“Myron” was his mother’s idea.

A loving mother in all other regards she surely was, but when it came to the naming of poor Myron, she inflicted a curse of a thousand schoolyard cuts and a dim future in bookkeeping, accountancy, insurance, or possibly even the exciting world of library science (far be it from me to ever denigrate the positive aspects of a career in library science, but for poor Myron, it was a nightmare scenario matched only by the thought of living with a name like Myron, a curse which he already bore).

A slight lad of shallow chest, weak eyesight, and the knobbiest of knees, he was an ambulatory example of the word “akimbo.” Not even significant enough a presence to be the object of his peers’ jokes, Myron made little impression upon anyone who crossed his path - encounters that generally passed without young Myron’s notice, as his nose (and the rest of his face) was generally planted firmly within the pages of a book. These books could be on topics ranging from Physics to Poe, Philosophy to Spider-Man - it mattered not to Myron, who devoured them all with equal enthusiasm.

Still, being a wraithlike presence in the world of baseball and soccer and school dances gnawed at Myron and his desire to belong - a desire shared by all children the world over, especially the ones saddled with a name like Myron by mothers who claimed to love them.

What Myron could not imagine, though, was that FATE had a far different plan in store for young Myron T. Criswell, which did not have anything to do with insurance, or accountancy, or even library science. Myron was duly slated to become something far more than that, and it all started the day an alien killed his cat.

To Be Continued ?????