The Secret Origin

My story begins, as these things so often do, on a ship. My parents, my true parents, were Lord and Lady Pottering of Bunting Upon Heath. It wouldn’t surprise me if you hadn’t heard of them. Circumstances had forced the British government to abolish the title and redistribute the lands and what was left of the wealth to various titled pop stars and airline moguls, as well as handing over our home, Shatnerian, to the local Council. Today, where I should be walking its halls admiring portraits of my ancestors, it is currently housing wayward gentlewomen.

History books were afterward rewritten to remove all mentions of my family’s history. Lately in the land of my birth, there has arisen among the common people such an antipathy toward their betters, it was decided that one of the titled families would have to be sacrificed to calm the masses.

It was, I believe, randomly decided that my family would take the fall. I can’t imagine any other reason. It forced my father to abandon his well-publicised intention to reinvent Lord Baden Powell’s scouting movement, which truly has gone soft, into something with, as he put it, “a little more oomph.” The new group,The Black Shirt Boys, would be a more disciplined version of Baden-Powell’s vision. In uniforms modelled after my father’s mentor, Oswald Mosely, this new after-school group would spend its time marching about in their jack boots and handing out leaflets, written by my father, urging Britons to think about problems with the current immigration policies.

What a glorious new beginning it would have been for the youth of Britain had a soft, socialist government not taken it all away. Rather than face the prospect of being shackled in the bonds of common employment, my father and mother, who was herself great with child, registered themselves on a Cunard container ship and made their way to America. My father’s plan was to send me to Kansas where, like the mythical hero Kal-El of Krypton, I would be raised by a kindly farmer and his wife. My parents would make their way to a friend’s in Argentina and I would meet them on my 18th birthday and rejoin proper society.

It was a good plan and were it not sudden for a rare Atlantic July storm, it would have worked. The thrust of the storm forced my mother to go into early labour and I was brought into the world by the ship’s medic/purser. When the storm had subsided, the damaged ship made its way to the nearest port of call: Saint John, New Brunswick. Upon hearing the news that the ship would be undergoing repairs for a few months, my father grew combative and, here is where the story becomes murky, as I believed they were murdered but the crew claims they jumped ship.

I was placed in the hands of a kindly couple who already had three children of their own. For the rest of my life, my adopted siblings were jealous of my natual intellect and preternatural good looks.

Despite their best efforts of poison, daily beatings, and locking me in the Kenmore dryer, I survived to my thirties and made my way to the French Chinatown district of Montreal and have only recently discovered my true past. I took on a goode ladywyfe and a team of servants. Despite not having access to my family’s wealth, the servants stay on as my home has become a sanctuary of sorts where they flee religious and racial prosecution and deportation orders from Customs and Immigration. It beats paying them, that’s all I can say.

And so, I sit here in semi-exile in this frozen colony sending daily missives on what is wrong with the state of the world as well as theatrical trailers for movies I would like to see. Enjoy, and I thank you for reading this far.