A frightened girls scarcely escapes a bunch of evil men. She pants, gasps, puffs and reaches a saviour corner. But, when she goes round, it literally and figuratively turns to be a dead line. The lovely girl nearly faints.The badmen stop running and begin walking solemnly. One takes out a pen knife; another the belt; the other ones a camera, a bloody-dripping syringe and a microphone. Then he appears: top of the roof, flying cape, dumb face and yellow jumping boots. He cries “Leave her alone or confront me, you of the evil stars, you worst than toothache.”
The gang look at each other until the masked hero jumps down to the blind alley. The pen knife guy receives spray in the eyes, and an expansion shock from the hairdrier-like pistol knocks the others out.
- Who are you? - says the relieved woman.
- Well, er, I, uh, I haven’t thought about a name or something. ¿What about “Heroman”?
- No, no, no. This is old-fashioned and vulgar. “Bellyman”. That’s it.
- What?
- “Bellyman”. It really fits you.
- Fuck off, you gust of disgust!
- But I only...
But the dull face saviour is long gone through igniting jets from his belt. He’s considering that “maybe I should replace this old tight costume. It makes me fat although I try to hide my float. And what the hell should I use as a nickname? The Vindicator Avenger? The Thief Eater? American Power? I will sleep on it. “Bellyman!” Fatty seal”.
Frampton Compton undressed lazily at dawn. The patrol had been intense and exciting. It was time to send the superhero to bed and the supercostume to the washing machine. Only two hours to alarm ring. He had to decide between sleeping or having breakfast. “Bellyman” opted for resting and eliminating the body excuse for that horrible nick. The double-life man read briefly a The Mighty Avengers Marvel Comic and glimpsed a New York City postcard with the word “twilight” written on it. 
He slept on a brand new name: A vindicator...only working at night...masked hero... This was it! The Twilight Avenger. Spectacular. Sublime. Terrific. The bad guys’ lash. Like a kick in the very face. But he had to start doing some exercise: Sit-ups and push-ups. And no more cocoa cream with honey and peanut butter spread on the doughnuts. But the clock woke up both his body and his stomach. Maybe tomorrow. After dinner. Or supper.
