Tuffy hates his real name: Vilas Hocksnot.
How could parents name a child that? It’s like naming
him Adolf Hitler, that insidious devil. In grade school
kids brand him Vile Ass Fuckshit. He feels like
a two-legged obscenity. He vows to change his name
when he turns eighteen. He obsesses for years
and settles on Douglas Samuel: two first
names or two last names together—take your pick.
Not a one and one, like Vilas Hocksnot or Adolf Hitler.
Nothing definitive. Just another Joe Blow punching
his time card at the bottle factory,
where he stacks boxes of bottles on pallets
to the gripes of the barrel-bellied foreman,
Dick Head. Son, you’re slower than a bad fuck
who thinks he’s good. Good fuck’s worked there
ten years. He’s bored with his legal name and invents
his new one, Tuffy Balboa III, for his friends. Two:
Miranda Moffett and Harry Sears. Tuffy vows them
to secrecy. It’s an honor for you to know my true
name, he explains in ignorant arrogance.
Feels it’s silly, but life’s silly, he knows.
Doesn’t tell his wife, Bev. She wouldn’t get it.
Miranda and Harry do: underneath that scarred
face and Spock eyebrows is a panda bear.
They like the irony. He’s a walking irony,
Tuffy Balboa III, he is.