The Tattered Cape, The Fifth Thread
Featuring: Clyde Fox   Date: 01/23/11   Event: WorldWide 144
Scars of a hero.

The old man sits there, drawing in his final couple breaths. He kinks his head towards the window of his retirement home suite. The summer sun glares off the slick glass. With his bottom on the edge of his bed, and his hands firmly planted on his knees, he can only attempt to think back to the days when he was in good health.

"Fibble, dibble, tribble," The old man mutters as goobery saliva leaks out the corners of his mouth.

He could feel a bowel movement coming on. Too bad he couldn’t control any aspect of it. His chicken legs shutter as he can feel the pressure on his bladder mounting. He curls his toes up inside his fluffy baby blue slippers. His knuckles turn white as he fights the urge to soil himself.

Isn’t it amazing how age can make even the most natural of processes into a battle?

It wasn’t always this way.

How does one exactly end up in such a position?

Why, just two years earlier, this old man had the ability to walk and talk and high five all his friends. He knew his own name and each of his grandchildren’s. Although, even though it was only two years ago, he still had some significant problems. His hip would magically pop out of place. This old man would also suffer from severe arthritis.

"Ouch!" He screams, as his hip slides out of place.

He grabs the railing in the hallways of the retirement complex and waits for a nurse to come by. He knows that they are usually good with those types of things so he’ll only be in pain for about five more minutes. However, the younger you are, the less likely you’ll develop such brittleness.

This old man wasn’t anywhere close to this condition five years earlier.

"Hello, Sprocket!" The older gentleman said, with a spry jolt in his step.

He rubs the young lads head full of hair before sitting down on the nearby park bench. It’s a gorgeous day outside with a mix of a few fluffy clouds and sunshine. The older gentleman raises his head skyward, admiring the scenery.

"Gwampa! Your nose is bweeding!" The young lad indicates.

The older gentleman reaches up and wipes his hand across his face. Indeed there was blood. Only someone who has been pummeled in the face repeatedly could be prone to such easy nosebleeds. Either that or they just have really thin blood. But for argument sake, we’ll go with the former.

"Oh it’s nothing, sprocket," The older gentleman deflects.

Or is it? Maybe if he hadn’t taken so many hits so long ago. Maybe he’d be in better shape for his age. Even now he knows that he is nothing like he was just seven short years prior.

DING!

Hustle, hustle, shuffle, shuffle.

"Annnnnnnd PUCNH, Clyde!" The instructor shouts.

He followed through. And hard too. The sound of the rubber glove slugging the soft pad resonates throughout the empty gym. Both men stand at ease.

"Good job! You still pack an incredible punch for your age," The instructor notes.

Clyde nods and gives that look that he knew he still had it in him all along. It shouldn’t be a surprise that a middle-aged man can pack such a wallop. Especially considering everything Clyde has been through. You don’t go fighting through your life without gaining a little muscle on the side.

"I’ll always pack a punch," Clyde smirks.

"Ha, I doubt that. Just wait until you get a little older and your muscles will deflate and you’ll get brittle and have arthritis," The much younger gym instructor conveys, "You probably won’t even be able to hold onto your own shit one day."

Clyde kinks his neck to the side, brushing it off like that day will never come. But he can remember the days not too long ago when he was half the age he was now. Those were the days that no one would question his ability. At least he looked like he could keep up and kick ass.

Those were the days when he was back on the streets, fighting crime. Being a true hero. A superhero. More like a dumbass if you were to ask some of the citizens around the time, but he still felt like he did his part. Little did he know, but this youthful baboonery would soon lead to his arthritis, his hip slipping out of place, and his uncontrollable bowels.

"HEY! YOU! STOP!" Clyde shrieks as he sprints down a busy city sidewalk.

The Fox was not about to be outdone by an older, but just as agile crook. Clyde weaves in and out of pedestrian traffic. His tattered cape flows elegantly behind him as he gains ground on the suspected criminal.

"I’M GOING TO CATCH YOU! AND WHEN I DO... LET’S JUST SAY YOU’LL BE SORRY YOU TOOK THAT PURSE!" Clyde informs.

This prompts the suspected purse-snatcher to pick up the pace, but little does the criminal know, but Clyde is well versed with this city’s layout. Fox vanishes behind a building just as the crook stares backward. The man stops and looks around, puzzled. Just as he thinks he’s home free, Clyde comes bolting out from the alley!

WHACK!

Clyde tackles the man into a set of aluminum garbage cans. The caped hero smashes his hip off a light pole and ends up going nose first into the pavement. The crook is buried in the bins and the purse settles unharmed on the sidewalk. Pedestrians gather around to see Clyde Fox, bloody nose and hurt hip and all, get up. He staggers his way over to the pile of garbage cans.

"You’ve been served... by The Prince of Emo," Fox states defiantly, "You thought you could get away, but I knew you couldn’t."

Fox snatches the purse and begins to rifle through it.

"Thanks. I’ll be taking this," Fox says before spitting on the downed criminal, "Bitch."

Clyde hobbles off into the distance, satisfied that he robbed a robber.

Scars of a hero?

More like the unforeseen future of a zero.

View Clyde Fox's Biography