The most annoying of which are ones you acquire at a ridiculously young age - an age where you can't fight back against it - that remain with you for the rest of your time.
Meet 'Stripes'; a seventeen year old boy; black hair, green eyes, rather good teeth and remarkably flat feet.
None of these qualities relate to his nickname, however, they're just there to paint a picture. For the gap lasting between his teeth and feet, just aim for a scrawny seventeen year old and you're basically there.
No, the title 'Stripes' came along for a very particular reason, and has remained with the boy for so long, he is actually unaware of his own name. He was Stripes when he learnt to talk, he was Stripes when he learnt to write, and was even Stripes when he came to sign his own name. Banks and other, grown-up based boring places to do legal thingies accepted his name without question.
This may have been because his parents are best described as "looking-like-two-people-who-are-the-sort-to-give-their-child-an-odd-name." We all know the type, and we all know we know.
If any of you are now demanding to know why he acquired his nickname, quit shouting at a computer screen, and here you go:
You've learnt how Stripes' parents look on the surface, and underneath that you may be shocked to learn that they were not the best parents. Not of the 'attentative' sort.
One day, sixteen-years-and-a-few-months earlier, young Soon-To-Be-Stripes was crawling around the upstairs landing at home. The bathroom had been too noisy, his parent's room had been shut and the airing cupboard smelt funny. So, he decided to tackle the stairs.
Stripes' parents, currently upstairs as well, behind the closed bedroom door, didn't react to the first, thirteen little thumps. But only when there was the unmistakable clang of something heavy hitting a baby gate did they finally start paying attention.
Stripes was lucky to have survived, but it did come at a price. Upon falling down the formidable stairs, towards the bottom, he had turned sideways and crashed into the baby gate bars face, chest, stomach, thighs, shins and feet first.
And this baby gate was rather unique. Stripes' father had claimed it for a cheap price because it had thinner bars: something not technically designed for babies but large dogs.
Thinner bars requires more of them, so when baby Stripes landed with that one of a kind clang, about fourteen metal poles struck him quite badly.
As stated, Stripes survived. (Obviously, otherwise the introduction earlier was an absolute lie). The doctors, nurses and child psychologists did the best they could to fix all damage, and they did rather well, but Stripes was left with fourteen red line marks across his skin and down his body.
Marks which did not fade, but rather, grew with him. As Stripes found his height, the marks stretched with him. The front of his torso gave the odd illusion he was wearing a beige-and-pink striped shirt.
(Which, compared to his skin condition, actually seems more tragic, fashion-sense-wise.)
Needless to say, his future nickname was sorted. His father, hardly apologetic but more holding back laughter, thought up the name Stripes the day his son was released from hospital.
And when that kind of event and that kind of name occurs before you're even toilet trained does tend to leave scars and memories (often the same thing) so deep, they won't fade away.
Thus, Stripes became one of 'Those People'. We all know the type, but will deny it when asked. The people you stare at on the street, but shouldn't. The people who get documentaries on Channel Four, not out of respect, but so the channel can get shock-tactic-viewings.
It's a taboo subject, but still exists. And Stripes was part of that world.
And when you're one of 'Those People' in school, if you avoid depression or suicide for the first eighteen years of your life, you have the perfect mental and physical strength to be whatever you want.
Stripes made it to seventeen years old so far, so that's all cool. But that's not to say he did not suffer.
And when you're a sufferer in school you do tend to learn more about psychology. Why just sit back and take the abuse, when you try and figure out why you're getting it in the first place?
Plus, you can consider the Originality of Bullies, of which, there is hardly any. Whispers, or just out-and-out yells of, 'Stripes' followed him absolutely everywhere, and not once, did the harsh words deviate. No other references to stripy things, nothing like "ZEBRA!" or "Prison Convict!" Just 'Stripes'. Always 'Stripes'.
So, Stripes spent the years in education studying (if you're going to be bullied for looking different, you may as well throw in abuse for being a geek too), analysing the minds of the average school children and weightlifting in the school gym.
Stripes, amidst a life of bad parenting, bullying and a Zebra Complex, did enjoy weightlifting. He even had a favourite dumbbell, that after years of being squeezed by student hands, had a set of stripes down it in random finger marks.
Every day after use, Stripes would hide it in a special cupboard where only he could find it. Then he would go to the library, maybe a bit smelly but who cares when you're stripey too, and do his studies.
On one particular Monday, the headmaster was making the rounds of his school. Wherever he went, there followed a wave of gum being hidden, ties shooting upwards and shirts getting tucked in; followed immediately when he had left by all that being undone.
The final visit was to the gym, to check on the facilities and possibly flirt with the female gym teacher, Mrs Great Eyes, ahem, sorry, Sweet Thighs, no, I do apologise, Mrs Batewise.
Upon entering, he found Mrs Great, er, Batewise nowhere around. Just a lone student on a bench-press machine. The headmaster sighed and wandered over, to check at least that the student wasn't breaking it.
When he reached the lad, he recognised him immediately, but was more interested in the amount of weight he was lifting. Not even the rugby team had strength like this.
"Excuse me?"
The metal in mid-lift fell with a clang, and Stripes sat up.
"Ah," said the Headmaster, "Mr...?"
"Call me Stripes," says he, in his most robotic voice, "everyone else does."
"Quite. Erm, listen, how often do you train in here?"
"Every day," Stripes replies, sitting up. "Gets me away from the pointing and laughing, y'know." He waved casually at his face.
"I see. And do you always lift that much weight?"
"Not until recently." Stripes nonchalantly rubbed a bicep. "Found my strength a little while ago."
"No doubt," said the Headmaster, "it is that time of life. Are you interested in any sports, Mr...?"
"Stripes," he said again, in his rehearsed, 'may-as-well' voice. "Not really. Why?"
"I think with your...fitness level, you should look into it."
He didn't.
That was rather anti-climatic, wasn't it?
True though, Stripes didn't look into any extra sporting activities. He got enough laughs for his lined face alone, why would he get undressed around other men to show the further extent of his...decorations.
So, instead, upon leaving school with a fair amount of good grades, and even more impressive bodily strength, he went through one of the stranger doors open to him. Once which would take his laughing-stock-of-an-affliction and turn it into a career:
He joined the circus.
His parents, as ever, couldn't give two...well, you get the idea.
His teachers were glad they no longer had to supress laughter when they looked at him.
(Oh yeah, teachers are cruel too. Humanity guides us all, bringing Harshness along with it)
His Head teacher nearly tore what hair he had left out when he learnt of all the opportunities Stripes wouldn't reach. He then realised that full-on baldness might scare off Mrs Batewise and suppressed it.
And Stripes just went out and joined the Foxx and Ghost Travelling Circus. With his growing strength and striped body, he was labelled the "Lined Lifter". Audiences gave him a weight, and a line on his body, and the chosen dumbbell had to reach that line.
Audiences being audiences, they always picked the topmost line on his head.
But Stripes hit every one. Every time.
So ends another story of one of 'Those People'. Injured in childhood, tormented and bullied in adolescence, yet happy in later life, because all the opening acts of life did was give him the drive to be what he wanted.
If that dream was to work in a circus, who are we to judge?
Hell, we judged him enough when he appeared with stripes on his body.
* * *
Another random one to add to the collection.
I've always said, when you start a story, all doors and all directions are opened to you all at once.
Now, when you play one of my favourite writing games, of taking random words and making a story from them, the doors and roads are still open. They're just a bit more diverting and twisting.
Like when you're given "Baby", "Dumbbell" and "Stripes". Getting over the fact that Stripes isn't a noun was easy. Just add on the word 'proper' before 'noun' and you're in business.
Such is the creative way of things...
Peace out!
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