“Look!” the guards at Chateau le Barre cried, pointing toward the roof, which was bathed in the light of the full moon.

“That is correct, fools!” cried the masked figure, clad in blue, that stood atop the peak. “It is I, the Phantom Phaunterplook, and I intend to spirit your captives to safety!”

“Hang on a tick,” one of the guards shouted back. “What the blooming hell is a ‘phaunterplook’ exactly?”

“It’s a kind of flower,” The Phantom Phaunterplook shouted back. “It’s in the aster family. I’m going to leave one at the scene of my triumph here as a calling card.”

“There’s no such flower!” another guard cried. “I studied botany for two years!”

“Well, I studied it for six,” the Phaunterplook retorted. “And trust me when I say the phaunterplook is a real flower. You might know it as the genus Anagallis, the chaffweed, or the swizzlechud.”

“You made those up!”

“I did not! The Dutch also call it the vanterplüken! Look, I have a boquet of them right here!”

“Those could be silk flowers for all we know!”

“Look,” sighed the Phaunterplook. “Are you going to raise the alarm or not?”

“Are you going to raise the issue of you naming yourself after a fake flower or not?”

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