“So detective,” Crumpet-Hands Man assumed (with the obligatory pose), “these are the two heavy-set square types you are having trouble with, hey?”
Red-faced, sideways, Detective Pilchard nodded sideways. Our hero nodded back, forwards and back, just as God intend. With a twinge of embarrassment, not wishing to hurt the dear detective's feelings, our hero demonstrated via the act of knocking that these two heavy-set square types were in fact doors. “Doors.” *Knock-knock* he knocked. “You see?”
The detective blushed of our hero's knocking. “Ah yes. Doors. Two of them, just as God blah. Tick.” For the sake of clarification he had a knock himself. “Doors indeed. I thought I recognised them. I have several at home.”
“As do I, detective,” our hero said. “No beaded curtains for me!” he added a little too forcefully for comfort.
Accepting of the detective's mistake – “It happens to the best of us, my dear detective. For my sins I once mistook a bear trap for a toilet.” – Crumpet-Hands Man summarily parted the troubling doors like nobody's business and marched between them like everyone else's. “Onwards to the bank's vault, detective!” he declared. “Onwa–”
Our hero's cape snagged between the troublesome doors when they swung shut behind him, yanking him back by the throat like a crumpet-yo-yo. Luckily, entirely for these all-too-common situations, Detective Pilchard always carried a pair of police issue garden shears. He put them to use, snip.
“Onwards...” our hero tried to resume his march; but the moment had gone.
Having sacrificed the bottom third of his cape at the altar of necessity, our semi-dressed hero sulked onwards down the corridor of the bank towards the two Vault Attendants of the Very Highest Order. With a crack of his crumpety knuckles he wittily declared, “Leave them to me, detective. I shall deal with these two blockheads!”
“What are you going to do?” Detective Pilchard asked nervously. “I don't want any casualties. Not like the last time...”
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Crumpet-Hands Man stopped in his tracks; with a look of indignation (or perhaps indigestion, such was the audible gurgle from his tummy) he peered at the detective incredulously. Our hero/tummy uttered/burped with the stoicism befitting a dignitary, “The code of the superhero is a sacred oath, detective, one which I intend on upholding until my dying breath. Let it be known: Crumpet-Hands Man does not, and not will ever not, kill.”
Shambolic grammar aside, Detective Pilchard could only admire his partner's character. Indeed, such was the detective's admiration for our hero he thought it unjust to mention that notorious veterans parade, the one which Crumpet-Hands Man had 'accidentally' crash-landed into with a forklift. Or that rainforest he'd burnt down while belittling a horse up a tree. Or, lest either of them forget, the incident with the nun and leaf blower...
But these scandalous trivialities aside, Detective Pilchard could only marvel at our hero. Boy, what a fine figure of fortitude he cut! What a titan! His superhero garb was par excellence!
Or perhaps, on closer ear/eye inspection, maybe a double-bogey? (A little golf witticism, there.)
For let us now face facts, dear reader: although you may find it hard to believe, Crumpet-Hands Man was not the model of hero who'd ever grace a catwalk. As bockety as a broken rake and equally as ineffectual at gathering up the leaves of crime, our hero hid his round little face behind a blue cardboard mask; a matching blue cape of the purest polyester hung from his shoulders like the last tatters of toilet paper from the roll. Scrawled in crayon, dashed with glitter, the emblem of a golden crumpet was emblazoned (albeit smudged and peeling) across the chest of his tight-fitting maroon onesie; and lastly, over the top of his head like no superheroes of repute our hero wore his underpants. (Toffee, sticky, remember?) Whether this pants-on-the-outside thing was a fashion statement or a case of disorderly dressing, Detective Pilchard was unsure; for reasons her could not fathom, however, he found himself craving a Werther's Original...
But it was our hero's all-powerful crumpet hands which ultimately defined him. To sum them up briefly (as I imagine that you can imagine, dear reader, what the mutated melding of crumpet and hand looks like) they took the appearance of the following: Like someone had tried to craft a pair of fingerless mittens out of a crumpet – and botched it.
“Fear not,” nonetheless said said-see-above hero in a rousing roar. “I shall neutralise these two aforementioned blockheads in no time flat!” No time flat later, Crumpet-Hands Man bounded via head toward the two Vault Attendants of the Very Highest Order; after much straining (and glances of bemusement between the two attendants) our hero birthed a pair of extra-thick crumpets from his palms; like clay pigeons launched from a sling these crumpets he unloaded at lightning speed; upon impact (thud, thud, screech – the later the result of our hero having hit another innocent baby bus) the two attendants spiralled to the ground. Their bodies followed shortly thereafter.
Detective Pilchard came to stand over the two defeated blockers. “Nicely done, Crumpet-Hands Man,” he marvelled, albeit with a palpable sense of relief. “Such accuracy! You've knocked them out cold!”
Belying his casual swagger, “Of course they're out cold; did you expect anything less?” our hero was himself relieved that the detective hadn’t noticed that both of the attendants were out very cold on account of their heads being bent-around backwards.
