Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Daranikone’s favorite watering hole was the Mangy Dog. It was so for many reasons: the unpleasant name tended to keep the spineless at bay and out of his hair, for one. The water was murky but free of contaminants thanks to Canem’s skillfull distilling. The food was tolerable, if bland, and it was seared well enough to kill parasites that swarmed in more flavorful but less well-cooked meats.

But most of all, Daranikone liked the Mangy Dog because it served as a filter for those that wished to avail themselves of her services. If the name didn’t scare them away, Canem’s growly baritone often did. The murky water and carbonized meat chased away their fair share. And Daranikone’s familiarity with the regulars meant that the odd loose zipper that came in looking to “prove” his manhood by conquering a tough-as-nails ladytype more often than not left with that same manhood bruised, bleeding, and birdshot.

As Daranikone’s father had said when he was still teaching her to shoot: “It ain’t right, but a lady’s got to defend herself twice as often with half as much. That’s why you gotta give yourself every ‘lil advantage. Shoot first, shoot fast, shoot hard, yeah. But also know that sooner or later that gun’s gonna jam up, that bullet’s gonna misfire, or some trash that ain’t worthy of the name ‘man’ is gonna get the drop on you. And when that happens…the only way you’re gonna come out on top is if there’s people who got your back.”

The regulars at the Mangy Dog had Daranikone’s back. So when yet another man with a strange look came poking around with her name on his lips and on his lisp, she made sure he found here there, in her usual spot, back to the wall and hands on her holsters.

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George and Georgia were products of the 1960s, specifically their parents’ disinclinations to embrace the counterculture. Both their parents had been adamant that their children would recieve “normal names” in maternity wards full of children named Freedom, Autumn, or Elle S. Dee. There were no “Georges” or “Georgias” further up either family tree; both parents just decided to ground their children’s names as much as they knew how short of naming them “John” and “Mary.”

The result was that they both stood out in exactly the same way.

George was the only George in his class, and he was constantly made fun of for having an “old man’s name.” Kids would mock him behind (and often in front of) his back by putting a hand on their spine and gimping about like an elder statesman. Georgia, for her part, got a similar treatment but with poor puns in the mix “Georgia, you are in such a state today,” “Georgia, you are just a peach, aren’t you?”

By the time they met in college, both had enough.

The first thing to do, naturally, was to adopt a last name that differentiated them from the pack. They did this when they got married in 1985, adopting a name that, to their ears, sounded cool but had no prior meaning or association. The next thing was to name their child something that would make them stand out in the right way–bold and distinctive, but not too common or too uncommon. It took a few years, but in 1988 their plan came to squealing life.

This was how Alexandra Quint Dragonir came to be, and how her parents wrote a check with her name that she would struggle to cash for most of her young life–until opportunity and destiny came together to the door like Mormon missionaries.

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