Having dragged himself from the burning air-crash, Crumpet-Hands Man approached the sorry form of Gumma-Mumma, sitting there on the curb in a puddle of her defeated gloop. She shook her head despondently, diluted gum trickling down her embittered chins.

  “I don't understand,” she rued. “How did you defeat my creature so easily? And,” she sniff-sniffed, “why can I smell vinegar? And burning cape?”

  “Because you have a nose!” our hero laughed rather too-smugly of his lame witticism, all-the-while discreetly rolling around on the floor in an attempt to put himself (and his cape) out. “But seriously me 'ol Gumma,” he smouldered heroically, patting himself off, “you smell the sweet scent of vinegar because that was not any mere water I sprayed upon your creation. It was in fact water laced with... Pickle-juice!

  “For you see, my dear Mumma,” our hero went on, gathering up his elongated hands as though two unfurled lengths of sodden crumpet bog roll, “due to the citizens of this city having recently devoured more than a million metric tons of pickled onions as part of our Annual Trifle City Pickled Onion Eating Competition and thus having weed the excesses into their toilets, gutters, garden ponds and shopfronts,” (this our hero all said in a single breath) “I knew that the city's waste water reservoir would be highly acidic.”

  “And as we all know,” burped the arriving (and charred) form of Detective Pilchard, the helicopter's control stick still clasped between his trembling hands, “waste water, when combined with vinegar, urine, and the slosh of competitive consumption, is pure kryptonite to chewing gum!”

  “Indeed, my dear detective.” our hero nodded appreciatively. “Pure, smelly kryptonite.”

  “It's the same colour as well.” the detective added. Our hero looked at his partner quizzically.

  “What? Green?”

  “Yellow.”

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  “Kryptonite isn't yellow, detective.”

  “Isn't it?”

  “No – It's green. Although, for the sake of nerdy clarity,” our nerdy hero did clarify, “I should add that there is a rare form of yellow-toned kryptonite, gold kryptonite, which has the effect of removing Superman's ability to absorb sunlight, thus subduing his powers.”

  “How interesting,” Detective Pilchard said with a stroke of his chin – it emitted a snarl, retched, then went back to its bone. “But now I wonder if I was actually thinking of lemons? They're yellow and acidic, aren't they? And they go well with crumpets.”

  “That's pancakes,” our hero corrected.

  “And crumpets, though,” the detective was certain, his ears glazing over with crumpety cravings. “Hmm...” he hmmed, picturing the proverbial feast. “Nice drizzle of lemon, spoonful of honey, sprinkle of sugar, a cheeky cobbler dusted with Ricicles on the side...” There oozed much dribble over the detective's many sleeves.

  “I think you'll find, my dear dribbling detective,” our hero smarted with a palpable sense of irk (he dropped to his knees and began squawking), “that Crumpet-Hands Man's crumpets are sweet enough! And if you ever!–”

  Had it not been for the arrival of Mayor Sperkins and her team of ever-vigilant TCPDK policepeople, Gumma-Mumma may have succeeded in toddling off to freedom while our squabbling duo's attention was diverted with discussions of space-rock and tea-time treats; but thankfully the chubby villain was snagged by said policepeoples; she was thus read her rights, sung her lefts, and escorted off to prison.

  “I'm also off. To wash my hair,” Mayor Sperkins said without mention of a thank you to our heroes. (She did mention a BWAAARP! in Detective Pilchard's general direction, however; whether this was a token of gratitude, or the result of a gastric complaint, is anyone's guess.)

  “You haven't heard the last of me!” Gumma-Mumma yelled from the rear of the departing police van.

  “Who said that?” Detective Pilchard also yelled in a somewhat mocking tone, much to the amusement of our hero. He patted his partner on the back, causing the detective to curse the price of a pound of blah.

  “But really, who said that?” Detective Pilchard asked with genuine confusion. “Following the air crash I had to put my trapper's hat back on because my earballs were aflame. It slipped on easier than before, though, like all the way down to my shoulders. I fear my head may have shrunk due to that onion water I be drizzled up-in what?

  “Oh, and by the way, pal,” the detective under the hat said threateningly to a hat stand. “When we were in the cavern with all the sewage workers and stuff, did you see who kicked me in the jollies?”

  Crumpet-Hands Man went a flustered shade of red. Having removed his hat, Detective Pilchard momentarily mistook our hero for a strawberry and licked him.

  Thus ended another demented adventure.