It was a warm Saturday afternoon in the summer of 1950, and the sun was blazing over the small town of Springdale. The local diner, with its neon signs and chrome finishes, was the hangout spot for the neighborhood kids. Inside, sitting at their favorite booth near the window, Mark Fletcher, Loe Halloway, and Michael Wilson were indulging in their usual weekend banter. The scent of burgers and fries filled the air as they lounged, milkshakes in hand, talking about everything and nothing.
"Man, can you believe how loaded Chris is?" Mark said, taking a sip of his vanilla milkshake. He had a mischievous grin plastered on his face. "Guy's practically got more money than half the country."
Loe raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat as he stirred his chocolate shake lazily. "More like the whole country, Mark. Did you see that car he rolled up in last week? A freakin' Cadillac Eldorado. That's gotta cost more than my old man makes in a year."
Michael snorted, almost choking on his fries. "Pfft, forget the car. The guy has a house with two pools. Who needs two pools? What's he gonna do, swim laps in one and dive for treasure in the other?"
"Treasure?" Loe chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, Chris probably uses one for swimming and the other to, I don't know, wash his dog. Rich people do weird things, man."
Mark leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was about to share top-secret intel. "You guys ever been to his place? It's like walking into a whole other planet. You got a freakin' bowling alley, a movie theater, and get this—an elevator in the house. An elevator! Who even needs an elevator in their house?"
Michael's eyes widened. "No way. An elevator?" he knew how expensive elevator back in 1950s
Loe smirked. "Rich people problems, Mike. Maybe Chris gets tired walking from the west wing to the east wing of his mansion. God forbid he has to use stairs like the rest of us common folk."
They all burst out laughing, drawing a few glances from the other patrons. Mark wiped a tear from his eye, still giggling.
"You think he's ever used a normal kitchen? Like, has he even seen a stove?" Mark asked, genuinely curious. "Or does he have some chef whipping up steak and lobster for breakfast every morning?"
Loe scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Oh, I bet it's even fancier than that. Probably eats stuff we can't even pronounce. Some French gourmet thing like 'escargot.' That's snails, right?"
Michael grimaced, pretending to gag. "Snails? Man, if Chris ever tries to serve me snails, I'm out. I don't care how rich he is."
Mark laughed. "Right? Imagine us showing up at his place, and his butler's like, 'Would you care for some escargot, sirs?' And we're just standing there like, 'Nah, I'll take a burger and fries, thanks.'"
"Hold up," Loe interrupted, smirking. "Chris doesn't have a butler… yet."
Michael grinned. "Give it time. One day we'll be hanging out, and there'll be some old British guy following Chris around, calling him 'Master Hilton.' 'Would you like your car brought around, Master Hilton? Shall I draw your bath, Master Hilton?'"
They all cracked up again, the image of Chris—who was always down to earth despite his wealth—suddenly becoming the fanciest guy in the world.
Mark leaned back in his seat, shaking his head in disbelief. "Honestly, though, I still can't wrap my head around it. "
"Yeah," Michael said, grinning, "but you gotta admit, he never acts like he's better than us. He's still the same guy we used to race bikes with back in 1949."
Loe nodded. "True, but it'd be nice if he shared the wealth a little. Maybe, I don't know, buy us all matching Cadillacs."
Marklaughed. "Or at least buy us some new bikes."
Michael added, "Forget bikes, man. He could buy us our own racetrack and a dozen motorcycles."
"Oh yeah, and while we're dreaming, maybe throw in a yacht for the weekends." Loe said with a grin. "We'll just cruise down the coast, living the good life."
Mark snickered. "Yeah, because nothing says 'teenagers from Springdale' like a luxury yacht."
The three boys laughed until their sides hurt, basking in the sheer absurdity of their conversation.
"But seriously," Mark said after a while, his tone softening. "Chris is a good guy. He's never made a big deal about the money."
Michael nodded, his playful expression turning thoughtful. "Yeah, I don't think he even cares about it half the time. He'd still be the same guy, rich or not."
Loe leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "That's the crazy part. He's got everything anyone could ever want, but all he wants is to hang out with us and talk about normal stuff."
Mark grinned. "Guess we're lucky then. We got the richest friend in town, and he still likes us broke losers."
Michael laughed, tossing a fry at Mark's head. "Speak for yourself, Fletcher. We're not just losers. We're—"
Loe cut in with a smirk, leaning forward dramatically. "Vigilantes."
The trio sat up straighter, puffing out their chests in unison. They weren't just any group of teenagers. They were Mark, aka Nightwing—the sharp, agile hero; Michael, aka Spider-Man—the quick-witted hero with agility to match; and Loe, aka Angel—the fearless protector with a heart of gold.
But while they sat there in the diner, chuckling over fries and shakes, what they didn't know was that their rich friend, Chris Hilton, harbored his own little secret. Sure, Chris might have been cool with them acting like he was just another regular guy, but back home in his gigantic villa... Chris had a butler.
Every time they visited, Chris would discreetly shoo his butler away before anyone could see. He didn't want his friends to think he was some pampered king being waited on hand and foot. No, in front of his buddies, he was just Chris. The same guy who joined in on their late-night bond, always dodging the butler's insistence that he "relax and let Master Hilton be properly attended to."
As they sat there, the three vigilantes laughed, oblivious to the fact that their richest, most unassuming friend was a silent guardian of their secret lives.