It was Sunday morning. Bobin - not such a keen young raver anymore - toppled out of bed, gave a half-deflated inflatable sheep an enquiring stare, and floated towards the kitchen, hanging like a monorail on a strangely visible smell of frying bacon. He found Batbloke by the oven.
"morning" whispered Bobin, even less keen young raver.
"MORNING" Batbloke whispered, sounding like a steamroller crushing a dustbin full of cooking popcorn.
"don't shout" Bobin groaned, getting less and less keen.
"COFFEE? BACON, PERHAPS? OR BOTH?" Batbloke asked quietly, sounding like a lead weight plummeting through several layers of corrugated iron and landing on an over-puffed balloon.
"coffee. black, no sugar. make that tar." Bobin whispered, the least keen young raver on Earth.
"OKAY" Batbloke said, sounding, um, very loud. Bobin sat down at the kitchen table, the stool creaking barely audibly, sounding like a million gongs all being thrown simultaneously off of the Eiffel Tower onto a thousand enraged elephants.
"DID YOU HAVE A PARTY LAST NIGHT, PERCHANCE? OR DID THE SAS PICK UP THE WRONG ADDRESS?" asked Batbloke, as quietly as possible. To Bobin, the least keen young raver in this or any other Universe, he sounded like a billion tractors being attacked from the air by several trillion angry hippopotami all wearing suits of armour and firing machine guns at the biggest cymbals Eternity has ever been host to.
Batbloke then placed, very gently, a mug of steaming hot tar in front of Bobin. When Bobin was at school, he was taught that the Universe was created when a single tiny atom exploded, with a sound so loud it's volume boggled the minds of mortals. However, Bobin now believed that the loudest sound ever was that of mugs of steaming hot tar being placed, very gently, on tables on Sunday mornings after an extremely good rave. He managed to say, quite audibly:
"I only asked for one mug." He tried to work out why all three mugs of tar had the same pattern forming on the surface.
"There's only one mug there." replied Batbloke, tucking into his very loud bacon.
"No there isn't. Look." Bobin pointed at his mug of tar and tried to count it. He gave up when he reached the sixtieth mug.
"I'm telling you," Batbloke said, munching very noisily, "There's only one mug."
"Nah." spluttered Bobin. They say that Atlas wasn't very pleased when the gods asked him to hold up the sky. Some might say that he wasn't at all keen. However, his lack of keenness pales into insignificance when you see Bobin, and raves. In fact, he was so unkeen, he would rather poke suns up the place where they don't shine (the Netherlands ), than rave again. Bobin, the unkeen one, made several unsuccesful attempts to grab one of his mugs, but abandoned all hope.
"Come on, you keen young raver you," said Batbloke merrily but noisily, "Drink up!". He shook the excess fat off of his plate and into the bin, with a loud and quite sickening 'spludge'. "Where's all that zest, oomph, get-up-and-go, holiness you're loved for?" continued the Fabricated Crusader, dark avenger of evil, or something like that.
"Holy hangovers, Batbloke! You're right!" said Bobin keenly. He regretted it instantly. "Er, can we go to a doctor?"
Batbloke held up his left hand and fumbled a bit. Eventually he managed to extend three fingers.
"How many fingers do you see?" he asked.
"Where? Oh, um...." Bobin started. He slowly and laboriously counted. "Holy painful regressing eye conditions, Batbloke! I can see almost 38 fingers!"
"Ooh, bad eyesight." said Batbloke, "We'd better get you off to Doctor Lector." Batbloke and Bobin, the Fabricated Crusaders, jumped into the fireplace, and, after burning their toes, slid down a pair of fireman's poles. When they reached the bottom, out jumped...........
Batbloke and Bobin! (ta-daaaaaa!)
"We really ought to get ourselves some secret alteregos, Bobin. I'm sure that's why secret hi-tech caves and fireman's poles are included in this superhero package."
The two heroes leapt heroically into their Mousemobile , and sped off.

The Fabricated Crusaders arrived at Doctor Lector's within the hour. Unfortunately, it wasn't the same hour as when they left. Still, they went in.
"good-afternoon" said the receptionist monotonously, "how-can-i-help-you"
"Hold doctor's receptionists, receptionist! I've got a serious but rather embarrassing disease of the eye, particularly the retina." Bobin replied, matter-of-factly.
"doctor-lector-is-out-eating-people-and-doctor-blob-is-a-useless-blob" the receptionist said in the same monotone.
"Oh well." said a disgruntled Batbloke, "Let's go to Commissioner Ron-Dog!"
"Holy asking why we're going to see the commissioner, Batbloke!" Bobin started, "Why -"
"Because," Batbloke interrupted, preempting Bobin's question, "We always do."
"Holy correctness, Batbloke! You're right!"
With annoying "nanananananananna" music in the background, our two Heroes leapt back into the Mousemobile and sped off to the Commissioner's Place.

"A-ha" said Batbloke when they arrived at the Commissioner's Place, "The Commissioner's Place, 14a Commissioner's Place."
"Holy here we are, Batbloke!" said Bobin, "We're here!" Batbloke sighed and marched heroically to the door.
"Woddu want?" asked the thick-looking security guard.
"Hullo, my good man," said Batbloke, thrusting his groin forward in a thoroughly heroic manner, "I'm Batbloke, and this is my keen yet rather stupid sidekick, Bobin." Batbloke turned to look at Bobin, who was no longer there.
"Who?"
"Er... he must have got bored and gone off to look for a tree to stand behind, or something." Batbloke shrugged and carried on regardless, despite the fact that he was only here for Bobin's sake. "Let me in! I must see the commissioner!"
"No."
"Oh please..."
"No."
"I'll give you some toffee..." Batbloke reached into the dark shadowy depths of his cape, where lurked unimaginable dangers, mainly loose stitching and Batbloke's armpits, and pulled out a big bag of toffees. "Here you go, my good man, toffee."
"Oooh, ta." said the thick security guard and sat in the corner eating toffees. Batbloke pushed the poorly guarded door open and marched confidently, but perhaps more importantly, heroically into the Commissioner's Place.

The doors to Commissioner Ron-Dog's office flew open. Batbloke leapt in, stood akimbo, thrust his groin and said "Hurrah!", all in a highly heroic manner.
"Hello Batbloke." the commissioner sighed, rolling his eyes. They fell off his desk and continued rolling until they stopped at Batbloke's feet.
"I am here," Batbloke said, returning the Commissioner's eyes, "to tell you of Bobin and his serious but rather embarrassing disease of the eye, particularly the retina, although to tell you the truth, it's not really that serious. And not altogether embarrassing, either. But still, it's the principle of the thing. Hurrah." he added, uncertainly.
"I already know." the Commissioner said.
"You already know?"
"Yup."
"But... but... how? Have you developed weird and uncanny powers of the mind, or can you perceive the future before it happens? Have powerful policemen from the distant future been travelling backwards in time and informing you events before they take place? Do you have a magical book written thousands of years ago by a man with a long beard and untrimmed toenails, that gives details of everything that happens in the build up to some dreadful catastrophe that spells the unwinding of mankind and what we currently call 'civilization', to be replaced by times of magic and wonder?" Batbloke stopped to catch his breath.
"No," said the Commissioner, "Bobin told me." He pointed at Bobin, who was sitting in a chair in the middle of the room in full view of Batbloke.
"Bobin???????????????????????" said Our Hero, with multiple question marks. "How did you get in?"
"Through the back door." replied Our Other Hero. Batbloke clenched a fist and muttered a stream of expletives that any TV company that wanted to stay on the air would bleep.
"I gave the security guard chappy a whole bag of toffees so we could get in! What a waste! A whole bag of toffees! Grrr. It makes me wanna spit." He spat.
"You gave him toffee? Oh no!" The Commissioner adopted Classic Movie Pose Of Horror, number 42. "Oh no!" he said again, to make sure that everyone got the point.
"Why? What's wrong with that?"
"You don't understand. You need to be told. Perhaps I should explain. You obviously don't realise. I ought to tell you that, whenever Unnamed Security Guard eats toffee, he becomes...." a loud drum banged "MR TOFFEE!"
"Not..." said Batbloke, "You don't mean... surely not... it can't be... are you actually saying... but... not... Mr Toffee?"
"That's the fella."
"Who he?" asked Bobin, the boy dunder(head).
"Egads!" Ron-Dog exclaimed, "Are sidekicks deliberately dense?"
"Yes." Batbloke slipped in, "It's part of the contract."
"Oh. Er. Mr Toffee is an evil criminal mastermind, in the ranks of The Piddler and The Choker, with an uncanny ability to wear silly clothes and do absolutely nothing."
"But that's what we do." said Bobin, puzzled.
"Yeah, I know, Botham City has completely unimaginative superheroes and villains, sometimes I wish I was the commissioner in Metropolopolopopolopolopopopolopolis, they have a much higher calibre of superhero there." The Commissioner reflected briefly, but put the mirror away and continued with the script. "Anyway, how did you get this serious, etc etc, Bobin?"
"Oh, well, I was having a party."
"A party?" asked Ron-Dog a little too enthusiastically, "You party as well?"
"Of course we do!" Bobin replied, "It's not all work, work work!" For no reason that can be found on Earth, or any other world in the Universe, Batbloke and Bobin - the Fabricated Crusaders, defenders of the world - and Commissioner Ron-Dog began laughing, while the lights faded.

"Well," said Batbloke, taking off his mask, "That's a wrap. Oh, hang on... the camera's still rolling! Get out of here! Go on! Turn that thing off!"
"Er, Batbloke," said Bobin, "I think a little more is expected of us. That wasn't a very long adventure. And, to be honest, not a particularly interesting or life-threatening one either."
"Oh right. Well, what can we do?"
"Beats the sh- er, beats the hell out of me." Bobin shrugged. "These things normally happen around us. You know, the emergency erupts, we put our tights on, get captured, almost get blown up in a rather stupid way, escape, defeat The Piddler, and laugh about something that, quite frankly, isn't funny. All in the space of half an hour."
"Yeah... oh well, I'm going home, can't be bothered with all that today."
"Okay, bye, see you next week."
"Bye"
"Bye"
"Bye"
"Go home"
"Okay"
"Go on then..."
"Get off me!"
"Go home!"
"Oh, right. Hey look, it's the end."

Read the second great Batbloke story!

= A poor pun on "the nether regions" return...

= The Batmobile had already been taken away from the Superhero Supercars showroom the day before Batbloke and Bobin arrived, so they had to settle for the Mousemobile. Mouseman arrived a couple of days later and drove home in the Dung Beetle Mobile. Dung Beetle Man, fortunately, was too embarrassed to go out in the costume he was forced to wear. return...

= Defenders of the world, but more specifically, defenders of a couple of neighbourhoods in Botham City. return...

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