Nominative Determinism

I've yet to meet a Miss Baker who turns out splendid cakes or a Mr Plummer who can fix a leak in a trice but I have always been fascinated by nominative determinism. You know, the phenomenon whereby a person's name fits their chosen path in life. So when a perfectly fabulous name crossed my path yesterday I knew he had to be the subject of a piece of fiction.

So here is a short piece about a character named Dangerous!

I tried so hard not to roll my eyes as the five millionth person asked the same question.
'So, are you strong and dangerous?'
This was the question everyone I had ever met had asked me and as I had done every time I was asked it I cursed my stupid family for landing me with the name Armstrong Dangerous.
If you're being picky about it I'm Armstrong Dangerous III but as I'm not from Miami I don't use the numbers. In the Midlands if you were to use numbers at the end of your name you'd spend the whole time explaining away the Chinese Burn marks or pulling your underwear from your arse. So I leave that part out until I know someone well enough for them not to snigger when saying my name.
Why my father decided to stick me with a name that had cursed his childhood years I have no idea. Maybe he thought as he'd had to suffer so should his eldest child. Yes, that's right. Even if I'd had the good fortune to be born a girl he was planning to land me with Armstrong. Possibly as a middle name according to my mother but I'm not sure I believe her. After all, she didn't stand up to him when he decided that I was to be called Armstrong without even a middle name to fall back on.
Anyway, back to the story.
I failed to avoid rolling my eyes and I think I even sighed dramatically when the hulking new boy asked if my name really was Armstrong Dangerous. I managed to get the first two syllables of my standard explanation out before his massive right fist forced all  the air out of my lungs and dropped me to my knees. I sucked air in, wiped the tears from my eyes and looked up into his lard face.
'Loser! My baby sister is more dangerous than you.'
He pushed an open ham hand onto my forehead and applied enough pressure to knock me onto my back. I lay on the grass, winded and humiliated and listened to the laughter. Another day, another set of bruises. Being called Dangerous is no fun when you aren't.


So there he is, my new friend Armstrong Dangerous, laying in the dirt and wishing he was called John Smith. I wonder is there are other adventures I can take him on?