Bob Wiggle awoke to the ringing of the phone beside his bed. He forced his eyes open to check that he hadn’t overslept. He hadn’t – it was 5.30 am. He silenced the incessant ringing with a sleepy, “hello?”
The voice that answered him was familiar.
“Bob, it’s me, Mr Fitz-Herbert. There’s an emergency on 7th Avenue and you’re the only one who can help. A small boy is stuck on the roof of a 10 storey building and I don’t know anyone else who can get him down.”
“Have you tried the fire brigade?”
“Well, naturally Bob but they can’t come, they’re too busy putting out a fire.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yes. Bob, you have to come quickly. No joke, you’re the only one who can do this.”
“Mr F, I’m an accountant, not a superhero. Of course you know that – you’re my boss!”
Yet, protest as he might, Bob could not long withstand Mr Fitz-Herbert’s nagging, as was usually the case. He arrived on 7th Avenue before the clock struck 6. Sure enough, when he looked up at the roof pointed out to him by Mr Fitz-Herbert, he saw a tiny child yelling for help. Using the skills he had learnt during his brief stint as a Scout, he quickly surveyed his surroundings. Seeing only a drainpipe to carry him to the top, he turned to Mr Fitz-Herbert and said, “I don’t know whether I’m brave or stupid, but I’m going up the pipe. If this goes wrong I want you to say nice things at my funeral.”
With that, he was gone, shimmying up the drainpipe to the top of the building. Perhaps it was the speed at which he ascended, perhaps it was the steepness of the pipe, but as he reached the halfway mark, Bob felt something tear in his left knee. Although the pain was strong, his determination was stronger. He continued his way up the drainpipe, gritting his teeth against the pain. After what was seemingly an eternity, he hauled himself off the pipe and onto the roof. The child cowered from him.
“It’s ok, I’m here to help you. Come and climb onto my back, ok? That’s right. Good. Now hold on tight!”
Bob inched himself back onto the drainpipe, all the time careful not to lean backwards and risk the pipe breaking. He slid down, a little faster than he had gone up, and soon felt the hard, reassuring concrete under his feet. Two very relieved parents rushed towards him, thanking him profusely as they took the child from him. He saw Mr Fitz-Herbert coming towards him…and then he saw nothing.
* * * * *
This time Bob awoke in a very blue room, surrounded by people clothed in white. A voice rose above the others, “come on, step aside.”
An old, kindly looking man appeared beside Bob’s bed.
“Hello Mr Wiggle, I’m Dr Waterford. I’m afraid you’ve done some quite serious damage to your knee. We’re going to have to operate. We’re just shaving your knee now.”
“No! Let me do it, please.”
Dr Waterford looked confused, but he consented, and asked everyone to leave the room to allow Bob to perform the surprisingly emotional task. Bob thought to himself as he held the razor over his knee,
“What I did today was heroic, and this is a symbol of my heroism.”
The adrenaline had been fantastic. And he had done some good in the lives of a few strangers. And it felt good. Right then and there, he made a decision. From this day forward, he would do more good in more lives. From this day forward, he would be a superhero. But he would need a name. He looked around the room for some inspiration, something that would pay tribute to the day he had had. His eyes fell on the razor in his hand, and he smiled to himself. From this day forward, Bob Wiggle would become…Razorman. He looked directly into the security camera suspended from the ceiling.
“I,” he announced to whoever was watching the security tapes, “am a superhero. I am Razorman.”
From his secret lair in its secret location, surrounded by evil chinese fighting bats, Mr Fitz-Herbert smiled at the television screen. When he heard Bob’s declaration, an evil little chuckle escaped his lips. His plan had been a success.
“Yes, my pretty, yes you are.”
