Call me by your name

Even before magic came into my life I had a weird thing about names.  I have a memory of being really young and a very patient social worker asking me what my name was and then helping me pick a name.  I remember her hair smelled like strawberries.  Must have been her shampoo.

Whenever the cops or social services or whatever would scoop me up they’d want to know my name.  Sometimes they’d get mad when I said that I didn’t know.   One of them smacked me once over it.  They thought I was being “sassy”.   

Sometimes they’d put me in their paperwork as Jane Doe.  Sometimes they’d make me pick a name.  I got stubborn about it after the first time.  It made me angry to have to have a name.  I don’t know why.  I just wanted them to leave me alone. 

For some reason when the first bug-man popped out of the truck it clicked where I knew the guy that was calling me Frieda was from.  We were in foster care together.  In Ohio I think.  The foster people told me my name was Frieda.  That happened sometimes.  Sometimes the foster people would assign me a name that they liked. 

The first guy out of the truck was normal except that he had a giant spider-head.  It was way bigger than a human head.  It came out to his shoulders.  He was wearing a red and white jacket that made it 88% weirder.  Bug guy in casual jacket is worse.

The guy behind him had the decency to just be wearing sweatpants so the fact that he had giant fly-eyes, clawed bug feet, and some kind of mosquito snout was fine.  The big man who had let them out pulled a big revolver out of the front of the van and stood there with his arms crossed. 

“They’re after me” I yelled to my fellow crash victims waving like an air traffic controller “everyone head over that way and . . .”

“Randy come over here and no one else needs to get hurt!” a new voice shouted over me. 

Who the fuck is Randy?