It all started when he was just a wee Fendling, though he did not yet possess a name at the time. His mother, a good, hardworking woman, was attempting to give him his first bottle of milk. However, the little bouncing baby would just giggle, snatch the bottle from her hands, and place it on his head, for surely it was a new kind of hat. His mother speedily realized that this baby was at least eighty, nay, ninety percent nub. The mother had no children before, and despite always putting her full effort into everything she did, she knew she was not experienced enough to safely raise a child of such nubbiness. And so, she gathered up a woven cradle, tucked the giggling, bottle-hat-wearing baby within, and covered him with his favorite blankie. Then she taped a note to the side: To the owner of this establishment, This is my most precious and youngest child. It pains me to give him up, but I am not wise enough nor am I strong enough to raise him. He is afflicted with one of the worst cases of the nubs that I have ever seen, and I fear that he shall perish swiftly in my care. Thus, I bestow him upon your doorstep in hopes that you may successfully raise him with whatever wisdom you may possess. The path may be long, and it may be hard, but I hope to one day see my child, my little nub-biscuit, rise to the ranks of the greatest leaders our world as known. You have done me a great service on this day. Perhaps one day I shall return to this place and see what has become of my precious one. Many thanks, -Krysyy The mother smiled as she read her letter, especially pleased with how she had managed to omit her surname so that she could not be tracked down. Then she plucked up the basket and flew to the strange and mysterious place known as New York, where she dropped her child on the first doorstep she found: the doorstep of the New York City Fire Department. As she turned away, her eyes came to rest on the initials on the side of one of the gleaming red trucks: F. D. N. Y. FDNY. If she said it out loud, it almost sounded cute, like Fendy. Suddenly struck by inspiration, she gave her child one last gift: a name. The mother reached down and added a note to the bottom of her letter. P. S. The baby's name is Fendy. Keep him safe for me, please. As she left the baby, who had fallen asleep in his basket, a single tear rolled down her cheek. The firemen would always assume that the name of the child came only from the abbreviation of their department: FDNY. But she and she alone would always know that a small piece of her named her child Fendy because from this point on, her dearest possession would have to fend for itself. Overcome by a wave of regret, she drove onward. Meanwhile, a firefighter opened the door and found the baby that had been left on his doorstep. The fireman smiled in sympathy as the baby awoke and began to cry, beating the sides of his basket with tiny green fists. The fireman reached down, picked up the baby, and took him inside. The door swung gently shut behind them. And so began the life of Fendy, a nub from the start. EDIT: And THIS is going in writer's corner right now.
How nice of you to remind us, it seems that poor guy is still waiting for name changes to happen and unaware of the recent changes: Not to worry: Shell to the rescue!
