“Why are we in a supermarket?” Crumpet-Hands Man asked. A fair question, for he and the villain now found themselves standing in the middle of a bustling produce aisle. As was his want, our hero was admiring the curvature of the celery. (Who wouldn't?)

  “As I have reiterated on countless occasions,” the villain expounded with a lick of his tiramisu moustache, a last resort at remaining awake, “I am merely acting as an observer to the imaginings of your past. You alone create the settings in which we inhabit, not I.

  “Therefore, I ask you,” the villain again licked. “Why are we in a supermarket?”

  After sniggering at the word 'we' for some time (for it sounded like wee, as in urine, as in the liquid which comes out of one's willy at night when they're asleep) Crumpet-Hands Man contemplatively scratched his cheek; he then scratched his neck, his leg, his armpit, the worker's paunch, and a rather splendid stack of pineapples which looked a mite itchy.

  “If I am not very much mistaken,” (he wasn't, he was Crumpet-Hands Man, as the title of this third adventure and the tattoo across his buttocks made glaringly) “then this is very much the very supermarket where I performed my very first–”

  “Where can I find the manager?!” burst an heroic and pubescent proclamation from the far end of the supermarket. Both villain and hero spun around, again simultaneously on a second burst of, “I have in my custody a shoplifter which I seek to report to the manager!”

  Once they'd ceased spinning around like a pair of pastry-based Beyblades (a reference for fans of 90's toys, there), Crumpet-Hands Man and Muffin Mind hurried up the aisle in the direction of the pubescent outburst. Skidding their trolley to a halt, the wonky-wheeled carriage piled high with quick-sale deli meats and metal chesses like hallouminum – for superheroes and supervillains alike cannot resist a bargain – the pair came upon another incarnation of crumpety heroism.

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  “Mr. Manager,” a young, spotty and kinda-costumed version of Crumpet-Hands Man addressed of said manager, the poor man unsure whether to laugh at this lanky crusader or alert the nearest asylum. “You will be relieved to know that the protection of your precious produce has been preserved,” the pubescent hero proclaimed, so many punctuated 'P's having coated the manager's face in sputum. “See! I have apprehended the most heinous of criminals during their act of thievery!”

  The spotty hero proceeded to hoist a crumpet-ended arm, attached to which, via nappy, was an upside-down and guilty baby. “These are the proof of their crime,” the hero smirked with a squeeze of the baby's cheeks, causing two pilfered grapes to pop from between their lips and fall to the floor; a passing old lady slipped on said grape's and vanished up the next aisle to a resounding crash of glassware.

  “No, please, there is no need to thank me,” the adolescent hero smiled, waved the manager away, who in turn waved over security, who in turn were waving from beneath an old lady and so much shattered glassware. “The only reward I seek” the mark 1 hero said, “is the knowledge that ouch! one's god-given right to shop has been made all the ouch! safer, thanks to the eternal vigilance of Crumpet-Hands Man! Ouch!”

  An impressive speech from the young (and acne-ridden) hero, made all the more impressive when you consider that he delivered it as he received countless slaps across the face from the baby's furious mother, insults from shoppers and staff alike, and while being beaten, belted and bundled into the back of a police van by the arriving officers.

  “Ahh, good times,” the present Crumpet-Hands Man sighed, watching on as his past self was hoisted triumphantly by the underpants and hurled into the back of the police van like a side of vigilante beef. “In fact, now that I come to think of it, this is the day that I first encountered Detective Pilchard – and now that I come to see him, there he is now, accidentally slamming my crumpet-fingers in the van's door,” the present hero laughed while the past one screamed. “Of course, the dear detective was in the junior ranks of the TCPDK, back then.”

  “So he was Constable Pilchard?” Muffin Mind assumed. “Or simply Officer Pilchard?”

  “Neither. He was Detective Fingerling. He'd just been promoted up from Fry. And before that, Roe.”

  “I see,” the villain didn't, as didn't the parrot and/with/what? the paunch blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-