Unexpected Turns: What's in a Name?

Albin Heath wanted to change his name. He had several suggestions in mind, but his parents wouldn't even consider them.

"How about Chicken?"

"Definitely not."

"Superpotato?"

"Change the subject will you Albin!"

Albin slouched from the room, scuffing his socks on the carpet. He shut the door just hard enough to make a sound like a slam but not hard enough to have his Dad after him.

"Albin!"

"I didn't slam it!"

"Well it sounded like a slam!"

"It wasn't!"

Albin's bedroom was a living wilderness. Every thing he owned, and every container for every thing he owned, was there on public display, should the public ever wish to see it. All his clothes lay on the floor. All his sports gear lay on the floor. All the dust of the past month lay on the floor. It was the best place for it because once dust hit the floor it really couldn't fall any further.

"Where is it?" said Albin, pulling a pile of clothes aside. He dug up a typewriter and balanced it on a mound of shoes. The electric lead was tangled into a knot, along with some socks and a bundle of wool, all together in one knot. Albin carefully pulled at the lead and the socks until the plug came in sight. This he pushed into the wall socket which he found under a pile of newspapers.

"I need a new name," he said.

He tried pressing his fingers at random into the keys to see what kind of word he got by accident. The result was unpronounceable. He hit the keys with his elbow. Still nothing useful.

"There must be a million million good names in this thing!" said Albin. He stabbed at the keys with his thumbs for a while, with his eyes shut, then he looked around. On the floor beside his bed was a small, plastic container. He reached over and picked it up.

"Maybe Cocky has a better idea?" he said, unscrewing