Well. If you insist....
Captain Sparky Pants missed the glory days. Truly he did. Used to be that whenever he'd don his suit, children would run up wanting his autograph and the citizens would cheer, for he was their hero. He was the magnificent Captain Sparky Pants.
Of course, it also used to be that his suit was a brilliant shade of blue, and fit him fantastically, his muscles bulging beneath the extra-durable fabric.
But those were the fifties.
Now his suit was a faded, stormy blue, veering on gray, and didn't fit him nearly so well. The only thing bulging beneath the now thinning suit was his belly, and it wasn't something Captain Sparky Pants was proud of.
His only consolation was that once when he'd pull his mask up over his eyes, an effective method of concealing his secret identity- mild-mannered Jim Betrowski- he did so a the peril of covering up his exquisite head of dark, wavy hair. Now his cap covered his bald scalp. That at least was an improvement.
Captain Sparky Pants missed the old days so much that every Wednesday afternoon he'd put on his super suit, even though no one cheered anymore, and the only kids who ran up to him told him he looked ridiculous or kicked him in the shins. He'd put on his suit and he would walk down to Velma's Diner. Velma was gone now, she'd passed away back in 1977, but her daughter ran the place and she always smiled at Captain Sparky pants and passed him a bowl of oranges.
And so there he'd sit, in his super suit, peeling oranges and eating the segments. Feeling the juice squish onto his fingers and the softness of the fruit's flesh between his teeth, he would sit and reminisce, becoming nostalgic in the way that only truly old men who were once truly great can.
He missed the glory days, that was for sure, and he missed Velma, and he missed Barb, and he missed his old sidekick, Nick Thunder Drum, who had grown up and become a cartoonist and a lawyer on the weekends. He'd give anything to have those times and those people back.
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