<h1>Start.</h1>
*“Bringing in the sheaves,</br>
Bringing in the sheaves,</br>
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves;”*</br>
That was the sound of Scott singing to himself, blissfully content in his work. He had his arm elbow-deep up the u-bend of a grimy public convenience in the centre of Eccles Town Centre. He had finished replacing the ‘urinal cakes’—the little yellow sweet-smelling things you find in public convenience urinals that help to keep the air fresh—and was now trying to clear a blockage in one of the toilets.
That was his favourite part of the job, replacing the urinal cakes. He just loved the smell and texture of the small yellow pods. He kept one in the bottom of his work bag to keep all his work things smelling sweet and lemony. A new one, of course—it would be odd to carry around a used one.
Scott was in his fifties, a short man with a receding hairline who carried the faint whiff of potatoes about his person. His round, pudgy face seemed almost too large for his small head, which perched atop a body that widened gradually before tapering off at the bottom—rather like a Russian doll.
He was so engrossed in his work—that he almost didn’t hear the three men enter the toilets and take their places at the urinals.
Two of them, Mugsy and Fingers, were like matching slabs of muscle, their massive trench coats making them look even bulkier. Their square-jawed faces were permanently set in scowls, as if they were about to put their hairy fists through someone’s nose. They both had cigarettes drooping out of the corners of their mouths. The third was Rico. A much shorter man, especially in comparison with the two hulking brutes either side of him. He was dressed in a ridiculously neat blue suit with a towering hat that almost covered his eyes, and added at least an extra foot to his height. He was in charge of the trio—no doubt about that. His beady eyes darted suspiciously, his thin lips curled in permanent disdain, and his voice carried the unmistakable air of someone who enjoyed making other people miserable.
Unaware that Scott was kneeling inside a cubicle, they began talking. Scott listened with interest.
“Hahaha—you use that to pick the food outta ya teeth or what? Don’t look big enough for much else, Mugsy!”
“Shut it, Fingers, you slag!”
Rico cleared his throat, silencing them. “Now listen up—here’s the plan. And listen good, ‘cause things are gonna get a bit tasty.”
Fingers and Mugsy leaned in.
“The gaffer has been on the blower, and he’s given me our instructions for tomorrow night. We meet at my house—it’s all arranged—the wife’s out—so she won’t suspect nuffink. We’re gonna launch the nuclear homing missile from the window in my kitchen. I’ll also give you sandwiches in case ya hungry - put on a bit of a spread, like. Anyways-the missile is set to destroy Mrs Patridge’s Coffee & Cake Shop. After that bomb hits - the shop will be closed for business. Permanently, like!”
“Then what, Rico?”
“Haha, I’m just gettin’ to the good part... Once it’s destroyed, she’ll lose all her customers, so we move in and buy the shop on the cheap. Then once it belongs to us, there’s nuffink stopping us getting our hands on all that lovely petroleum underneath.”
“But won’t they get dirty?”
“What?”
“Our hands—we’ll get them dirty touching all the oil.”
“We can use a drilling machine so we won’t need to touch it at all—then we sell all the petroleum and split the money 3 ways—you two, me, and the gaffer—Mr. Biscuits.”
Scott slowly removed his hand from the U-bend and put it to his mouth to stifle a gasp. That sounded diabolical -these men were hoods! Someone ought to put a stop to them!
[[STAY VERY QUIET|002]]
[[TRY AND PUT A STOP TO THEM|003]]
Scott cowered in the narrow gap between the toilet and the cubicle wall, his breath shallow, his entire body trembling. His fingers clutched the filthy rag he’d been using to scrub the U-bend, his knuckles white with tension. Suddenly... he felt himself start to sneeze!
“Ah... Ah... Ah—”
“Oi, Rico... you hear somethin’?”
Panic surged through Scott. Thinking fast, he stuffed the grimy rag into his mouth, stifling the sneeze at the last second.
Rico grunted. “Nah, Fingers. I don’t hear nuffin’. Let’s get on with the job.”
Scott held his breath as the gangsters stomped out of the bathroom. A moment later, the distant growl of a van engine rumbled to life outside, then faded into the distance.
Too scared to move, Scott stayed where he was until late that evening. By the time he finally summoned the courage to leave, the toilets were deserted, the building eerily quiet. He gathered his things with shaking hands and stepped out into the cold night air.
The long cycle home felt even longer than usual. He stopped only once—to pick up the eggs and milk his wife had asked for.
[[CONTINUE|004]]
Lads, lads, lads....” Scott said, exiting the cubicle—his palms in front of him in a placating gesture—“Listen to yourselves. Atomic missiles, extortion? Come on now, really!”
Fingers, Mugsy and Rico looked at each other in surprise, shook themselves clean, and zipped up their flies in unison.
“Get him, boys,” Rico said.
Fingers and Mugsy advanced, their hulking frames blotting out the flickering toilet lights. Scott instinctively backed up, his retreat ending where it had begun—in the same cubicle he had been scrubbing moments ago. The two gangsters loomed over him, towering at least two feet above his diminutive frame.
“We don’t like public toilet cleaners,” Fingers growled.
“Hate the bastards,” Mugsy sneered. “They fink they’re better than everyone else.”
“I can understand why people might feel that way, but—”
Scott didn’t get to finish. The gangsters seized him, bending him over the toilet. He barely had time to protest before his head and shoulders were shoved unceremoniously into the bowl.
“Let’s see how you enjoy swimming in this,” Fingers jeered as he yanked the flush.
“No, wait—it’s blocked—I haven’t got round to—!”
Too late. A tide of putrid, brown water surged in, filling Scott’s mouth and nose. He thrashed, sputtering, his limbs flailing helplessly. Just as blackness began creeping into the edges of his vision, they finally relented, yanking him upright. Soggy, gasping for air, Scott barely had time to recover before Rico stepped forward.
“You ever think about the future, toilet cleaner?”
Scott coughed and wiped his face. “I used to—in the past.”
Rico smirked. “Well, think about it now, see? ‘Cause you ain’t got no future if you breathe a word of this to anyone. We’ll be watching.”
He grabbed Scott’s work bag, overturned it, and scattered its contents onto the urine-soaked tiles. Then, without another word, the three gangsters strolled out, leaving Scott battered, bruised, and reeking of sewage.
He turned to the cracked mirror above the sink—one he hadn’t gotten around to cleaning yet. His own weary reflection stared back.
All his life, people had pushed him around—his parents, his schoolmates, his wife, the guy who worked at the dry cleaners. He wished he were a different man. A tougher man. A man people respected.
Instead, he sighed, gathered up his scattered belongings, and trudged out of the bathroom. On the way home, he stopped to pick up bread and eggs—just as his wife had ordered him to.
[[CONTINUE|004]]Number 12 Cherry Bakewell Lane was a modest, semi-detached brick house with faded red bricks and white window frames. Rose bushes, untamed but still in bloom, flanked the little path leading up to the front door, where a few stubborn weeds poked through the cracks. An old oak tree stood proudly in the front garden, its branches swaying gently in the breeze, an old wooden birdhouse affixed to one of its limbs. The lawn was overgrown, and a rusty gate, in desperate need of oiling, creaked as it swung closed behind him. Scott leaned his bike against the brickwork and entered the warmth and safety of his house.
“Honey, I’m home!” He called, walking into the front room.
“I’m in the shower! Did you remember to pick up the shopping?”
“I did my love... would you like me to put it away for you?”
“Yes please, Scott!”
Scott walked into the kitchen.
“Darling... Do the eggs go in the fridge or the bread bin?”
“The eggs go in the fridge, Scott; the bread goes in the bread bin.”
“Ok... Do the eggs go in the bottom part of the fridge or the freezer section?”
Clare had stopped responding, so Scott put the eggs in the freezer section and began to make himself some toast.
What toast should Scott make?
[[WHITE BREAD|005]]
[[BROWN BREAD|005]]Taking his toast, he put on his slippers and settled down to watch his favourite TV program—Darkwing Duck. Darkwing Duck was Scott’s own personal hero, although with every passing episode, Scott began to suspect that when it came down to it, he really had little, if anything, in common with Darkwing. Scott had taken to making notes, snippets of things Darkwing would say, with the intent of sharpening his own conversational skills.
Just as Scott was getting out his notepad, the doorbell rang.
“Isn’t it always the way!?” Scott chuckled, getting up and answering the door.
It was Mike Dobson, Scott’s best friend. Mike was an amiable chap—the kind of man who nothing seemed to faze. Bald and lanky like a scarecrow, Mike was alarmingly tall and had a habit of leering over people like Nosferatu. His TK Maxx suits were always one size too big and at least 10 years out of fashion. He had bright blue eyes that sparkled with cunning.
“Hello, Mike! How are you?”
“Is Claire in?” Mike asked, ignoring the question.
“Who’s at the door?” Clare’s voice shouted from upstairs.
“It’s Mike!”
“Ok, send him straight up!”
Mike pushed past Scott and went upstairs, without even taking off his shoes.
Scott shut the door and sank back into his armchair. He was thirsty—parched, in fact—and a glass of milk, paired with a bag of Monster Munch, would hit the spot perfectly. The only question was—what kind of milk?
[[SEMI SKIMMED MILK|006]]
[[SKIMMED MILK|006]]
[[NO MILK|006]]Scott was falling asleep in his armchair when his wife Clare and Mike came downstairs from the bedroom and into the room. Clare was in her nightie smoking a cigarette, and Mike was wearing Scott’s new dressing gown, which Clare had given him for Christmas.
Clare was your classic buxom blonde. She was in her forties but told all who would listen she was thirty-three. Her eyes were blue and scheming, hidden behind thick swipes of mascara and a slash of ruby-red lipstick dappled onto her permanent pouting lips. She regarded men the way a death adder regards a helpless mouse.
Mike had a very satisfied expression on his face.
“Scott, we have something to tell you...” Clare said, between puffs of her Lambert & Butler.
“What is it?” Scott asked, sitting bolt upright in his chair. There was a certain tension in the air, which Scott didn’t like.
“I’ve left you.” Clare continued, between puffs. “To tell the truth, I left you 5 months ago but couldn’t bear to tell you. I don’t want to hurt you, Scott, and I hope we can continue to be friends... but I thought you should know.”
Scott jumped up out of his chair.
“Is there someone else?”
Clare looked up at Mike and smiled. She took his hand in hers.
“Sorry, pal,” Mike said.
Scott couldn’t believe it. His mouth dropped open in shock.
“This is getting awkward.” Clare said, “Perhaps you need to be alone.”
“Yes. I need some time. If could leave me to digest this...”
“I meant perhaps you need to be alone somewhere else. You should move out.”
“Oh... Perhaps you’re right. I’ll buy a local paper in the morning—see if a room is available for rent or something...”
“Better for everyone if you left now,” Clare said. “We want to watch television.”
“Now?? But it’s nearly midnight, and it’s raining!”
Mike strode up to the front door and held it open with a gracious sweep. Outside, the rain was lashing down in torrents, and the moment the door swung wide, a bitter gust howled its way in, sending an icy shiver through Scott’s bones.
“Stay safe!” Mike said, gesturing outside with his thumb.
“Can I at least take my trigeminal neuralgia medication with me?” Scott pleaded.
Clare shook her head from side to side to signify that no, he couldn’t.
“You know my feelings about trigeminal neuralgia.” She said, “You should stop moaning and get over it.”
Mike extended his hand, and Scott took it and gave it a shake. With a nod, he released it and stepped out into the cold, where the wind and rain swallowed him whole. He didn’t look back as he heard the front door slam behind him. As he slowly walked the streets, his heart in pieces and his head in a mess, he realised he had forgotten his watch. He had also forgotten his coat, his wallet, and his shoes. He hadn’t even finished his glass of milk.
He mindlessly kicked an empty squeezy bottle that was lying in his path. He thought for a moment and bent down to pick it up. He might need that.
**ADD “SQUEEZY BOTTLE” TO YOUR INVENTORY**
[[CONTINUE|007]]
It just so happens, sleeping under a bridge in the park isn’t too bad if you can find enough dry cardboard boxes. Scott had only been able to find sodden cardboard boxes, but making the best of it, he combined these with an old shopping trolley he had found in the canal, and with a bit of work and imagination, he soon had the semblance of a bed. Proud was probably too strong a word, but he was certainly more than a little satisfied with his new home. It looked cosy; it had a view of the pond, and best of all—no mortgage!
With the sound of a storm brewing and the hypnotic sounds of the traffic on the dual carriageway above his head, Scott settled into his shopping cart bed and quickly began to doze off.
He was awoken shortly after by something crawling up his leg! Much too frightened to move, he stiffened. It was something small and furry, and it was scurrying across his thigh, his belly, and onto his chest. Staying as still as he possibly could and moving only his eyes, Scott peered down and saw the little head of a rat poke out from underneath his cardboard blanket. It was your common garden variety rat (Rattus Norvegicus - write that down), brown fur and pink feet—its whiskers twitching constantly, sensing every vibration of Scott’s plump body. Despite its modest size, the rat exuded a sense of resourcefulness and resilience—and was wearing a small Zorro mask across its eyes, which is seldom seen in the Rattus Norvegicus species.
“Hello!” The rat greeted, “You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?”
[[CONTINUE|008]]“Hello? Who are you?” Scott asked, assuming this was a stress-induced dream.
“I’m Flashrat. I honourably guard this park and the surrounding city against crime.”
“You speak English?”
“...and Spanish, German, French, and Mandarin. It’s important to be able to communicate to all sorts when you’re a crime fighter! Who may you be? I hope you aren’t contemplating any criminal activities, because if you are, -I will come down on you with so much sweet, sweet justice it’ll give you a hemicrania."
“I’m not a criminal. I’m just trying to get some sleep. What’s a hemicrania?”
“A Hemicrania is a sort of migraine. You’re not a criminal? Do you like dispensing justice?”
“I clean public lavatories...if that counts?”
“You sound like just the person I’m looking for. I’m considering applications for a new crime-fighting sidekick. My last sidekick sadly passed away suddenly.”
Scott shivered with cold. He started to worry he might get hypothermia if he stayed under this bridge much longer. Or even a hemicrania!
“If I became your new sidekick.... Does the position come with somewhere to live?”
“Of course it does! What sort of superhero would I be without a lair? Not only that - it comes with a costume too! Follow me, I’ll show you... it’s near here.”
The rain had eased to a light pitter-patter, so Scott followed the rat to the other side of the park, where a set of run-down, grim council toilets were standing. To the right of them was a park bench, and to the right of the bench was an overflowing bin with flies swarming over it.
“Welcome to my base of operations! This park bench is perfect for your new home. When it’s a warm night, you can sleep on top of the bench... when it’s raining, you can sleep underneath, and if it’s a nice day and you want to take a break from fighting crime, you can sit on it and eat an ice cream.”
The bench was nice, but Scott’s attention was drawn to the bin. In front of it, slouched down, was the body of a small Chinese man. He had 2 nunchucks embedded deep inside his frontal lobe. He too was wearing a Zorro mask, much like the one that Flashrat was wearing.
“Is that... Is that a dead body??”
“Yes. That’s poor Ken Sue. My late sidekick. We attempted to take down the Yakuza during a gang war... but they killed him. I blame myself... I should have trained him better. I won’t make the same mistake with you—you’re going to finish a complete, rigorous training regime before I let you see any action!”
The little rat put a tender paw gently on dead Ken’s cheek.
“Poor Ken Sue.” He said.
He tenderly removed the Zorro mask from Ken’s face and handed it to Scott.
“Your costume!” He said, “Let’s see what it looks like on you!”
“Shouldn’t we call the police? About Ken Sue??”
“No! The police take a dim view of vigilantes. Don’t worry about Ken; I moved his body to the bins because I know they get emptied every Monday morning. The bin men are bound to see him and call the police themselves.”
“But today’s Friday!”
“Don’t worry, no one’s likely to steal him—now put on the mask!! I want to see you in your costume!”
Scott donned the eye mask. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he immediately felt bolder. More confident. Stronger.
“It suits you!” Flash said, stepping back to admire Scott’s new disguise. “Nobody will recognize you now. Maybe we should get you a little hat to complete the ensemble.”
“A hat?” Scott frowned.
“Yes! And as luck would have it, I happen to know a fine haberdasher in Manchester. We pop in, pick something out, and—”
Flash stopped mid-sentence.
Scott’s eyes had turned a furious shade of red. His cheeks were flushed, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“Haberdasher?” he whispered, his voice trembling with barely contained rage.
“Scott, are you alr—”
“HABERDASHER?!” Scott roared, his whole body trembling. With a violent kick, he sent a park bench toppling over. He seized a trash can and, without thinking, hurled it toward an old lady feeding the ducks.
“AAARRRGGGHH!” He fell to his knees, fists shaking at the heavens, his scream echoing through the park.
Flash stood frozen, watching in horror as Scott’s breathing gradually slowed. His shoulders sagged. The rage was passing.
“What the hell was that about?” Flash asked, cautiously stepping closer.
Scott wiped a hand across his sweaty brow. “I’m sorry... But never say that word again.”
“Haber—?”
“DON’T!” Scott cut him off, voice sharp as a knife. “Just hearing it sends me into a frenzy.”
Flash raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
Scott exhaled shakily. “When I was a boy, my father worked long hours at the mill. One day, I was sent home early from school—nasty rash, teachers thought it might be contagious. I walked into the house and... I knew something was wrong. I could feel it.”
He swallowed hard, staring into the distance.
“And there, on the floor...” His voice cracked. “There was my mother and the local ha... ha... haber—”
“It’s ok. You don’t have to explain. I’ll never mention that word again, let’s change the subject. All that’s left is for us to think of a fitting heroic name for you....”
“I’ve already thought of one!” Scott said, cheering up... “...Darkwing Duck!”
“That’s been taken, and you’re not a duck. It wouldn’t make any sense, and you might be leaving yourself open to a lawsuit.”
“Super Scott?”
“Better.... But I’d imagine someone called Super Scott to have superpowers. You don’t have any superpowers, do you?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame—they come in useful for superheroes. Think of a different name.”
“Scott-Man!!!”
“Not quite...”
“Man—SCOTT!”
“No, no, no—what about ACTION SCOTT? That rolls of the tongue quite well.”
Scott liked that. It did roll off the tongue. He felt himself grow an inch (taller). He put his hands on his hips and stared up at the dark, foreboding sky.
“I... LIKE IT! With my new name and my costume, my secret identity will be secured!”
“Great! Training will start at dawn tomorrow. In the meantime, why not get comfortable in your new home? It’s starting to rain again... Try and squeeze under the bench.”
“I’ve got a better idea, Flash... I’ve just remembered—here in my pockets, I’ve got the keys to every public toilet in Greater Manchester. The old abandoned park toilets can be our HQ!”
Flashrat smiled and nodded his head.
“I can see this is going to be a great partnership!”
Scott unlocked the creaky door to the park’s public toilets, stepping into what would soon become their new HQ. His eyes widened as he took in the chaotic scene before him. The walls were plastered with vivid, anarchic graffiti, shouting slogans like “Thatcher Out” and “Don’t Pay the Poll Tax” in bold, angry scrawls. The floor was a minefield of shattered Blue Nun wine bottles, glittering dangerously amidst the grime. A foul, almost palpable stench of stale urine and excrement assaulted his nostrils, making him gag.
“Flashrat - It’s marvellous! It’s got all mod cons! And 4 sinks! I bet most millionaires don’t even have 4 sinks in their home! When I want to go to the toilet, I have 4 to choose from, and if I want some quiet time, I simply choose one of the cubicles and lock the door. It’s perfect!”
“Where will you sleep?” Flash asked.
“I’ll go and get the shopping trolley bed I made and wheel it in here. It’s comfy enough! Yes, I think I shall be very happy here!”
[[CONTINUE|009]]he next morning, Scott woke and washed his face in one of the 4 sinks. He looked at himself in the mirror. He had no razor, but he had a few lemon toilet cakes in his pocket, which made both an excellent soap and deodorant.
After he had washed, he grabbed Ken’s old Zorro mask and walked outside into the early morning sunshine. He did a couple of stretches and, for the first time since he had exchanged his marriage vows, felt very content. A lady was out walking her dog, a small girl in tow.
“Mummy - why is that man like that?” The girl asked, pointing at Scott.
“Don’t look at him, darling. Come - quickly, now.” The mother replied, picking up her child.
“Good morning!” Flash appeared by Scott’s feet, “Are you ready for your first day of training?”
“I was born ready...” Scott said as he fixed his Zorro mask over his eyes.
“That’s what I like to hear! OK... run around the park a couple of times!”
Scott ran around the park twice. When he finished he sat down on the park bench and started to cough up blood.
“1.5 km in 25 minutes! You beat Ken Sue’s record!!”
“Can’t..speak...too...tired...chest...burning...”
“You can have a few minutes to recover before your next training season.”
“What’s... next... lesson???”
“Look over there!”
Scott looked over to the middle of the park. 3 children, about 12 years old, were swinging on the swings and looking over at Scott, pointing and laughing.
“Look at that weirdo in the mask! What a loser!!!” They were shouting.
“Just... ignore... them...” Scott wheezed.
“Ignore them? What if that was a gang of terrorists taunting you? You’d just ignore them, would you? Let them go free to commit atrocities whilst you ignore them? Is that what justice is to you?”
Flashrat handed Scott a stick.
“Take this. Now, I want to see you sneer with contempt!”
Scott winced.
“You call that sneering with contempt? These kids are mocking you!! Sneer harder!”
Scott waved the stick above his head wildly. His features changed into a dark grimace of anger and contempt.
“That’s more like it!!! Now ATTACK! GO GET JUSTICE!”
“JUSTICE!” Scott screamed, waving the stick above his head and rushing wildly towards the shocked schoolchildren.
[[CONTINUE|010]]Flash was lounging on the park bench, his feet up, when Scott finally appeared. He was a sight to behold: drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging to him like a second skin, and his face a patchwork of mud and grass. He panted heavily.
“So...” Flashrat said, “Did you deliver sweet, sweet justice?”
“No... they got away.”
“And the stick?”
“I lost it.”
“Did you remember to sneer with contempt?”
“For the most part! I do feel a lot tougher, though!” Scott punched his palm with his fist. “Just chasing after those kids has made me feel rock hard!”
“I liked your attitude out there. When the chips were down, you did what you needed to do. Congratulations... You’ve passed training. I think you’re ready for the field.”
“Do you really mean it? I’ve got to hand it to you, Flash—your training has done wonders for me! I feel better than I’ve felt in years! Tell me, do I seem like a 50-year-old man to you?”
“50 years old? Do you really feel as young as that?”
“No—that’s how old I am... I meant...Oh, never mind... When can we start fighting crime??”
“Whoa there, Pepper Anderson! First we need transport! Do you have a car?”
“No, but I have a bike!”
“A Harley?”
“No, it’s a BMX. I’ve always been a bit of an adrenaline junkie.”
“That’s not good. Whoever heard of a superhero on a bicycle?”
“Well, my wife has a car, but I don’t have the keys...”
Flashrat went to put his paw around Scott’s shoulder, but could only reach his shin.
“Well then, it’s time for your next lesson in being a superhero. Hot wiring cars.”
[[CONTINUE|011]]They waited until nightfall before creeping from the park to Scott’s old house on Cherry Bakewell Avenue. Flash taught Scott everything he knew about covert operations: how to make full use of the shadows, avoid standing directly underneath the street lamps, and not shout, sing at the top of your voice, dance and laugh uproariously, or generally bring attention to yourself.
“There’s my house there - the one with the rhododendrons...”
“Look, there are the shadows of two figures in the bedroom window...” said Flash.
“You’re right! Clare must have her sister over.”
The light in the bedroom window went out.
“Now’s our chance!! Let’s go to your car!”
Because of his stature, Scott had to hold Flash in his hand whilst Flash jimmied the door lock release with an old rusty coat hanger they had found in the park’s toilets.
“Gosh, Flash—you’ve done it! You’ve unlocked the door!”
They opened the door, and Flashrat jumped in, dislodging the wires underneath the dashboard with his super rodent teeth.
In the blink of an eye, the motor was purring quietly.
“Quick—let’s get out of here!” Scott said, jumping into the passenger seat.
“What are you doing?” Flashrat said, “Aren’t you going to drive?”
“I never learnt... I thought you were going to drive?”
“How do you expect me to drive? I’m a rat - I can’t reach the steering wheel. I can’t drive cars—I just know how to hot-wire them!”
“OK, looks like it’s my trusty bicycle then. Don’t worry—it’ll be great—you can sit in the basket on the front.”
“Just one moment...” Flash said, “It just occurred to me. We need to choose a theme tune for you! Every superhero must have a theme tune for when he carries out acts of superheroism, like we’ve just done.”
“Mmmm...” Scott said, “I’m not very good at writing music.”
“Let’s just use your favourite song... that can be your theme tune for now.”
**WHICH SONG IS TO BE YOUR SUPERHERO THEME TUNE? (Very Important!)**
<h2>RULES</h2>
Whenever you see the words “PLAY THEME TUNE”, you need to find your chosen song on YouTube and listen to the whole song at full volume before moving on with the story.
If your parents, spouse or work colleagues ask you to turn down the volume, tell them to go away.
**1. MOULDY OLD DOUGH Lieutenant Pigeon</br>
2. WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL Geoff Stephens</br>
3. GIMMIE DAT DING - The Pitkins</br>
4. ANY OLD IRON - Stanley Holloway</br>
5. LITTLE WHITE BULL - Tommy Steele</br>
6. BRAND NEW KEY - Melanie</br>
7. TRULY SCRUMPTIOUS - Chitty Chitty Bang Bang</br>
8. THEME FROM “THE GOOD LIFE”</br>
9. YOU DON’T BRING ME FLOWERS - Barbara Streisand**</br>
Scott jumped onto the saddle of his bicycle, put Flashrat in the little wicker basket attached to the front, and sped off into the night.
**PLAY THEME TUNE**
[[CONTINUE|012]]“We need to find some crime. This could be a problem - we could cycle around for hours before we find some.”
“You’re probably right - it’s times like this I wish I lived in America.”
“It would help if we had a CB radio. Then we could listen to the police bands. You don’t have a CB radio, do you?”
“No.”
They passed a semi-detached house, and Scott’s attention was drawn into their living room. Despite it being late at night, the curtains were wide open and Scott could see a family, two adults and two children, gathered round the television. Scott pulled up his bike.
“Look - we can see the TV from here! They’re watching the local news... let’s see if we can hear what’s happening.”
Scott and Flash dismounted the bicycle, and crept quietly up the front lawn, and hid out of sight below the window to the front room. From where they were crouched, they could just make out the news announcer relaying the latest reports.
“Mumble mumble... River Irwell... Mumble mumble... Party boat sinks!...Mumble...People trapped underwater....Mumble mumble... Time running out!!”
“This is fantastic!” Flash said, excited, “Just what we’ve been waiting for! Let’s get down to the river and see if we can help!”
“OK - I’m with you, Flash!”
“We’re going to need some equipment of course, we can’t just turn up with nothing but a bicycle. Do you know of any place where we can get hold of superhero supplies?”
Scott pondered the question.
“We could check to see if there’s anything at the local library? I’ve got the keys - I’m contracted to clean the toilets there every fortnight.”
“Great - we haven’t a moment to lose, people are drowning! Next stop - the library!”
[[Continue|187]]When they arrived at the River Irwell 4 hours later, they found hundreds of spectators, firemen, ambulance crews and police crowded around the riverbed.
News crews had set up camps everywhere, reporters speaking into cameras, giving a running commentary of the unfolding tragedy.
Scott and Flash parked the car and, making sure they were both wearing their masks, pushed their way to the front of the crowd.
“Let us through!” Scott cried, shoulder barging people aside.
A young boy was standing by the river, staring down into the deep murky water.
“Hello young lad, what’s your name?” Scott asked.
“I’m Timmy sir. I’m 6 years old!”
“Okay Timmy, My name is Action Scott - i’m going to leave you in charge of this rescue.”
“Gee, thanks mister!”
Flashrat turned to Scott.
“Well- I think we’ve done about all we can here. Let’s go home!” Flash said.
“Great!” Scott agreed as they pushed their way back through the crowds towards the car.
Timmy watched them leave. “Hooray for Action Scott!” He called after them, and for the first time Scott started to understand what it felt like to be a hero.
**PLAY THEME SONG**
[[Go home to bed|END OF SAMPLE]]
[[Go for a slap-up meal to celebrate your first act of heroism||END OF SAMPLE]]When they got to the library it was closed, and Scott realised he had left his keys back at HQ. They cycled back to HQ, grabbed the keys, and then cycled back to the library getting stuck in traffic on the way.
When they arrived at the library they discovered there really wasn’t much that would prove to be very useful in an undersea rescue operation - it was mostly just full of books.
“There’s a fire extinguisher. Let’s take that - it could come in useful.” Flashrat said.
“I found this bucket!” Scott said, coming out from the storage cupboard. “This could be good to bail the water from the river. That way we don’t even need to get wet!”
“Good idea! Now we better get down there as quickly as possible. It’s a long cycle!”
“OK - I’ll just use the toilet before we go.”
20 minutes later, our heroes were back on their bicycle - and racing towards the River Irwell and the stricken party boat!
[[Continue|013]]{embed image: 'https://jonbardi.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Flashrat_logo.png'}
<div style="text-align:center; font-weight:bold;">HE ONLY COMES OUT AT NIGHT</br> - AND SOMETIMES DURING THE DAY</div>
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[[CONTINUE|HOW TO PLAY]]
<h2>How to Play Flashrat</h2>
Welcome to **The Marvellous Adventures of Flashrat** <span style="font-size:10px;">(and Action Scott)</span>—a decide-your-own-death book.
Before we begin, an important note: do not read this book from start to finish like a regular novel. If you do, you’ll be hopelessly confused, and leave scathing reviews about the pacing and structure.
In this book, you’ll be making difficult choices—all of which will either ruin Scott’s life completely or ruin it to a slightly lesser degree.
Your decisions matter (no they don’t).
<h2>What You’ll Need</h2>
✅ A pad and pencil to keep track of your inventory. Scott will pick up items along the way, and you’ll need to remember them.
✅ Access to Spotify, YouTube, or an absurdly large CD or vinyl collection—because at some point, you’ll be required to choose your special super-heroic theme song and play it at the right moment.
So, sit back, relax, close your eyes and prepare yourself for the greatest adventure ever written.
Come to think of it - don’t close your eyes, you’ll need them to read. And don’t forget to give me a 5 star review (now - quickly, before you read the book).
[[CONTINUE|REVIEWS]]<h2>Reviews</h2>
**5.0 out of 5 stars**</br>
<i> “Brilliant lawnmower”</i></br>
A brilliant lawnmower, very easy put together just by looking at pictures on box, delighted with my first cut, cuts close to the edges, and left my lawn looking lovely, it’s my first electric lawnmower and iv no complaints, does what it says on the box and I’m very happy with it.
**5.0 out of 5 stars**</br>
<i> “Worth every penny.”</i></br>
Brilliant!! Cleaned an outside wall and two cars so far. Easy to use, different sprays and strong jet. 2 batteries sold it to me, could not have imagined it would perform so well. An excellent piece of kit.
**5.0 out of 5 stars**</br>
<i> “Great”</i></br>
It really absorbs water. 1 box lasted me almost a month, but I have very high humidity in the room and I used several boxes in different places (in the closet, near the bed.) There was a little less mold. And the air became a little less humid.
**5.0 out of 5 stars**</br>
<i> “Absolutely bargain of the season”</i></br>
You won't find a better value tent for the money, absolutely blown away by it.
Has opening both sides with awning on one side. Storage in all 4 corners. Loads of bag storage on both sides.
I've used it a few times now and can be put up easily within 10mins even by a novice.
**5.0 out of 5 stars**</br>
<i> “Ideal for the job!!”</i></br>
I purchased these cones on behalf of my church to enable us to reserve parking spaces at the front of our building when needed for wedding or funeral vehicles etc. They are ideal for the job, sturdy, colourful and clearly visible to traffic. An excellent purchase!!
**5.0 out of 5 stars**</br>
<i> “Good quality for price”</i></br>
This is only a toilet brush I know, but it looks good. Surprisingly it doesn't drip either, after a tap on the side of the bowl, easy to clean much better than our old bristle ones. We have replaced all our old ones with these.
**1.0 out of 5 stars**</br>
<i> “Würde es nicht empfehlen – NICHT SICHER!”</i></br>
Die Leiter ist nicht leicht und viel schwerer als erwartet. Außerdem ist es nicht stabil und gibt nach, wenn es ausgezogen wird. Ich würde der Leiter nicht zutrauen, über 10 Fuß hinauszuklettern, da sie nicht sicher ist. Ich würde es nicht empfehlen – diese Leiter ist **NICHT SICHER**
[[CONTINUE|001]]TO CONTINUE WITH THE MARVELLOUS ADVENTURES OF FLASHRAT, PLEASE BUY THE BOOK! <a href="https://amzn.to/4coJRy0">AVAILABLE NOW ON AMAZON</a>
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FOR MORE EXITING GAMES, SHORT STORIES AND NOVELLAS, PLEASE VISIT MY WEBSITE AT <a href="https://jonbardi.com">JONBARDI.COM</a>
<a href="https://cpdesign.itch.io/">OR TAKE A LOOK AT MY ITCH PAGE HERE </a>
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