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Robinson paused at the door, his once bulky frame now reduced to an emaciated replica, silhouetted in the roughly hewn entrance. He drew a long breath. Tossing the crude shovel into the darkened corner, he looked through the window opening at the approaching sail that had been a dot on the horizon at the start of the day. He had buried Man Friday under their favorite tree. He knew in his heart that it was the right thing to do. Friday had almost turned and caught him as he swung the heavy shovel. Robinson had been physically sick after the deed but he could not stand the thought of sharing his companion with the rough seamen.
Superman felt terrible. Not kryptonite, not Lex Luther, not even Lois. Grounded. That stupid Batman. They had been doing a joint rescue of a woman trapped on the Sky Tower and damn Batman’s doohickey had fallen from his utility belt. Fallen and plummeted 500 metres. Cut open the top of a BMW Roadster. Like butter through hot toast. The ignominy of facing Gotham City air control and being grounded under section 47a of the air traffic regulations. Now Superwoman was putting her foot down and refusing to take over temporarily while he sorted this mess out. She wanted ‘equal rights’ and top billing. He pulled his cape around him. Was it getting colder or was his imagination playing tricks on him?
It had started with the barroom joke about Hopalong and the band of Indians and Tonto’s famous line – ‘you’re on your own white man. If he cast his mind back that was when the troubles had started. Tonto now got to ride in front and he had more lines and got to throw knives and things now that the gun lobby had lost out to all the left leaning weirdo’s. Silver wasn’t allowed to rear in the air while he yelled “Hi-Yo Silver” now that the animal rights activists had said that it put undue pressure on all horses to perform in ‘an unnatural way that could place undue stress on equine rear appendages. Hopalong would have liked to put a silver bullet through their tree-hugging heads.