He was The Varnisher. He was exhausted. He could barely sit up. On top of that, he was immensely stoned. You would be too, if you sniffed as much varnish as he did. Technically, he was not a crime fighter, unless you consider exposed wood a crime. He was better defined as one who corrected in order to beautify, than he was a vigilante. His heart was in the right place.
Francis Scott wanted to close his eyes and get the rest he so badly needed, but he was The Varnisher. The Varnisher would not rest until all the uneven patchy wood surfaces had a transparent, hard, protective finish or film. Fixing is one thing, preservation divine. The Varnisher was obsessed. Little known fact, The Varnisher loved speaking in the third person.
When The Varnisher was eight years old, he lost his parents to a tragic accident on a cruise ship. A patch of the floor had lost its veneer, and his father tripped. He was a very clumsy man, so he tumbled and fell overboard into the ocean. He could not swim. His mother frantically dived after him, attempting to save him. She was tipsy and missed the water entirely, opting to instead splatter all over the lower deck. Abstract art never smelled so bad mingled with the salty ocean air. This image would haunt the young Francis forever.
Thus, The Varnisher was born. Scuffed wood surfaces would never endanger an innocent soul again. All floors and surfaces need not fear abuse of spiked shoes no longer, there is now a savior.
Sadly, the years of varnish was slowly damaging the health of The Varnisher. If irony was still a thing, it would be greatly appreciated here. Severe nerve damage from all the inadvertent huffing made him twitchy. And his brain, it was not so good anymore.
The Varnisher leaned forward. His eyes crossed unnaturally, as his eyeballs met and disappeared behind his face, leaving only the white of his eyes. This was accompanied by a disturbing squish, not unlike a thumb crushing a cockroach.