Prone to prevaricate, the lonely old man, a former malefactor in his youth, loved to amuse his fellow nursing home inhabitants with stories of the city before dawn, when the purveyors of peccadillo were on the streets.
“The days of reliable safeguards walking the streets were not about. There were no patrolmen constantly walking the streets to protect you. If a foe had to be vanquished, you needed to rely on a black suited superhero to fly in and save the day. His name was Batman. If his image was cast upon the wall of a tall building or even from a lighted glass image to the stars, he would come to your aid.”
The regulars at the nursing home, although bored of his fantastic accounts, had nothing better to do. It was either him or listen to the boom of the constant television being watched by the hard of hearing residents. The old man reveled in his story telling, which were the only moments when his eyes truly sparkled with fun.