Character Flaw

“Thank you, all in a day’s work for a superhero. Just doing my job,” Cosmo Corrigan said as he smiled and struck a pose with his arms on his hips, his cape blew in the breeze, at this press conference.

A reporter raised a hand. “Cosmo, now that you’ve saved the Periwinkle City from the meteor, any plans for the next big threat?”

Cosmo grinned. “Honestly, I’m just hoping the meteor didn’t violate any HOA landscaping guidelines. Last time I got a letter for having my cape draped over the hedges.”

A reporter in a designer suit stepped forward, clutching a green smoothie. “Cosmo, as a vegan, gluten-free Cross-fitter who went to Harvard and just moved here from New York City, I have to ask—how do you maintain superhero strength without kale?” Cosmo blinked. “Mostly by avoiding conversations about kale.”

A reporter from Channel 7 piped up, “Cosmo, what’s your secret to staying so heroic under pressure?” Cosmo flashed a grin. “Well, it’s mostly the cape—90% polyester, 10% static electricity. But honestly, the real challenge is dodging the HOA fines. Last week, they cited me for ‘excessive dramatic posing’ on my own lawn. Next time I save the city, I’m sending them the bill for cape dry-cleaning!”

While most of the media were propping him up and asking softball questions (he did just save the city after all), one representative from CNN asked him, “Cosmo, any comment on the citizens of our neighbor town, Silver Valley?”

“No, why would I talk about that run-down town?”

“You haven’t seen the video?” Cosmo snatched the iPhone out of the reporter’s hand and started the TikTok video. It tracked Cosmo speeding through the sky aiming directly for the threatening meteor and then winding up and giving it a super right-hook that divided the space rock in half.

Cosmo focused his attention on the half that was aimed toward Periwinkle City and sped over to it, gripped it tightly, spun in circles, and launched it into space.

Cosmo admired the view of that half-meteor floating away and relishing in the thought of all the publicity he was about to get, he paid no attention to the second half of the meteor. The video pans back and shows the destruction from the impact of the meteor fragment plunging into nearby Silver Valley, killing hundreds, if not thousands.

Cosmo paused, his cape still fluttering, and glanced suspiciously at the sky. Or rather, at something beyond the sky. “Wait a minute,” he muttered, squinting. “This doesn’t feel right. Why do I keep saying things like ‘just doing my job’? Why is everyone asking me softball questions? Is someone… writing this?”

A voice thundered from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Of course I’m writing this, Cosmo. You’re the hero. Or at least, you’re supposed to be.”

Cosmo spun around, searching for the source. “Oh, great. The Writer. Listen, I know you’re up there, pulling the strings. But did you have to make me look like such a clumsy, arrogant attention-hound? And what’s with letting Silver Valley get flattened? You could’ve written me smarter.”

The Writer’s words appeared in Britannic Bold across the sky, as if typed by an invisible hand. “Maybe if you paid more attention instead of basking in the spotlight, you’d have noticed the other half of the meteor. Besides, a little flaw makes you interesting.”

Cosmo crossed his arms, glaring upward. “Interesting? You made me look like a fool! The internet’s going to roast me. Couldn’t you give me a heroic redemption arc?”

Suddenly Cosmo felt a strange sensation, as if his very name was slipping away. Then in Kermit Semibold Expanded font, wrote, “Fine, if you’re going to complain, I’ll change your name, Cosmo McClumsy.”

Cosmo’s eyes widened. “What? No! That’s even worse!”

“Or maybe Captain Ego. Or The Meteor Miss-er. Or… Chad Stardust.”

Cosmo stomped his foot, sending a small tremor through the press conference. The reporters from CNN, MSNBC, Fox all thought Cosmo was insane, screaming at the clouds. “Stop it! I demand you write me with dignity!”

From the Writer’s font, Cosmo could tell the Writer was more mischievous. “You demand? In my story? Maybe I’ll make you trip over your own cape next. Or forget how to fly. Or—”

Cosmo interrupted, shouting at the sky, “You wouldn’t dare!”

“I would. I might even make you narrate your own embarrassment. You’re just words on a page, Chad, or Captain Ego. Or whatever I decide next.”

Cosmo groaned, realizing he was at the mercy of a vindictive author. “This is going to be a long chapter…”

Cosmo, fed up with being the universe’s punchline, straightened his cape. “All right, Writer, if you’re so clever, let’s see how you handle this!” He marched toward the nearest building, only to find that the sidewalk had been replaced with a giant banana peel.

He skidded, arms flailing, and landed flat on his back. “Really? Banana peels? What is this, slapstick Saturday?”

A booming chuckle echoed from the clouds. Courier New font appeared, “You wanted comedy, Cosmo. Or should I say… Sir Slips-a-Lot?”

Cosmo scrambled to his feet, brushing imaginary dust off his suit. “You can change my name, but you can’t control my thoughts! I’ll refuse to say anything heroic or dramatic. I’ll only speak in limericks!”

The press, still gathered, stared in confusion as Cosmo declared:

“There once was a hero named Cosmo, Whose writer was terribly bossy. He slipped on a peel, And made quite a squeal, But refused to act scared or glossy!”

The Writer’s words scrawled across the sky in Comic Sans: “Nice try, but now you can only speak in rhyming couplets.”

Cosmo groaned. “You’re making this hard, but I’ll play along, I’ll rhyme all my lines, though it feels so wrong.”

The Writer, not to be outdone, snapped his metaphorical fingers. Suddenly, Cosmo’s costume transformed into a chicken suit, complete with a bright red comb.

Cosmo flapped his wings in exasperation. “Oh, come on! This is undignified, even for you. Can’t you just let me save the day and be free?”

The Writer’s laughter thundered. “Not until you admit that a little flaw makes you funnier—just maybe, a better hero.”

Cosmo sighed, feathers ruffling. “Fine, I’m flawed and I slip, but at least I’m not boring, and I sure know how to quip!”

Cosmo then spotted a runaway train barreling toward the city’s famous banana cream pie festival. “Aha! A chance to redeem myself,” he declared, puffing out his chest.

But before he could leap into action, the mayor shouted, “Help us, Captain Catastrophe!” Cosmo winced. “It’s Cosmo Corrigan, actually.”

Comic Sans appeared, “Not anymore! Today, you’re Captain Catastrophe. Tomorrow, who knows?”

Cosmo dashed toward the tracks, only to find that the rails had been replaced with spaghetti noodles. The train’s wheels spun helplessly, flinging marinara sauce everywhere.

“Really?” Cosmo groaned, wiping tomato off his cape. “Spaghetti tracks?”

As Cosmo sprinted after the flying clown train, he dodged rubber chickens and confetti cannons. Suddenly, a stern woman in a blazer appeared, clipboard in hand. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, “the HOA requires a permit for all airborne locomotives. And those pies? Strictly against the bylaws.” Cosmo groaned. “Great, first meteors, now paperwork. Can’t a hero catch a break?”

A nearby reporter waved frantically. “Over here, Sir Stumblepants! The train’s headed for the pie tent!”

Cosmo tried to fly, but the Writer snapped his fingers and Cosmo’s cape turned into a giant slice of pizza. He flapped it desperately, achieving nothing but a faint whiff of pepperoni.

“Writer!” Cosmo shouted at the sky. “Can you please stop with the food-based sabotage?”

The Writer’s words appeared in rainbow Harlow Solid Italic: “Only if you admit you’re not perfect, Pizza Boy.”

Cosmo gritted his teeth. “Fine! I’m not perfect. I’m not even close. But I’m still going to save those pies—and those people!”

The train, now inexplicably filled with clowns, careened toward the festival. Cosmo sprinted ahead, dodging rubber chickens and confetti cannons. “Hang on, everyone! Captain—uh, whatever my name is—has got this!”

A clown leaned out the window. “Thanks, Meteor Miss-er!”

Cosmo rolled his eyes, but dove in front of the train, bracing himself. The Writer, not to be outdone, made the train sprout wings and take off into the sky.

Cosmo stared upward. “Oh, come on! A flying train? That’s not even—”

The Writer’s Algerian font, “You wanted a challenge, didn’t you, Doctor Comet?”

Cosmo took a deep breath, watching the train soar above the city. “Okay, Universe. Maybe I don’t know better than you. Maybe I’m not the hero I thought I was. But I’m not giving up. I’ll be the captain of my own ship—even if it’s a flying train full of clowns and pies!”

He leapt, grabbing hold of a trailing balloon, and was lifted after the train, determined to steer his own story—even if the Writer kept changing the rules, the scenery, and his name.

Cosmo dangled from the balloon, soaring after the airborne clown train, his bologna cape flapping in the wind. Below, the city’s citizens cheered, though their shouts were a confusing chorus:

“Go, Captain Catastrophe!”

“Save us, Sir Stumblepants!”

“Don’t drop the pies, Bologna Boy!”

“Fly, Chad Stardust, fly!”

Cosmo gritted his teeth. “I swear, if one more person calls me anything but Cosmo Corrigan, I’m going to—”

Suddenly, Baguet Script font appeared, “Careful, Meteor Miss-er! Wouldn’t want to lose your grip and become Sir Splat-a-Lot!”

Cosmo rolled his eyes, then focused on the train, which was now spewing confetti and rubber chickens from its smokestack. “All right, Writer, you’ve had your fun. But I’m done playing the fool. I’m saving this city, and you can’t stop me!”

He swung himself onto the train, dodging a barrage of custard pies and honking clown noses. The clowns inside gasped, then burst into applause. “Bravo, Commander Poultry! You’re our hero!”

Cosmo ignored the name, grabbed the emergency brake, and yanked it with all his might. The train screeched, wheels sparking—then, in true Writer fashion, the brake handle turned into a live trout.

“Really?” Cosmo shouted. “A fish? You’re running out of ideas, aren’t you?”

The words appeared, this time in Showcard Gothic and blinking neon: “I’m not running out of ideas, Chad. I’m just… improvising.”

Cosmo, undeterred, used the trout to slap a clown out of the way and lunged for the conductor’s hat, which promptly turned into a rubber duck. “You know what? Fine. I’ll save the day with whatever you throw at me. Rubber ducks, trout, pies—bring it on!”

Cosmo leapt to the front of the train, steering with the duck, and managed to guide the flying locomotive away from the festival, landing it safely in a giant inflatable kiddie pool. The clowns erupted in cheers, tossing pies in celebration. At this point, even the narrator was confused.

Cosmo paused, custard dripping from his cape, as the cheers of the crowd echoed around him. For a moment, the absurdity faded, and a pang of guilt tugged at his heart. He glanced toward the distant horizon, where Silver Valley once stood. “You know, Writer,” he said quietly, “it’s easy to laugh when you’re dodging pies and rubber chickens. But sometimes I wonder… if I’d paid more attention, maybe things would’ve been different for Silver Valley.

“I was so caught up in being the hero, in soaking up the spotlight, that I didn’t even look back. All those lives… gone, because I wasn’t paying attention. I thought saving one city was enough, but I should have done more. I should have been better.” Cosmo’s fists clenched at his sides, his bravado stripped away. “I’m sorry, Silver Valley. I’m so, so sorry. I promise, I’ll never let my pride blind me again.”

He sighed, then forced a crooked smile. “Guess even heroes need to learn from their mistakes—especially the ones written into the plot.” The Writer’s words appeared in gentle italics across the sky: “Even in comedy, a little heart goes a long way, Starblade.”

Cosmo stood, hearing the crowds cheering him on as he was dripping with custard and pride. “See, Writer? Even with your nonsense, I can still be a hero.”

There was a long pause. Then, for the second time, the Writer spoke, and his voice sounded… uncertain. No thundering this time. “Why do I torture you, Moon-Sentinel? Is it because you remind me of my bully father? Or maybe my third-grade gym teacher? Or… maybe I just like slapstick too much.”

Cosmo wiped pie from his face and looked up. “I always assumed it was because you were always picked last on the dodgeball team so now you pick on me. Maybe try therapy. Or at least write yourself a redemption arc.”

The Writer snorted. “Maybe I will. But for now, enjoy your victory, Celestial Hawk.”

Cosmo grinned, raising the rubber duck in triumph. “Whatever my name is, I’m the captain of my own destiny—even if it’s a destiny filled with rubber duckies and flying fish!”

The crowd cheered, chanting a new name: “Cosmo the Quipster! Cosmo the Quipster!”

And for once, Cosmo didn’t mind. After all, it was better than Bologna Boy.

Cosmo, still dripping with custard and clutching his rubber duck, looked up at the sky. “You know, Writer, all these pies and rubber chickens… I’m starting to think you’re just stalling. Maybe you’re suffering from a little writer’s block?”

The clouds above rumbled, then spelled out in bold Forte, “Writer’s block? Me? Never! I’m a fountain of creativity! …Okay, maybe a leaky faucet.”

Cosmo grinned. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Happens to the best of us. Maybe you just need a little inspiration. Or a nap. Or a snack that isn’t a live trout.”

The Writer’s voice grew sheepish. “You know, Thunder-Phoenix, maybe you’re right. Maybe all these banana peels and bologna capes are just my way of coping. My dad always said I’d never finish anything. And my third-grade gym teacher called me ‘Sir Trips-a-Lot’ for a whole school year.”

Cosmo nodded sagely. “Sounds rough. But hey, you finished this chapter, didn’t you? And you made me the hero—even if I had to save a clown train with a rubber duck.”

The Writer sniffled (if clouds can sniffle). “You know what? I think I’m ready for a new adventure. One where we work together. What do you say, Rocket Ranger?”

Cosmo puffed out his chest. “I say let’s do it! But this time, can we skip the food-based sabotage?”

The Writer’s words sparkled across the sky in Times New Roman: “No promises. But how about we team up to stop the Evil Librarian from erasing all the punchlines in the universe?”

Cosmo grinned. “I’m in! To the Plot Device-Mobile!”

Suddenly, a giant book-shaped car screeched to a halt beside Cosmo, honking out the theme to ‘Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits.’ Cosmo hopped in, the Writer materializing in the passenger seat as a floating pencil with a cape.

Together, they zoomed off toward the horizon, dodging flying dictionaries, rampaging thesauruses, and a hailstorm of exclamation points.

The next day, after defeating the Evil Librarian, just as Cosmo and the Writer sped toward their new adventure in the Plot Device-Mobile, a shadow loomed over the city. Suddenly, the road was blocked by a towering figure in a pinstripe suit, monocle gleaming, arms crossed in disapproval.

“Stop right there!” he bellowed. “I am The Humorless Bureaucrat, and I demand you cease all shenanigans immediately!”

Cosmo blinked. “Is… is that a briefcase full of paperwork?”

The villain slammed his briefcase open, unleashing a blizzard of forms. “Form 42-B: No Laughing in Public. Form 17-Q: No Rubber Ducks in Vehicles. Form 99-Z: No Pie-Based Heroics. You are in violation of every statute!”

The Writer, floating as a pencil, tried to crack a joke. “Hey, Bureaucrat, why did the chicken cross the road?”

The Humorless Bureaucrat glared. “To get to the other side. That is the only logical answer. Jokes are inefficient.”

Cosmo attempted a heroic pose but tripped in a puddle of water. “Oops! Looks like I’m in violation of Form 12-S: No Slapstick.”

The Bureaucrat scribbled furiously on a clipboard. “You will be fined for every pun, pratfall, and pie. Now, surrender your rubber duck and prepare for a mandatory seminar on Proper Seriousness.”

Cosmo and the Writer exchanged glances. The Writer whispered, “He’s immune to humor! What do we do?”

Cosmo grinned. “We do what we do best—double down on the absurdity!”

He launched into a tap dance, juggling rubber chickens, while the Writer summoned a hailstorm of knock-knock jokes. The Bureaucrat’s monocle fogged up. “This… this is highly irregular!”

Cosmo winked. “Lighten up, Bureaucrat! Life’s too short for paperwork and frowns!”

The Bureaucrat’s lips quivered. “I… I don’t understand. Is this… fun?”

The Writer patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll teach you. First lesson: never underestimate the power of a well-timed pie.”

A custard pie sailed through the air, landing squarely on the Bureaucrat’s face. For the first time, a tiny smile cracked his stern expression.

Suddenly Cosmo began breaking into one of his moral monologues, “It’s okay to be imperfect, and sometimes the best adventures come from embracing your flaws and working together,” but before he could finish his sentence, a giant wad of bird dropping landed smack-dab in the middle of his face.

And so, Cosmo and the Writer learned that even the most serious problems can be tackled with teamwork, laughter, and a little humility. Remember, nobody’s perfect, and sometimes the best stories come from our quirks and mistakes. If you ever feel stuck, don’t be afraid to ask for help, laugh at yourself, and keep moving forward. And sometimes you just have to deal with the crap life drops on your face.

Until next time—stay heroic and keep your rubber ducks handy!