Among the many things you can call Vincent Fishbein, a pirate is not on the list. Yes, he has an eye patch. Yes, he has a talking bird. And yes, when he is especially enthused about something, he has a tendency to go, “Arrr!” But he does not own a cutlass. He does not have a galleon. And he is not interested in anybody’s booty in any way, shape or form. And he doesn’t wear those puffy shirts, either. He prefers monochrome polo shirts, usually dark red or blue. And he flies a helicopter, which he has converted in a sort of houseboat helicopter, a housicopter. He named the housicopter, for reasons which I will make up later, Mitch. And the talking bird? A myna bird named Becky.

Vincent Fishbein had started out as a traffic reporter, delivering the news of car crashes, traffic jams, traffic hams, traffic jellies, traffic bacons, traffic marmalades and traffic pork sausages. The little town of Boober Falls had its share of unusual traffic incidents, being a prime exporter of preserves and pork products. But one day, one fateful day, a flood of goopy, sticky, gloppy, smicky multi-berrified jams, jellies and the like spilled out of a perilously overflowing factory, slurping and slorping and smoodling all in its wake. Cars were stuck fast, people preserved by preserves in their automobiles. That was bad enough.

Then, the jellies smordled their way into the fuse box of the nearby pork warehouse, causing a massive explosion and missile-like expulsion of flung bacon, dynamite ham and catapulted pork sausage, slamming into buildings and trees and large pets who couldn’t move quick enough, entranced by the flying pig parts. It was a tragedy that marred Boober Falls for the rest of its life. And Vincent Fishbein had a bird’s eye view of the whole dreadful melee.

He found himself at a loss for words, and rather than touch down and return to the news station, he fled. He’s been living on the periphery ever since. Always touching down in well-hidden locations, always keeping an unpatched eye out for authorities looking to repossess his stolen news chopper. He has since, of course, repainted the housicopter a sky blue, in order to blend in with, well, with the sky. And he himself added the bed, plumbing and walk-in closet about a year after escaping the horrors of his home town.

It should also be noted that Vincent Fishbein has been known to perform heroic deeds, such as fight fires with his fists, help poor kittens get their children out of trees and provide parmesan cheese for those whose pizza slices need it the most. In this way, he can be seen as a Good Guy. But he has never forgotten how he abandoned his fellow Boober Fallsians in their time of need, never looking back as they were encased in jam and ensmacked by ham. In that way, he could be seen as a Bad Guy. But which is he, really?

Perhaps, dear reader, he is that rare breed known as an anti-hero. The heroic figure with ambiguous morals, who could potentially go Bad at the drop of a hat. Not the wife of an Uncle Hero.

But how will Vincent Fishbein’s life intersect with Cassiopeia Birnbaums? And how will the Space Mummy fit into all of this? I guess we will find out at some point.

But maybe not!