He wanted to be a superhero.
He’d imagine his damsel, in a white frock, the memory of the scent of her freshly washed hair intoxicating him, trapped in a dungeon at the mercy of some evil toy maker or—as in his most recent and pellucid adventure—a maniacal cotton candy baron. He’d don a velvety cape, as black as the ecstatic darkness of a lover’s night, and bring justice to a world gone mad.
All his life, from the auroral miracle of birth, he’d wanted to be a superhero.
And now, having been handed a cigar, he just became one.