Dillinger Nards had always hated his name.
“It’s bad enough our last name is Nards, but why Dillinger?” he’d asked his mother once, after a particularly bad day of teasing after school. “Why’d you name me after an assassin?”
“Bank robber,” his mother had corrected him. “And he was only accused of homicide because he fired back on police who were firing at him.”
His mother had never left him wanting for creature comforts, but she was bat-shit and he could never quite reconcile her love for him with his inability to forgive her quirks, and he hated himself for it.
His shyness with women led to self-fulfilling lack of success in the opposite sex department, and he hated himself for it. Although conventionally handsome, puberty hadn’t been kind. And while his face had cleared up in adulthood, he still always walked looking down.
But on a rainy day as he was crossing the street, he heard the oft-repeated advice friends and family had given him: “Look up! You never know what you’re missing.”
He glanced up to see the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen crossing the street towards him.
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He picked up speed, breaking into a run – pushing her back just as a car running the light sped past them both.
“My God,” she said, breathlessly. “Thank you! You saved my life!”
His heart was pounding, but even dazed with adrenaline, for the next 5 minutes he was as charming as he’d ever been with anyone. She brought it out in him. “We should go for coffee later,” she said, giving him her card. “I’m Stephanie Myers,” she said, extending her hand.
He took her hand in his. He hated his name, and he decided to lie. He pledged to go immediately to a lawyer and change his name legally, so he didn’t start this – whatever this was – with a lie.
“Arsewad Hitler,” he said, instantly hating himself.
