Following a swift willy-shrinking dip in the reservoir and eight million screaming wet-wipes thoroughly wiped thereafter, be-clothed in two uniforms with 'Sewage Worker of the Very Highest Order' emblazoned across their chests our two kinda-spotless heroes prepared for their first day working underground – undercover.

  But you may be concerned, dear reader: with both of our heroes' general appearance being anything less than conventional (crumpets for hands, eyeballs for ears, you get the picture) surely the detective and the superhero would stick out from the ranks of 'normal' sewage workers like a pair of very sore thumbs?

  But fear not, for both superhero and super-policeperson were every bit as cunning as they were abnormal!

  His hands his only unshapely appendages (at least those we know of) Crumpet-Hands Man's disguise needn't have stretched beyond a pair of gloves; and, as luck/plot would have it, the standard sewage worker's attire came included with a yellow, elbow-length pair of the rubber variety. Crumpet-Hands Man took no pleasure in wearing these gloves, however; he grumbled that they made his arms look like two deformed bananas, or, such was the slenderness of his arms in comparison to his oversized hands, like a pair of pendulums dipped in custard. He nonetheless agreed to tolerate the humiliation – “For the sake of the city!” – on the one condition that he continue wearing his hero mask. “My identity must remain a secret,” he retched adamantly. If a sewage worker were to question our hero on his curious facewear, he would simply explain it away as a means of protecting his eyelashes should he accidentally stick his face in a deep fryer thinking it a jacuzzi. (A genuine and all-too common mistake our hero had a propensity to make.)

  Initially however, rather than suffer the indignity of a luminous arm sock over his hands – thus muzzling the crumpety superpowers he so relied upon – Crumpet-Hands Man had ventured a more discreet method of drawing attention away from his hands.

  “Ingenious, no?” he demonstrated for the detective and the mayor, cat-walking up and down the office with oversized crumpets on hips. “With this on, no one will think to look at my magnificent hands. Their gaze will instead be drawn to my magnificent head!”

  The magnificent mayor was unconvinced.

  “Hmm... I do like it; very vogue. And yet,” she contemplated from a safe distance, “I'm not sure that a traffic cone strapped with fireworks is the most inconspicuous choice of hat,” she critiqued, dashing for a fire extinguisher to put herself out.

  Despite being less of a fire hazard than his counterpart's, Detective Pilchard's disguise wasn't as straight forward. Alas, the detective and his misaligned eye-ears never did anything straight forward! (Ha ha! Blah.)

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  “We simply must conceal those lovely-if-distinctive earballs of yours,” Crumpet-Hands Man fretted, tugging an oversized trapper's hat over the detective's head. Tying the string with the mayor's assistance, our hero ensured that the hat's fluffy flaps fully concealed his partner's ears.

  “But now I can't see,” Detective Pilchard complained, crashing over a chair. The mayor picked it up, put it blah, said, “But Crumpet-Hands Man, what if someone notices that the detective has no eyes where they otherwise should be?” A fair point, one which our hero rectified by snatching a magic marker from the mayor's desk and drawing two cartoon eyes across his partner's otherwise eyeless face.

  “There!” he said proudly. “Now no one will suspect a thing.”

  Again, the mag-blah mayor wasn't so sure. Very pretty cartoon eyes, indeed, but they did somewhat make the detective look like a cute anime girl...

  “But anyway,” our hero went on regardless, everyone a damn critic, “even if he cannot see, I will remain by the detective's side at all–”

  “But I can't hear anything either!” the detective buried somewhere under the hat screeched, directing his complaint at the wall.

  “Do not worry yourself. I SAID DO NOT WORRY YOURSELF!” our hero yelled in the direction of the deaf, blind, running around detective. “As long as we remain in close proximity to one another then no incident can befall us. And do not fear the other sewage workers we may come into contact with. When the time comes, I shall do all the talking. I am very good that that,” our hero talked, proving it.

  “But what if I have to do talk?” the detective crashed. Much like the detective's eyelobes, our hero had this covered. His ingenious plan:

  “Now listen, detective. When I tread on your left foot,” he said, doing it, “you'll take that as the signal to say 'yes'. Like this, you see?”

  “Yes!” Detective Pilchard confirmed, wincing.

  “Good. And when I do the same to your right foot,” our hero instructed, “that'll be your cue to say 'no'. Understand?”

  “No!”

  “Good.”

  “That's all very well, but what if he has to say something beyond yes or no?” the mayor asked with justifiable concern, for Trifle City's sewage workers were famous for not being so binary in their conversation. Crumpet-Hands Man stroked his chin; it let out a purr, licked his face. (Ha ha! What?)

  “Well, I guess we'll just have to think up something on the way,” our hero said with a sudden tone of urgency. He consulted his crumpet-watch, noticed the time, made hast. “Come! We better get a hurry on, my dear detective,” he talked, taking his partner by the flaps and dragging him through the window. “Our first shift at the sewers begins in less than ten minutes!”

  “Yes!”