(aproximate length, 5 pages)

His grandmother had often used words like irresponsible to describe his mother but, Toby didn't care. He was more concerned with being bored and wondering what to do now that she really had gone shopping without him. Bah, who wants to go to silly supermarkets anyway? Who needs shops to scream in? Wah! Left alone, just because he'd wanted a biscuit; a chocolate biscuit. And she said she loved him! "If you're a good boy, you can have a bicky at teatime."
"Don't want one at teatime."
"Yes you do."
"No I don't."
"You do, and stop arguing."
"You started it.!" He could still remember the slap. His face maintained a stinging reminder of the warmth of pain and his eyes hadn't yet cooled from the tears. As he had snuffled in the arms of the big chair, the door had slammed and Toby had been left alone. "Don't want one at timetime. Want one now."
At first, he had sulked in misery. A fit of egocentric depression from which he could never recover. But eventually, he was pulled out of the pit, into a bright new world of interest. Toby wiped his nose and took a tote on fis favourite thumb. After all, life wasn't all bleak. There was the television. His gaze crossed over to the screen. Boring grown ups talked about boring thinks on the one o'clock news. Snipper Toby studied his satifying good-hand thumb for a moment. He straightened its neighbouring finger and took aim through the trees of an imagionary jungle. "Bang, bang, bang, bang. Bang." The enemy leader slumped against the side of his tank. His eyes stared and then shut. He was done for. Toby blew the smoke from his pistol, replaced it into its holster and granted the passing victory parade an efficient salute. Grateful crowds cheered his deed and the General pinned a medal to his chest.
The news was drawing towards its end, and it was then that it became interesting. Funny black and white birds waddled around on rocks, looking like waitors. Penguins, they were, the man said, and they were in danger because people were stealing all their food. Toby was sad. He liked the birds. They were cool. It was bad that they were hungry. He felt very upset but then had a good idea.
Losing no time, the famous Arctic explorer planned for his mission of mercy. The penguins were hungry so he would feed them. Leaving his faithful team of huskies with the frugal supplies of his expedition, he ventured out into the blizzard swept, frozen wastes. Avoiding perilous, linoleum crevices, he successfully reached the kitchen. With a look of modest triumph on his face, Toby pitched the Union flag into the tight packed snow next to the table. At last, the North Pole had been conquered and claimed for Britain.
The would-be conservationist studied the circumstances arrayed against him. The biscuit tin stood atop the rack of white shelves adjacent to the sink, strategically beyond the reach of small hands and mouths, or so mummy supposed. To gain this prize required thought and cunning. The mysterious figure known as the Captain stared at Table Mountain. Four helicoptor chairs stood around its base. Concealed mines lay beneath the floor tiles. And of course, there were guards, specially selected and trained for their duties. To evade the defences and escape with one of the ultra-modern choppers seemed an impossible mission for an army, let alone for only one man. But the Captain knew different. Many were the times during which he had taken his life into his hands. He knew what such an action called for.
He waited until the arrival of the pretend night before leaving his lair. By the meagre light of the moon, the Captain managed to leap across the cracks of the tiled floor and miraculously evade all the mines. As he reached the secret entrance to the heliport, an unfortunate sentry blocked his path. Though taken by surprise, the man put up a stiff struggle. He finally fell to the Captain's karate blow to his neck. As the raider sped towards one of the aircraft, the dying guard managed to press the alarm bell. Immediately, the whole base was flooded with light. Soldiers spilled out from their barrakcs. Heavy boots pounded across the concrete, and bursts of machinegun fire echoed around Table Mountain. But it was all too late. The chopper rose into the air and whirled into the distance. The captain had done it again.
Despite heavy turbulence, Toby managed to guide the helicoptor to the foot of the kitchen sink unit, expertly landing it in a forest clearing. The shelves towered above him. At their summit, the glorious, fobidden tin. It had been conquered before, but never without the aid of ropes. This would be a dangerous ascent. It had to be dared though, because of the penguins, and because it was there. The first eight thousand feet presented no great obstacles for an experienced climber. Toby was soon standing on Seat Plateau. It was the next stage which was the most taxing. A massive wall of rock loomed up towards the heavens, smoothed down by the storms of millennia. Gripping the metalic ridge of the sink unit, he hauled himself above the problem and reached the streams of the draining board. But there was still more to do before the conquest would be complete. Skillfully using some convenient hand and footholds, Toby managed to scale the lower shelves. He stretched his fingers and was able to touch the rare eagle's nest of biscuits, perched on the highest peak. He began to work the tin towards him when tragedy struck. It slipped from the edge and clattered into the vallies below. Tinny, crashing thunder reverberated through his skull. There was nothing for it other than to descend to the shame of a failed endeavour.
As soon, as Toby rode into the town beneath the great Sink Rockies, the famous cowboy could sense that the community had problems. The buildings had a battered look whilst, worst of all, the railhead corral had been busted wide open. What had happened was obvious. A terrible wind had swept across the Nevadan desert. From beneath the brim of his ten gallon hat, Toby could see the broken spirited citizens, openly weeping in demoralized huddles. The town's only source of food were free and running wild; running to their oblivion. If action weren't taken quickly, the find herds would be reduced to mere crumbs amongst the bleached and baking white sands.
None had noticed the Lone Stranger ride into town. His progress had been steady and slow. But none could fail to be impressed by his exit. He reared his faithful mustang, twirled his lasso and charged into the desert at full pelt. "Yaaaaaahooo!" Despite the viciousness of the heat, Toby somehow managed to bring the bourbon cattle and rich tea longhorns back home, one by one. After three days and nights of the relentless roundup, the tin corral was almost filled with exhausted, mooing, chocolate beefsteak. Only one had evaded capture; a young digestive, which lay horrifyingly crushed behind the litter bin. The town was saved and its people cheered frantically. Toby was a hero, a natural born hero, who would accept no reward for his efforts. Though the people pleaded with him to become sheriff, the Lone Stranger refused. Thumping the lid firmly back onto the tin and tucking the penguin fodder safely into the saddlebag beneath his arm, he trotted off into the sunset, onto the open trail. Years later, none in the west would believe that such deeds as his were possible. They would be regarded as the stuff of legends, not the acts of a real man. But acts of one man they were; a man called Toby - the Lone Stranger.
He rode quickly into the passage, and left the legend behind him. Toby soon reached the telephone stand, which stood kitchenside of the coathooks. Left to his own devices, he'd have happily left his parkar in sensible places; on the floor perhaps. The monstrous mummy was a woman though, and sissy about such things. "Hang it up before I hang you." That was what she'd often shout. "Do this. Don't do that," all the time! Why couldn't she realize that he was a superhero? Toby put the tin onto the stand and pulled his coat down from its hook. He'd show her. She'd never saved a penguin. She'd see. He put the parlar on and resolved to carry out this mercy mission in secret. Disguised, so that none would hinder him, so that none would recognize that he was really Superman.
Faster than a speeding bullet, the door succumbed to his kryptonic strength. More powerfully than Aunt May's budgie, Toby swept up, up and away, into the grey city skies of the pavement. More athleticly than an Olympian, he bounded through the open gate and flew along Albany Road at the speed of light, into the world beyond. If any had seen Superman leaving number 46, they'd have been astonished into silence. As he was wearing his disguise though, no-one recognized him. Toby was free.
Many people might think otherwise, but being a superhero does have its difficulties. Oh yes, you get great job satisfaction and you do get to fight all sorts of bug-eyed threats to civilization as we know it. But saving life from the very jaws of death is not always as easy as it looks. And though Toby had erradicated perhaps 100 aliens with his laser vision in little more than ten minutes, he came to earth on a clifftop bench with uneasiness in his heart. He must've flown for a billion, trillion, million miles, acorss my galaxies than could be counted. Not once though, had he seen a penguin. Nor even a single snowflake. And before him was the sea. There seemed to be no hope of reaching the North Pole. Dejectedly, he opened the tin and nibbled a chocolate biscuit. He'd wanted one so much before mummy had slammed the door. Somehow, it didn't taste so wonderful anymore. As the crumbs slid begrudgingly down his throat, an idea occured to him. It may seem obvious in hindsight, but so might the theory of displacement. It was quite something to Archimedes. "The North Pole must be across the English Channel. I'll have to sail there." This realization instantly cheered him up. He ate a custard cream enthusiastically. He shut the tin and zoomed off towards the zigzag path to the beach.
Before descending the zigzag, he peered over the cliff for a short while. Loads of little, pink splodges covered the sands, looking more like squashed ants than people. "Commander to machinegun man," the voice ordered him over the radio, "fire." He gripped a pretend gun and swept bullets across the beach. He even hit the ditant Bournemouth Pier to his better foot side. Having successfully forced the mass waves of Germans into a desperate retreat, he left the machinegun nest and headed for the path. A skillful bout of downhill skiing followed, which resulted in Toby receiving a standing ovation from the packed crowds, and a gold medal from the chairman of the World Championship Committee.
Agent X removed a bourbon from the tin and chewed it as he wandered along the promenade. Most of the people he saw were just ordingary. A few though were obviously spies, watching out for him. Some stared long and hard at the parkar clad figure, an odd sight when the temperature's in the 20s. None could recognize his true identity though. Agent X moved like a mist through the enemy ranks; unrecognized rather than unseen. Soon, just before he would have reached a Gestapo beach office, our man had a stroke of luck. His eagle eyed powers of observation made out a small rowing boat, laid up on the sand. In fact, it was one of eight. To gain possession would require valour and guile, beyond even the capacities which the Captain had displayed. Toby walked across the promenade to some steps and climbed down onto the beach.
With the ferocity of hell, a Saharan sun beat down onto the desert. Though weakened by two months without food or water, Toby of Arabia knew his duty. Creeping between the sparse deckchair palms, he approached the Sultan's camel enclosure. With extraordinary daring, he made his way to the high wooden fences of the corral and pulled himself up. Toby leapt down into the saddle of his adversary's prized mount and sped off through the open gate. The furious Sultan was left cursing in his wake.
After becoming the first ever jockey to win the Grand National on a camel, Toby returned to his main mission. He stared at the ocean, desperate for the merest glimpse of the Arctic. There was a range of hills to his better foot side, which his Uncle Alan had once told him was called the Purbecks. To the other side the beach curled round to Hengistbury Head, but it was all joined to England. However, out to sea beyond this promontory, Toby could make out the white cliffs of a different realm, shaped something like a train engine. "That's it," he yelled, "the Arctic!"
Before he could prepare to set sail and break Blackbeard's blockade, the voice of a grown up interrupted him from behind. "That's not the Arctic. It's the Isle of Wight."
Toby turned and saw an oldish man with a sailor cap on his head. "No the Arctic?"
"No son," came the authorative reply.
"But the penguins," he pleaded. "I've got to feed the penguins."
"Sorry son, but not on the Isle of Wight, nor even the Arctic. They live at the South Pole, not the North."
Toby was stunned. Still clutching the biscuit tin and wiping away the occassional stray tear, he allowed himself to be led away to the beach office. What happened next was of little interest to our hero. He learned that the Antarctic was even further away than his grandparents in Bristol. Dejected, he sat down on a stool. He knew his quest had failed; that the penguins would remain hungry. Toby waited for a ray of sunshine to brighten his life. None did. He was still sulking when the policemen arrived. The journey in their special car was dull; even wearing one of their hats seemed boring. Toby knew that he was being returned to the concentration camp, where the tyrannical mummy would never understand. His adventure was over. And besides, his tummy wasn't feeling well.