came back online, he wasn’t sure if he was alive, dead, or subscribed to a particularly avant-garde newsletter. Everything glowed. Everything sang. His internal chronometer was spinning like a roulette wheel in a casino run by angels. He blinked, and the world blinked back — a shimmering kaleidoscope of light and sound that smelled faintly of burnt toast and destiny. “Ugh,” he groaned, rubbing his brass temples. “If this is heaven, someone’s overusing the color gold.” He sat up. His workshop was gone. In its place stood a circular room filled with pulsating glyphs and an unsettling number of bananas — each floating serenely in mid-air. In the center of the room hovered a massive holographic seal etched with runes and nonsense. A voice, smooth and smug as polished mahogany, spoke: “Welcome, unauthorized entity, to the Ministry of Peculiar Fruit.” Mimsy blinked. “Oh, splendid. Bureaucracy. I was hoping for oblivion, but paperwork’s fine too.” The sigil pulsed. “You have activated a Class-A Restricted Artifact: The Gilded Banana of Belgravia. This offense carries a penalty of either annihilation or a three-hundred-year internship. Choose wisely.” Mimsy frowned. “Define ‘internship.’” “Unpaid,” the voice replied flatly. He sighed. “Ah. So, annihilation it is.” Before the voice could reply, the air rippled and formed into the shape of a woman — or rather, the memory of one, constructed entirely from light and bureaucratic disappointment. She wore the severe expression of someone who had filled out forms in triplicate and never forgiven the world for it. “I am Registrar Peela Grunty,” she announced. “I oversee the containment and classification of all mystical produce. You, Mr. Mimsy, are in violation of Fruit Protocol Sections 8 through 42, and possibly some moral ones as well.” “Darling, morality is a setting, not a rule,” Mimsy said, giving her a dazzling grin. “May I interest you in chaos?” Peela glared. “No.” “Not even a little?” “Especially not a little.” He sighed and leaned back on a levitating banana. “So what now? You vaporize me? Turn me into jam? Force me to attend a meeting?” “Worse,” she said. “Orientation.” The room shifted — walls peeling apart like clockwork petals. Suddenly Mimsy found himself in a sprawling bureaucratic labyrinth populated entirely by fruit-based entities. A tomato in a waistcoat argued with a cucumber about tax reform. A pineapple with monocles was stamping forms marked “EXISTENTIAL THREAT.” And over it all hung a massive banner that read: “WELCOME TO THE MINISTRY. COMPLIANCE IS MANDATORY. OR ELSE.” Mimsy stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” A peach in a bowler hat approached him with a clipboard. “You’ll need to fill out Form F-9 for unauthorized fruit interaction, Form H-2 for dimensional trespass, and Form D-1 if you plan on doing anything remotely entertaining ever again.” “I’d rather chew on a lightning socket,” Mimsy said. The peach adjusted his monocle. “We have a form for that too.” Hours passed — or possibly minutes, or centuries; time worked differently when you were being punished by produce. Mimsy had filled out seventeen forms, two complaints, and one love letter to a kiwi named Stan when something odd happened. The air shimmered. The lights dimmed. A low, seductive hum rolled through the Ministry halls. Every fruit froze. “Warning,” the intercom droned. “Banana Protocol: Stage Two initiated.” Mimsy’s tail twitched. “Stage Two? Oh, no. No no no, I’ve had enough stages for one day.” Peela appeared beside him, looking alarmed for the first time. “What did you do, monkey?” “I touched the shiny thing!” he shouted defensively. “Isn’t that what they’re for?!” The holographic seal reappeared in mid-air, fractal patterns whirling faster. It projected a message in elegant cursive: “Congratulations, Initiate. The Banana chooses its master.” Peela turned to him slowly. “It’s bonded to you.” “Oh, splendid. I’ve always wanted to be spiritually tethered to fruit.” Suddenly, the room erupted in light. The floating bananas spun, glowing brighter until they burst into streams of golden energy that swirled around Mimsy. The seal expanded, wrapping around him like a halo of divine nonsense. His gears hummed. His feathers shimmered with fractal colors beyond comprehension. Peela shielded her eyes. “You idiot! You’ve just ascended!” “To what?” Mimsy cried, as energy crackled through his frame. “To... Bananahood!” There was a long pause. Even the bureaucratic fruits seemed embarrassed. Then Mimsy grinned, eyes blazing gold. “Well,” he said, stretching his wings, “I suppose I’ll have to make it fashionable.” With that, the Ministry’s roof shattered like glass, and Mimsy shot into the sky — radiant, ridiculous, and magnificent. He soared over the Brass Bazaar once more, his laughter echoing like a malfunctioning symphony. Below, people pointed and gasped as the heavens shimmered with golden light. He looked down at the chaos, the wonder, the beauty of it all — and sighed contentedly. “All this,” he murmured, “for one piece of fruit. Worth it.” Then he turned toward the horizon, spreading his radiant wings. “Now, where’s the nearest pub that serves martinis with potassium?” And with that, The Clockwork Primate vanished into the night — half legend, half lunatic, and entirely unforgettable. Author’s Note: If you ever find yourself in the Brass Bazaar and hear faint laughter in the steam vents, raise a banana in salute. It might just wink back. 💫 Own a Piece of The Clockwork Primate Bring Mimsy’s mischievous charm home! Our exclusive Clockwork Primate Collection lets you capture the gleaming madness and charm of the Brass Bazaar in tangible form — whether you crave polished brass, fine paper, or something delightfully portable. 🖼️ Framed Print – A bold centerpiece for any wall that needs a little mechanical mischief. ⚙️ Metal Print – Vivid color and radiant sheen, perfect for those who prefer their art indestructible and dramatic. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your chaos in style. Mimsy-approved for markets, mischief, and mildly illegal adventures. 💌 Greeting Card – Share the legend with someone who appreciates a good story — or a well-timed grin. Each piece is crafted with premium materials and a dash of irreverent brilliance — just as Mimsy would demand. Because good art should always misbehave a little.
