Faldo Hitler knew he was dead before the bullet hit him. He’d been dead for years. Numb inside. Totally devoid of emotion, feeling or desire. He’d been a vacant being really since birth but most certainly by the time he realised he was named after one of the vilest and heartless leaders the world has seen. Years of persecution and ridicule followed. His name brought torment and ostracisation at school, work, in fact, everywhere he went. No one wanted to befriend a known manipulator, a killer, even though he himelf was none of these things. His life was guilt by association. He had distanced himself from his parents as early as possible. He figured that anyone who had the perverse sense of humour to call their first born after a tyrant was as mixed up as the anagram they used for his name. But not even a smidgen funny. There was nothing funny about being trapped by a name. He had pitied his parents for a while but that soon turned to hate, as they showed no mercy in what they had done. They never came to young Faldo’s defence, not once! He was alone in the world, and so when he saw the bullet coming he embraced it knowing that freedom followed.