His shirt in this photo says "Pow." Messages on shirts don't get more apt. His "Pow" is sometimes as loud as lightning splitting an ancient redwood; other times no more subtle, but sometimes as quiet as his angry frown.
He never walks. He floats. He glides. Sometimes he leans so far forward when he sprints that he just falls over, not because of clumsiness, but because of some sort of inate desire to do more, faster. When on dirt or gravel or pavement he just gets back up, brushes himself off, and takes off again in the opposite direction. But on the static electricity-driven rubber trampoline, he just keeps bouncing on all his various parts until once again his toes feel pressure, and like a Porsche he's at full speed again in seconds.
