silvercitystudio

Bartman the Lame Knight of Aberdeen

In the dreary outskirts of Aberdeen, beyond the cold stone buildings and the eternal gray mist, lay an abandoned caravan park. It had once been a lively place, a holiday refuge for families. But those days were long gone. Now, the trailers stood rusting in the drizzle, weeds crawling up their sides, and broken windows gaping like silent mouths. No one came here anymore—no one, except for Bartman.

He wasn’t Batman—the brooding vigilante from comic books—but he wore a homemade Batman costume anyway. He lived alone in one of the sagging caravans, its roof leaking and its walls more rust than metal. The cape he wore, shredded and faded, flapped limply behind him in the ceaseless Aberdeen wind.

But none of that mattered to Bartman. In his mind, he was the Lame Knight, the protector of this forgotten place. The limp he had developed after a mishap involving a rusty ladder and a bottle of whiskey only added to his sense of being a misunderstood hero. His injury, he told himself, was a mark of his dedication, a battle scar earned in the service of keeping the caravan park safe from unseen threats.