Midnight. The witching hour. The outskirts of Trifle City. Having slipped from a pair of trembling crumpet hands two slices of toasts and a dish of butter, cow-shaped lid and all, crashed to the kitchen tiles. Bestirred by the clattering of ceramic bovine against ceramic plate, the owner of said trembling hands (both of them) was overwhelmed by a discomforting intuition.
“Pilchard,” he said aloud, his utterance ripe with righteous purpose. “Pilchard...”
The owner of the twice-aforementioned hands was not intrigued by little tinned fishies, however; he spun to the window, looked out; just as he expected, there glistened against the witching heavens with all the radiance of a second moon a searchlight's beam, its cusp culminating in the distinct shape of a crumpet. The presence of this orb-like beacon, coupled with the intuitive tingling in his thrice-hands could mean only one thing – far in the causeways of Trifle City an ally was in want of our hero's assistance; as was his duty, his purpose, and since he had nothing better to do 'cept snack on toast, the great Crumpet-Hands Man proclaimed:
“This is no time for a midnight snackaridge! I must do me some superheroing, post-haste!”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Post-butter, our hero slammed shut the fridge door; wincing aloudly, doing a quick swear, he removed his head from said fridge. Having slammed the fridge door for a second time, this time without incident (just) the hero with a headache slurred, “I need to get changed into my superhero outfit!” This necessary conversion from dressing gown to hero-attire would take but a moment, for Crumpet-Hands Man always maintained a heightened state of apparel preparedness; indeed, he was already wearing his iconic onesie: bright red, patched, several sizes too small, a glittery crumpet emblazoned across the chest; the egg up the front and the singe in the nether regions, as best we know, were not part of the look.
Hopping one-legged from room to room like an heroic pogostick with a missing spring, our hero pulled on his boots. (The Velcro straps were another time-saving device; and having crumpets for hands made tying laces troublesome.) He next donned his cape, Terry-ed his mask, John-ed his hair all super frizzy and windswept like, before finally Frank-ing his underpants. Unlike one particular superhero of repute who shall remain unmentioned for reasons of copyright (that man who was super, wink) our hero wore his underpants not on the outside of his suit, but over his head. Why? Shrug. We do not know. All we do know is that our hero poked his little face out of the underpants' left leg hole (tomorrow, for hygiene purposes, the right) and that said pants were as brown as a packet of your granny's pre-war fudge. (And just as sticky.)
But at last our hero was ready! Fully beclothed, primed for doing all kinds of important hero-stuff, Crumpet-Hands Man dashed heroically for the front door–
He missed, and went heroically through the kitchen window.
