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Gremlin Gus hovered anxiously in midair in front of the projector screen, the light from the magic portal casting flickering shadows across his small body. He peered at his round-eared companion through a pair of curious goggles as the smokestacks of Captain Pete’s steamboat belched sooty clouds into the air above them.

“Are you ready to face the Clock Tower?”

Gripping his paintbrush tighter, Mickey Mouse answered confidently. “Well - sure, Gus. I’m ready. Let’s go!”

With a nod of affirmation the gremlin politely gestured for Mickey to head through first. Mickey took a few determined steps backwards before leaping straight through the projector screen. As he came out the portal on the other side, the mouse stumbled directly into a large stone sundial, bumping his nose on the cumbersome object. He was rubbing the injured area tenderly when Gus appeared beside him. The gremlin’s normally optimistic countenance fell as he paused for a moment to cast a number of thoughtful glances about the dimly lit room. A multitude of clocks of varying colors, shapes, sizes, and styles could be discerned through the darkness. Their gleaming faces shone forth with an unnatural, pale blue tinge, and the very air itself was heavy laden with the sounds of the steadily ticking clocks. Not a single, solitary stroke was out of sync with that of another. As the even heartbeat of the ticks and tocks sounded off like a merciless metronome in their ears, Mickey and Gus advanced slowly farther into the room, leaving the now blank grey canvas of the portal screen to itself.

“Well, this is definitely not the Clock Tower - though with all these clocks about you could’ve fooled me,” Gus mumbled sarcastically. “… Hmm. That’s odd. You see how the clocks are all set to different times, Mickey?” He hovered hither and thither, inspecting the many timepieces with a practiced eye, maintaining a stream of absent-minded chatter. “A matter of preference, I guess. See, I was sure this portal was the one that leads right to the...”

The instant his gaze settled upon a huge grandfather clock lying face up on the floor in the middle of the room, Gus became eerily silent. In a flash the gremlin was once again by Mickey’s side, his whispers laced with fear as he seized Mickey’s free arm and tried tugging the paintbrush-wielding adventurer in the direction of a door on the far side of the room. “Er, time to go, Mickey! If we are where I think we are, we are gonna be in serious trouble if we don’t hightail it out of here! If we stick around just a minute longer then HE might show up! Why did that portal have to lead us here? Of all places!”

Mickey eyed Gus incredulously, extracting his arm from the frightened gremlin’s grip with a gentle shake. “Whadya mean ‘he might show up’, Gus?” The mouse gazed about the room, eyeballing the corners and floor space. “There aren’t any Blotlings around. What do we have to run for? I wanna explore this place.”

Gus turned to face his friend. “I’ll explain later, Mickey - we just need to get out of here! I think this is the Clockman’s...”

Without warning a dark figure began to emerge from the shadows behind Gus, towering over the gremlin menacingly. Gus whirled around and instantly shrank back in fear, his small feet ceasing their continuous movement in an outward expression of terror. Mickey frowned at the figure and brandished his paintbrush in warning as the anonymous stranger stepped into a beam of pale light streaking down from a clock-shaped window set in the ceiling.

Dressed in a moderately disheveled golden pinstripe suit and carrying a sphere-topped cane tucked gingerly under one arm, the visitor gave an elegant, sweeping bow. “I musth’t sthay, thisth isth not where I usthually welcome guesth’tsth,” he began, slowly straightening himself into an upright position, “but greetingsth and sthalutationsth, my…” The Clockman’s lisp-laden voice trailed off into silence as he briefly locked eyes with Mickey, his face poised a mere few inches away from the slightly swollen nose of the mouse.

“MICKEY MOUSE’TH!?”

Overcome with shock, the Clockman let out a muffled cry and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own two feet and sending clocks, furniture, and a plethora of other time-themed trinkets tumbling to the floor in his wake. He lay sprawled on the ground in a dazed and undignified heap, surrounded by the fallen items.

“S-sorry there, old fella. Didn’t mean to startle ya,” Mickey said apologetically. He made as if to help the stunned Clockman up off the floor, but Gus stopped him in the act.

“No, Mickey! That’s him! That’s the Clockman! And boy oh boy, does he spell trouble for any toon in Wasteland! T-R-O-U-B-L-E!” the gremlin whispered urgently. He tried pushing Mickey towards the exit, but the mouse refused to move.

“Just a second, Gus. Maybe the Clockman can help us out somehow.”

With an impatient, desperate grumble Gus backed off, allowing Mickey to help the Clockman to his feet. The flustered master of the Clock Tower and Small World attraction struggled to pull himself together as he profusely thanked Mickey for his kindness. From behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses shone the Clockman’s golden eyes, lit brightly with the intense flame of a naïve, childlike admiration.  His worshipful gaze never left Mickey for a second, even when he began to mechanically retrieve and rearrange his possessions into the places they had previously occupied. Questions tumbled out like waterfalls as the Clockman grappled with his own awestruck disbelief.

“M-Mickey Mouse’th? How did you...? Thisth isth - mosth’t cthertainly, wonderful - but you...? You are here! How did you come to visthit usth here in Wasth’teland?” An expression of infinite horror swiftly erased the baffled joy from the Clockman’s face. “Oh-- oh no! Oh please’th Mickey... please’th tell me you haven’t losth’t your Heart!”

Mickey blinked. “Lost my wha--?”

“Er, I hate to interrupt this stimulating conversation, but we really need to be going,” Gus butt in. He maneuvered expertly between the Clockman and Mickey, arms outstretched in a mock plea of forgiveness. “Y’know, places to go, a rabbit to follow... all very important work. C’mon Mickey, let’s keep going.” The gremlin hovered off in the direction of the door on the far side of the room.

Mickey followed Gus’s progress with his eyes, sighing inwardly. He turned his head and gave the Clockman an apologetic smile. “I – uh – I guess I gotta go. It was nice meeting ya, Mister Clockman.”

The Clockman was crestfallen. He felt a strong panic rising within him as he watched Mickey begin to walk away. “W-wait Mickey! Please’th!”

The mouse paused, and Gus worriedly extended his arms towards Mickey in a gesture of caution. Taking a deep breath, the Clockman gathered himself and bowed once more.

“Oh Mickey, I... I sthee that you musth’t be off, but... but it would please’th me to no end if you would let me take up sthimply a sthmidgen of your time with a sthpecial acc’thessth tour of the Sthmall World, guided by yoursth truly.”

“Oh, we’ve already been on a tour of the Small World,” said Gus in a matter-of-fact tone. He drifted back through the air to hover alongside Mickey. “I think once was enough for us, right Mickey?”

Mickey hesitated. The Clockman’s golden eyes were begging him to accept the offer of the tour. Gus’s eyes were pleading with Mickey to not waste a single second more on idle conversation. The mouse looked from one to the other, unable to make a decision.

Not one to give up so easily, the Clockman drew closer to Mickey and desperately ventured a suggestion, “Please’th Mickey, I promise’th it won’t be long. I will show you everything there isth to sthee in the Sthmall World, if you would oblige me. We shall go on a grand tour of the hidden sthecretsth of thisth attraction; I will take you into the roomsth where all of the behind-the-scthenesth imagination comesth together to make the Sthmall World happen!” The Clockman beamed at the thought of being able to show off the uniqueness of the Small World to his long time idol. “Finally, once’th you have been sthatisthfied with the Sthmall World, I will take you to sthee the mosth’t sth’triking beauty in all of Wasth’teland, my Clock Tower!” He finished by clasping his cane in both hands and gazing at Mickey winningly.

“The Clock Tower?” Mickey asked. He looked sideways at Gus. “Weren’t we heading to that in the first place?”

“Yes,” Gus admitted reluctantly, “but y’know, we already went through the Small World.” He jerked his head in the direction of the door and widened his eyes at Mickey, a subtle gesticulation of urgency. “No reason to journey through there again, really.”

“Please’th Mickey?” the Clockman begged, his face a picture of perfect innocence.

Mickey was silent for a few moments, and then a gentle smile stole across his features. He nodded politely. “Okay Mister Clockman - we’ll go on your tour.”

The Clockman was ecstatic. He could hardly contain his sheer delight as he set about putting the final touches on restoring the room to its proper order, talking over his shoulder animatedly all the while. “Oh, thank you, Mickey! Thank you! Asth sthoon asth I finish up here, we shall be off! I will persthonally ascthertain the shear top-notch quality of thisth tour! The Sthmall World will be operating at one-hundred and ten percthent today, justh’t for--”

“Hold on a minute,” interjected Gus. He hesitantly moved forward to hover in the air a safe distance from the Clockman’s head. “Could you give us a few seconds? I need to have a word with Mickey.”

“Cthertainly! Take all the time you need, Mickey! I shall be but a moment!” The Clockman crowed, his unbridled joy obliterating any shred of cohesive thought.

Gus returned to Mickey and led him to one side, his voice low and urgent as he cast regular worried glances over his shoulder at the Clockman’s back. “Mickey, I know you just arrived in Wasteland and all, so you gotta lend me an ear. That’s the Clockman. I know him -- well, I used to work for him, rather. A lot of us gremlins did - a long time ago - even before the... well, that’s another story. Anyway, it was a great gig; we helped the Clockman keep up the Small World, and he obliged by letting us ride through it whenever we wanted, for free. Then one day he just started acting up all of a sudden. He began sabotaging his own attraction -- loosening the bolts, gears, and screws that we worked hard to keep in tip-top shape, drilling holes in the floorboards of the boats, tampering with the water pressure gauges for the hippopotami... it was like he didn’t appreciate us anymore, didn’t care about what we did to keep the Small World running. At first, we put up with it, thinking that the stress of running such a nostalgic and famous ride was getting to him, but when we gradually became the targets for his increasingly elaborate pranks, we started getting suspicious. The last straw happened when... when one of the gremlins got badly hurt. That day we all threw our wrenches down and quit. I knew I wouldn’t have any more of it, and all of the other gremlins agreed. The Clockman had become an unpredictable menace.”

Gus paused, and the two of them looked over at the Clockman. The master of the Clock Tower and the Small World was merrily whistling his ride’s world-famous tune as he dusted, straightened, and gently caressed the clocks atop a small nightstand, completely oblivious to their conversation.

Mickey cocked a doubtful eye at Gus. “He doesn’t seem very unpredictable or menacing right now.”

“Maybe so - but anything can set him off. Believe me, the Clockman is not someone to be trusted. Didn’t you hear? He called me ‘Mickey’ a minute ago. Who knows what’s going on in his boggled mind... come to think of it, I’m starting to get the feeling he doesn’t even realize that I’m here! I mean, look at him! Don’t you think his behavior is a bit off?”

They turned to watch the Clockman once more. He had just narrowly avoided knocking a stunningly beautiful antique crystal Anniversary Clock off of the top of the nightstand, and was presently whispering to it in soft, soothing tones.

Gus set his small hands on his hips, feeling his point had been proven. “You see, Mickey? It’s best to say he’s not exactly all there, so we’ve got to sneak out of here while he’s tending to his clocks.”

“But I already agreed to go with him on the tour,” Mickey said thoughtfully. “Maybe we’ll learn something important, like a clue to that rabbit’s whereabouts. Speaking of which - how do you know he’s not hiding somewhere around here? What if we miss him?”

“Mickey, you’re missing the point. The Clockman isn’t all there, and if we go with him there’s no telling what could happen! Now come on, stick close to me. I think I can find us a way out of here.”

Gus hovered tentatively back to the door, expecting Mickey to follow. When the gremlin did not sense Mickey’s presence beside him, he spun around urgently.

“C’mon Mickey! Let’s go! Hurry!” he whispered sternly, a tinge of fear causing his voice to go up half an octave.

Mickey’s gaze switched indecisively back and forth between Gus and the Clockman. His eyes settled on the Clockman. “Thank you for your advice an’ all, Gus, but I’m gonna go with the Clockman on the tour. I think-- I feel like I should.” The mouse flashed the gremlin a confident grin. “Don’t worry, if anything happens, I can take care of it with my paintbrush.” He reached up and patted the smooth uniform bristles of the object assertively.

Gus’s mouth dropped open. The gremlin seemed to flit precariously through a wide range of emotions as he frowned, shook his head, crossed and uncrossed his arms, and pantomimed a variety of other equally frustrated poses. “Mickey, you-- fine. Fine! I’m going to go find the Clock Tower. You have fun on your tour of insanity and uncertainty and... who knows whatever else.”

The gremlin vanished in a cloud of bulbous particles. Mickey watched the particles disperse with a gloomy look on his face.

Unbeknownst to the mouse, the Clockman had his eyes locked on the back of Mickey’s unprotected head, and this time they held no trace of either admiration or naïveté. A cold, ferociously bridled malice was slowly creeping into the Clockman’s irises in the form of a flushed violet hue. The color waxed deeper, and for a second it seemed that the cloudy purple shade would overcome the brilliant gold tint, but then the Clockman blinked and his eyes showed no trace of violet. Just in time, too, for in that moment the Clockman took up his cane and approached Mickey with a jaunty air.

“I musth’t apologize'th for causthing you to wait. I am now finished with my tasthk! Shall we be off?” The Clockman was practically bristling with anticipation.

“I’m ready when you are,” Mickey answered politely.

The Clockman’s wide grin lit up his face like a lantern as he sauntered over to the door and held it open for Mickey. The mouse took one last look at the spot where Gus had been before preceding the Clockman out of the room.

The “sthpecial acc’thessth tour of the Sthmall World” did not go as the Clockman intended, nor as Mickey expected. Before the tour had even begun, problems arose. Standing outside the entrance to the operating room for the Small World, the Clockman realized he had forgotten all of his keys. The odd pair returned to the Clockman’s bedroom, and the master of the Clock Tower managed to locate the majority of the misplaced, scattered keys with help from Mickey. Upon returning to the door, it took the Clockman several tries until he fitted the correct key into the lock. The key so happened to break in half with a loud snap before the door could be unlocked properly. The incident was the first in a long series of mishaps that plagued Mickey and the Clockman during the rest of the expansive tour.

The Hall of International Costumes and Accessories was entirely in shambles and crammed with Blotlings. The bumbling, inky black creatures had decided to take turns trying on a number of the costumes, and their dark, mucky handprints had ruined almost every article of clothing in the hall. Mickey obliged the horrified Clockman by taking care of the menaces; however, not much could be done to save the stained garments. The entrance to the Animatronic Character Creation and Repair Shop was unlocked, but the doorway was blocked by a staggering pile of animatronic body parts, and both Mickey and the Clockman had to use their combined strengths to securely close the door before the wobbling pile collapsed onto them. To make matters unspeakably worse, the Backdrop and Décor Gallery was a mass of bleeding canvases, as one of the pressure pipes that ran along the ceiling had exploded, coating the room in thinner and desecrating every last picture within sight. The dual themes of disaster and neglect continued to manifest as the Clockman led Mickey from place to place.

As they went, Mickey noticed that the sight of such turmoil was beginning to take a toll on the Clockman. The master of the Small World acted utterly taken aback as each new catastrophe was revealed to him, and he appeared to portray his grief physically, stooping deeper and deeper under an invisible burden of ever-increasing weight. It was as if he had been completely unaware that his attraction had reached such a poor state of disarray and the sudden knowledge of it was damning. Mickey was stunned. How could the Clockman not know that his own ride was in shambles? The mouse found himself growing more curious as the tour progressed.

A short time after beholding the ruins of the Small World Symphonium, a once grand orchestral auditorium and choir loft that had been turned into an instrument burial ground, the Clockman gave a stunned gasp and shuffled rapidly down the passageway ahead of Mickey. A soft supplication reached Mickey’s ears as his guide neared the end of the hall and paused fearfully in a beam of light provided by a solitary service lamp dangling from the ceiling.

“Oh please’th - please’th let that room be sthafe!”

As Mickey drew closer, he tilted his head to get a better look at the door he guessed led into the room the Clockman had just referred to. It was a pretty basic affair, as doors go, with a smooth, unblemished wooden face and a rather charming clock-shaped doorknocker. The doorknob was fashioned to look like the minute and hour hands of a clock forming a small perpendicular angle with each other. Mickey admired the detail on the handle as the Clockman fumbled with the keys in his pockets.

“Oh… oh… where isth that key? Where did I…? Where did I put it? I told mysthelf, told mysthelf I would keep it close’th by at all timesth! It musth’t be sthomewhere…”

With rising anxiety the Clockman patted himself all over, searching desperately for the item in question. He took all of the keys out of his pants pockets and turned the pockets inside out, pulled off his shoes and shook them upside-down, thoroughly checked his socks, reached up the sleeves of his coat, and rummaged around inside the coat flaps. In the midst of his frantic movement, a flash of white caught Mickey’s eye, and the mouse noticed a small slip of paper attached to the back of the Clockman’s slightly wrinkled tie. The paper fluttered passionately as the Clockman continued to search himself for the key, and though it was difficult to make out, there seemed to be a word or two written on the white slip. Mickey squinted at it.

THE KEY, the words read.

Mickey cleared his throat quietly and addressed the Clockman.

“Uh -- Mister Clockman?”

The keeper of the Small World was too preoccupied with his search to hear Mickey’s inquiry. The mouse tried again, this time with more gusto.

“Mister Clockman, I think I found your key.”

“Yesth, Mickey - that’sth it! My key! I am stho desthperately sthearching for it, you haven’t stheen it, have you? It’sth a sthplendid-looking mechanisthm, fashioned from the finesth’t of metalsth, with a bow in the shape of the face’th of my Clock Tower! Oh, please’th sthay I haven’t losth’t it!” The Clockman continued his search by slowly and methodically going through the keys in his pockets.

“But, Mister Clockman - the key is in your tie.”

“Oh Mickey, that’sth sthimply preposthterousth,” assured the Clockman. “I doubt there isth anything in all of Wasthe’tland that would possthessth me to sthecure sthuch an important implement in my tie! Mosth’t irresthponsthible, if not foolish. Why, I could quite easthily lose’th the key if I did sthuch a thing! That isth exthactly why I decthided to undo the hem of my tie and sthew the key insthide it stho I would then be wearing it at all timesth!”

Mickey stared, taking in the Clockman’s self-assured grin with unblinking confusion. One of the Clockman’s hands wandered upwards to inspect the body of his tie. The fingers closed around the shape of a key, and he deftly unwound the stitching in order to free the key from its hiding place.

The key looked just as the Clockman had described it. Clearly, great care had gone into the creation of the item, for it was intricately designed and cast in what appeared to be a cheerful yellow gold. The key’s handle bore the shape and likeness of a smiling, wide-eyed clock face.

Gently, the Clockman inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The locking mechanism clicked, and the door swung silently open. The Clockman gave an immediate sigh of relief before he stepped into the room. Heeding his previous tour experiences, Mickey peered tentatively around the doorjamb, and was pleased to see that, by all accounts, this particular room had not been visited by misfortune. He shuffled inside, satisfied, but his feelings of respite were quickly replaced by ones of awe and curiosity.

The room was small, no bigger than the average private business office, and seemed to be kept painstakingly tidy. Against the far wall squatted a neat black lacquer desk and chair. In the middle of the room was a table of the same material as the desk, covered in an odd assortment of architectural sketches, outlays, and writing utensils. A number of finely detailed clay models anchored the drawings in place. A pair of small bookshelves sat a little apart from each other directly adjacent to the door; their shelves held a tastefully arranged collection of picture frames, pins, buttons, ribbons, figurines, and other similar odds and ends. A handful of other picture frames hung from another wall, lit for the viewer’s pleasure by a series of angled lamps dangling at painstakingly perfect lengths from the ceiling.

“What is this place?” Mickey asked aloud, gazing intently at everything the room had to offer.  

“Thisth isth... the mosth’t important room in all of the Sthmall World.”

As if on cue, a mobile hanging in one corner of the room began to spin, intoning a music box rendition of the Small World theme. Whilst the notes strung themselves together, the Clockman showed Mickey around the room. He gestured to the table in the middle, and Mickey tiptoed over to gaze thoughtfully at the delicate sheets of paper while the Clockman pointed at each one in turn, explaining even the littlest detail of each sketch. They contained blueprints for the Small World attraction and the Clock Tower, as well as for parts of the surrounding Gremlin Village. The clay figures were miniature models of the Clock Tower and several important landmarks incorporated within the Small World. Next came the bookshelves, resplendent in gold trim, each shelf offering a number of objects and memorabilia for consideration. The items concerned the Clock Tower, the Small World, or a whimsical combination of both. There was a wooden child’s jewelry box, decorated on all sides with figures from the Small World, a snow globe with a replica of the Clock Tower encased in its watery sphere, and a table lamp that had had the lyrics to the Small World theme painted on its shade in ten different languages. Mickey marveled at the wide assortment of Small World-themed buttons that surrounded the lamp, and one by one the Clockman told him exactly what year each button was from, along with a few interesting tidbits of knowledge.

“Where did you get all of this stuff, Mister Clockman?” Mickey asked when they had finished with the bookshelves. The mouse watched the mobile slow to a halt just as the music came to an end.

The Clockman chuckled. “It stheemsth that whenever I take tripsth to the mountain I tend to end up returning with sthomething conctherning the Sthmall World or my Clock Tower,” he answered, moving in the direction of the wall of pictures. “These’th artifacsth are difficult to come by, sthurely, but I -- oh. Oh, no!”

Mickey turned his head back to the Clockman just in time to see the fellow collapse to his knees behind the table. One of the picture frames must have dropped from the wall before either of them had arrived, and it lay face-down on the floor, surrounded by glass shards. The Clockman glanced up at the wall to check the frames that still hung before he set down his cane and gently picked the fallen frame up off the ground.

“Thisth... thisth cannot be...” he moaned softly.

The picture trapped beneath the frame had been torn in two, directly down the middle. The Clockman set the frame aside and reached for both pieces of paper. A few shards of glass fell tinkling to the floor when the Clockman carefully lifted the torn halves and held them up to the light. The markings on the stained, yellowed page had faded with age, but the shapes of two familiar figures could just be made out. On the left piece was a rough sketch of the Clockman, one hand outstretched in a friendly offer to shake, the other grasping his cane. On the right piece was the figure outline of Mickey Mouse, ginning widely as he reached to return the Clockman’s gesture. The tear ran right through the middle of their handshake, separating the two and disrupting the happy mood conveyed by the picture.  

The Clockman was silent. Mickey approached him tentatively and noticed that the light from the lamps was glinting off of a few tears that had begun to roll down the Clockman’s face. Unsure of what to do, Mickey paused.

“Wh-what happened?”

“I - I’m not sthure. I... I can’t remember! I’m posthitive thisth wasth whole when lasth’t I wasth in here!” The Clockman looked up at Mickey desperately, his eyes shining with yet unshed tears. “No one other than mysthelf can enter thisth room! I’m the only one with the key!” His gaze switched back to focus on the torn paper. “Thisth... thisth sthimply cannot be!”

“What... what is it?”

Slowly the Clockman returned to his feet, a piece of the ripped sheet in each hand. He smiled through his tears at the page and ventured a bit of quiet laughter which ended in a heartfelt sob.

“Thisth page isth the only sthurviving piece’th of our cartoon, Mickey,” he ventured quietly. “A cartoon that wasth never made.”

“Never made?” Mickey frowned. He took a step towards the Clockman. “But why?”

The Clockman sighed. “It wasth never given the chance’th. Thisth isth justh’t a basthic sthketch, to testh’t out the main conctheptsth for the plot by introduce’thing a possthible scthenario. Asth you can sthee... the idea never progressthed any further than thisth piece’th of paper.”

Saddened by the Clockman’s story, Mickey was at a loss for words. He lowered his eyes, consumed by his own thoughts and emotions. The Clockman shuffled over to the writing desk and laid the two pieces of the paper reverently upon it. He paused for a moment by the desk, placing his hands on its smooth surface, leaning against it for support. He couldn’t bear to look at the torn page again, so he bowed his head and closed his eyes in silent grief. Several seconds ticked by before the Clockman gathered himself. Pulling out a handkerchief, he dried his eyes and cheeks prior to reclaiming his cane. He then returned the kerchief to his pocket and came alongside Mickey.

“Will you... will you sth'till come with me to sthee the Clock Tower?” he asked Mickey timidly.

Mickey gave the Clockman his most cheerful, reassuring grin ever. “You betcha!”

Together, the two of them left the room of memorabilia and continued to the last door at the very end of the hall. The door opened onto a staircase that led downwards. At the bottom of the stairs was yet another door. Before opening it, the Clockman gave an introduction to the area they were about to enter.

“Thisth door leadsth out onto the viewing walkway. Be careful not to fall into the reflecting pool; it isth quite deep. Now, Mickey, I presthent to you -- my Clock Tower!”

The Clockman thrust the door wide open and gestured Mickey onwards. Mickey stepped out into the open air and his mouth instantly dropped open. To the right stood the Clock Tower, framed against the background of the Small World’s decorative towers piercing the murky sky, its golden face tilting alternately to the right and left. For some reason the reflecting pool below the tower was filled with thinner. But neither of these things served to hold Mickey’s attention for very long, because there, hovering in nervous agitation in the middle of the walk, was gremlin Gus.

“Hey, Gus!” Mickey waved, sprinting over to the fidgeting gremlin. “We made it!”

“Mickey!” cried Gus in relief. “Oh, Mickey, you’re okay! I was worried something terrible had happened during the tour!” His tone softened as he continued. “Hey, Mickey - er, look. I’m sorry I pitched a fit back there. It was rather uncharacteristic of me, actually. I should’ve stuck by you -- no matter what you decided to do.”

“Aw, that’s okay, Gus. You didn’t miss much, anyway,” Mickey shrugged. “I kinda have to admit, the tour was mostly a disaster.”

“Oh? What, did something strange happen with the Clockman?”

While Mickey patiently told Gus the story of the unfortunate tour, a conversation of a very different nature was about to transpire with the Clockman. He had just stuck the key for the staircase door in the lock to release the locking mechanism when he suddenly looked up and realized he was no longer standing on the Clock Tower viewing walkway at all. From what he could tell, he was in the middle of a long, shadowed hallway; he could see nothing other than darkness behind him, but just ahead shone a pale, bluish light. Cautiously, the Clockman pocketed his key and approached the light, calling out into the impenetrable blackness.

“Exth... Exthcuse’th me! Isth anyone out there? I’m not quite cthertain where I am - or where thisth isth - and would mosth’t gratefully welcome sthome direction. Hello?”

The receding echoes of the Clockman’s call were his only answer. Confused and a bit frightened, the master of the Clock Tower and Small World came up to the circle of light and found that its source was a large, gorgeous circular mirror resting on a sturdy frame. The mirror’s face was painted with the numbers one through twelve running in numerical order clockwise around the edge, like any old analog clock, but the mirror had no minute, hour, or second hand to track the time. Nonetheless, a soft ticking noise emanated from the mirror-clock, along with its bluish glow. The Clockman found the steady ticking soothing to his nerves, and he moved forward to catch a glimpse of his reflection on the mirror’s surface.  

The image staring back at the Clockman was anything but his reflection. Certainly, those classy brown shoes were the same, and so were the blue-checkered, fingerless gloves. But the suit, the suit was all wrong! It was a deep, deep shade of purple, bordering on a sickly plum, so dark it seemed to leech light from the space surrounding it. The collared shirt underneath the coat was brown; the tie had taken on a muddy magenta hue and the sphere atop his cane was the same color as the tie. By far, the most unnerving aspect of this doppelganger was his lavender-tinted glasses. From his angle, the Clockman could not see what kind of eyes looked out at the world from behind those lenses, and the cruel smirk beneath that characteristic nose contrasted sharply with the Clockman’s curious half-smile.

Further dumbfounded, the Clockman frowned, cradled his chin in his free hand, and cocked a questioning eye at the image in the mirror.

“Hmm... there stheemsth to be sthomething wrong with thisth mirror.”

“HaRDly sO, Old BoY.”

The Clockman jumped back from the mirror a pace, startled. The image in the mirror laughed raucously.

“Did I fRigHtEn yOU, EuGeNE? Terribly soRrY. It seems I have quite developed the habit.”

By now the Clockman had regained his composure, and his eyebrows drew together as he focused intently on the figure reflected in the mirror. “You... I recognize’th your voice’th. Who are you?”

“Oh Eugene, dO come closer so I might get a better look at you. This is, after all, our first meeting face-to-face, Is It NoT?”

The Clockman was startled to find himself taking two involuntary steps towards the mirror. “I notice’thd you didn’t ansthwer my questhtion,” he quipped, starting to become slightly agitated. “Once’th more -- who, pray tell, are you?”

“NoNSeNsE, Eugene! Why talk about mE when we could go oN aND On about... you?”

“What do you mean? What are you sthaying?”

“Well, I have no doubt in my mind wHAtsOeVeR that you made an excellent impression with Mickey Mouse,” the image spat sarcastically. “A tour of the Small World? AbSoLuTeLy BRiLlIaNt. I am forced to admit, I could not have done a better sWeeP of the thing myself. You let the mouse see just how TERrIbLe YoU are at maintaining your establishment.”

“I... Now, sthee here, you--”

“Aht, tah, tah. You really ought to let me fINiSh. As I was saying, Mickey Mouse is now aware of the fact that you truly are tHE mOsT mIsErABlE excuse for a toon that ever scrambled about Wasteland. I have no doubt he thinks of you as a fAILuRE. Really now?” The dark-clad image sneered. “And you call yourself the ‘oVeRSeeR of the Small World’? The ‘MaSTeR of the Clock Tower’? My humblest condolences as to your dIsIllUsIOnmEnt. So far as I can tell, you are only the overseer of an indoor, thinner-infested ReFUse HeaP and the master of mIsErY and RUiN.”

“Wh--?! H-how instholent can you--”

“Come now, I STiLl was not qUiTe finished. You are being very, very rude at the moment! I am considering BeCoMiNg upset. Anywho, to pick up where I left off, I do not think you realize just how LiTTlE you have to offer this world. The Small World is a sorry ExCuSe for an attraction if EVeR I sAw OnE. Your beloved Clock Tower looms crookedly over the pitiful remnants of a village, and the village is fIlLeD with a bunch of useless, MiNDlEsS toons who could cARe LesS whether you existed or not.”

Whilst the Clockman’s corrupt doppelganger conducted his tirade, the image of the background reflected on the mirror’s surface wavered slightly and shifted to show alternating views of the Small World and the Gremlin Village. Scenes of decrepit, neglected rides and the thinner-stained metal skeletons of animatronic figures extended haunting tendrils to the Clockman, mercilessly tearing at his mind. He tightened his grip on his cane and recoiled from the images, but he continued to stare in horror, unable to tear himself away.

“That’sth... that’sth not true! The Sthmall World isth the mosth’t sthpecial place’th in Wasth’teland! Everyone lovesth to visthit!” the Clockman ventured desperately.

His reflection let out a devious chuckle. “You mean they USeD to fLaTtEr you that way. You haven’t had a visitor in quite some time. No toon savors an afternoon spent riding through your death-by-thinner TrAp. Come to mention it, that Mouse has been the first to grace the Small World in forever. A pItY. This miserable universe offers far better avenues to visit than your PaTHeTiC attraction. You sHoULd have been courteous and pointed him straight on to Mean Street! But I’m straying from the PoInT again. Do step closer to the mirror.”

Again the Clockman drew near, this time as if an unseen force had shoved him roughly forward. He stumbled and stretched out his free hand to catch himself. To his astonishment, rather than connecting with the smooth face of the mirror, the Clockman’s hand went through it, causing a series of ripples to flow across the mirror’s surface. He gasped and withdrew his hand just in time to catch the sight of a separate flash of blue. His reflection had taken the opportunity to reach through the mirror from the opposite side and seize a fistful of the Clockman’s collar. He held the Clockman an inch away from the mirror-clock’s glassy exterior in an unforgiving, viselike grip. The only barrier between the faces of both entities was the surface of the mirror, disturbed by the doppelganger’s arm protruding through it.

“The very sight of you InfUrIAtEs me,” the reflection hissed viciously. “I can hardly look at you without entertaining a shudder of anger. You bUmBLe about like an idiotic muse and accomplish nothing noteworthy, all the while fooling yourself with falsehoods of production and purpose. Well, allow me to clue you in on the TRuTH. Your memory is in shambles, you can’t fix AnYtHiNg, and as a result you have lost your value and singlehandedly caused everything to fall apart. I don’t have the time to let you run this show aNY lOngEr.”

The ticking sounds of the mirror-clock had been getting progressively faster and faster in the shrouded milieu, stepping into double time and rising to an overwhelming crescendo until the noise ended abruptly at the sounding of a pocket watch alarm. The reflection blinked and reached into his coat, taking a shining golden timepiece from it. He silenced the recklessly noisy alarm and looked back at the Clockman, unable to restrain a deliciously evil grin as his gaze bore deep into the Clockman’s frightened, helpless eyes.

“It’s YoUR turn to bear this watch, and aLl ThAt ImPLiEs.”

With a sharp tug the reflection freed the chain of the pocket watch from the button of his vest. He shoved the watch into the Clockman’s chest and stepped to one side, simultaneously dragging the Clockman into the mirror. The Clockman sprawled out on the floor, the pocket watch clattering down beside him. Like a silent breeze the reflection passed through the mirror’s surface. Drunk with the realization of his victory, he spent a few moments primping his wardrobe, procrastinating with intent. At one point he spared a look back at the mirror, critically watching the Clockman push himself up into a kneeling position. The Clockman glanced about, confused and uncertain until he glimpsed the flipped numbers lining the clock face. Comprehension was slow to come to the golden-clad fellow, but when reality dawned he staggered to his feet and accosted the surface of the mirror. It was as solid and unyielding as a stone wall.

The Clockman stared wide-eyed at his double, his hands pressed against the inner surface of the clock face. “What... what isth thisth? Wh- my voice’th? Why doesth it sthound stho...? What have you done to me? I... I don’t understh’tand!”

“Oh, my DEaR Eugene, you’ll have plenty of time to ponder your predicament, tRuSt mE. I, on the other hand, have important matters to attend to, starting with a Mouse. If you would be so kind as to excuse me--”

The dark doppelganger tapped the floor twice with his cane and vanished, leaving the Clockman trapped within the mirror-clock, his only companions his own trusty walking stick and a once-golden watch now stained an inky, iridescent violet.

Meanwhile, Mickey had finished unfolding his tale to Gus, and the two friends were making an effort to appreciate the dingy Clock Tower. It did have a certain whimsical appeal to it, but when Gus briefly described to Mickey what the Clock Tower once looked like before it was stripped of its grandeur, the mouse became aware that the Clock Tower had not been spared from the poor fate dealt to the rest of the Small World.

“MiCkEy MoUsE! What a pleasant surprise! I am so very PLeaSeD to finally meet you.”

Mickey and Gus turned in the direction of the oddly familiar voice. The Clockman was striding confidently towards them, a disturbing grin wreathing his face. Gus shuddered visibly and spoke to Mickey under his breath.

“Uh-oh. Something’s up. Stand fast, Mickey. We might be in for some trouble if my hunch is right.”

Mickey nodded grimly and flexed the fingers on his right hand as the keeper of the Small World drew closer.

“Delighted, I’m simply DeLIgHteD to make your acquaintance!” the Clockman continued. “You have nO idEA how long I’ve been waiting for you to finally make your way here! A blasted long time, Mouse, make no mistake. I was just thinking of...”

The Clockman’s cruel gaze had wandered from Mickey’s face to settle on the sphere atop his cane. The sphere was its usual cheerful blue color. Perturbed, he glanced down at his golden clothing and sneered, “Come, come - I’ve not the time for such childish deviance. Might I remind you just WHO is in control now?”

With maniacal glee the Clockman reached over and placed his right thumb on his opposite shoulder. He drew the thumb down the length of his sleeve, conjuring a line of dark violet tint on the surface of the fabric that instantly grew and began to spread purplish tendrils across the garment like a creeping bloodstain. The Clockman withheld from finishing his speech until the full transformation of his wardrobe was complete.

“There. MuCH bEtTeR,” he oozed, momentarily toying with his color-altered cane. “Now, where was I? Oh, YeS.” The Clockman moved to the forward center of the walk, separating Mickey and Gus from the thinner pool. Behind him the Clock Tower’s face retained its constant movement as the sky began to grow ominously darker.

“You’re not the Clockman!” accused Mickey, stepping forth bravely. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

“Oh, you poor, misled toon. That’s where you are wrong. I aM tHe ReAl ClOcKmAn. That fEcKlEsS iMbEcIlE who recently led you on a depressing tour of FaIlUrE and rUIn has forever been put where he belongs. The Small World is MInE now. And what are you going to do about it, hmm? Go scamper off and tell the rabbit? Ha hA! He won’t listen to you. He could care less about your fate in this world. The truth is, no one likes you here in Wasteland, MicKeY MOuSe -- least of all, me.”

The wind had steadily been picking up, preceding the arrival of more clouds, which sailed into the sky behind the Clock Tower on eerily creaky rigging. Gus hovered closer to Mickey’s side and struck a defensive pose, scowling at the imposing figure standing before them. “Don’t listen to him, Mickey. I’m with you every step of the way!”  

Mickey smiled gratefully at the gremlin. “Thanks, Gus! You’re a real pal!” The mouse fired a glare at the violet-clad Clockman. “Whatever you’re trying to pull, Mister - uh - other Clockman, it’s not gonna work!”

The look on the Clockman’s face was downright mischievous as he settled the tip of his cane down onto the walk between his toes, shifting his weight onto the clouded violet sphere as he leaned towards them. “I’m positively eCSTaTiC you think that way, Mouse. Otherwise, this display would have come off as far less impressive than I had intended.”

In the background, the golden surface of the Clock Tower’s visage was swiftly eaten away by a layer of ravenous thinner, replacing its quirky smile with a ghastly, crooked, insanely gaping maw decked with hideously splintered teeth. There was a sudden terrible splintering of wood, and a panel on either side of the Clock Tower’s main body burst violently open, heralding the emergence of a pair of massive mechanical arms. The arms extended nearly full-length over the width of the walk, each appendage accented by a four-fingered hand. The fingers sported cruel, pointed, razor-sharp spikes at their tips. The Clockman let loose with a bout of ugly laughter as the Clock Tower’s hands dutifully flanked him on either side, poised to attack.

“FiNaLLy – I’ve found something to do with this clunky old thing,” he mused to himself, gesturing to the side with his cane. The Clock Tower obediently offered up one of its hands as a platform, and the Clockman gracefully stepped backwards onto the extended appendage. “If you think I am someone who can be stopped, Mouse...”

The Clock Tower’s hand bore the Clockman safely into the air and across the thinner pool to the double doors set in the center of the tower’s main body. The doors swung open simultaneously at his approach, readily willing to admit their master. The Clockman ducked into the entrance and spun on his heel to face his adversaries.

“I beg of you – be my guest. No really, I am quite serious. Come-- JUsT tRy tO sToP ME.”    

Again his laughter rang through the air, lingering in hollow echoes even after the doors had slammed shut. The Clock Tower’s hands returned to hover menacingly over Mickey and Gus. Drawing his paintbrush, the mouse glanced first at one huge mechanical hand and then the other, and with grim determination he pantomimed bunching the sleeves of a shirt up above his elbows. Gus clenched his tiny fists and growled, his moustache bristling.

“Let’s get ‘im, Mickey.”

“Right behind ya, Gus.”