'Ten Minutes Late for Reality' by Lou Morris (c) 1988, 1989, 1991, 2002, 2015. Seven:

Seven:

   "This is a true story.  It's just categorized under
fiction because no one else believes me..."

                                 - Lou Morris--the slightly  
                                  strange author.


   "You want to what?" a Bucks County clerk asked him,
incredulous.
   "I want to change my name to 'Your Name Here,'" Tim
Restle repeated in an annoyed tone.
   "Your Name Here," the clerk repeated with disbelief.
   "Yes," Tim agreed curtly.
   "Why?!" the clerk blurted, throwing his hands into the
air.
   "None of your business," Tim stated testily, leaning
forward in his chair.  "Just do it," he added sternly.
   "What if I won't?!" the Cassville clerk replied
hostilely, slamming his hand down onto his flimsy pasteboard
desk.  The desk quivered with the extra weight.
   Tim leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs
casually.  He imagined the clerk being run over by two
hundred and thirty-four tractor-trailer trucks.  He smiled a
half-ass smile.
   "What are you gonna do, Timmy?" the clerk sneered.  "Kill
me?" he suggested sarcastically.
   Good idea, Tim mused.
   "Or how about burning down this municipal building?" the
clerk added, waving his arms about the small office.
   Better idea, Tim thought.
   "No, no," said the clerk, shaking his head sarcastically,
"That's not good enough...  How about burning down my dad's
amusement park?  That's it!  That's what you're going to do
to me!  You're gonna burn down Death Adventure!"
   Huh? Tim thought.  "Your father owns Death Adventure?" he  
asked quizzically.
   "Yeah, so--"
   "Why don't you work there?" Tim asked, genuinely
interested.
   "Are you nuts?!" the clerk replied, "Only scum and
dirtbags with no future work there."
   Tim frowned.  He had been thinking of getting a job
there; he needed money after being prematurely discharged
from the Air Force.  Of course, that had been before he
conceived his current scheme.
   "Well, anyway..." the clerk continued, "there is nothing
you can do to make me legally change your name."
   "Nothing?" Tim asked with a smile.
   "Nothing!"
   "Okay," Tim chirped.  He got up to leave then turned to
ask one more question, "By the way, do you have a knife or a
razor blade on you?"
   "Why?  What do you need a knife for?"
   "Oh, nothing," Tim replied with a smirk, "I just need
something to slit the tires on your new Buick Grand National
sitting out in the parking lot.  That's all."  He turned to
leave.
   The clerk slammed his fist down on the desk and glared at
Tim.  The desk collapsed in a heap of splintered wood and
jumbled papers.  "Wait," he said, knee deep in trash.
   Tim turned back expectantly.
   "What was that name again?" the clerk asked through a
forced smile.


   And so, Your Name Here/Tim Restle strode into Money-Hut,
a newly revamped pizza parlor turned into Jackson's newest
bank, tightly gripping a letter from the host of the "Last
Night Show."  It contained normally useless information from
the Publisher's Cleaning House Corporation.
   Stained glass windows does not a bank make.  Neither does
beaded entrance-ways.
   He stood beside a sign that read, "Please wait to be
seated," and waited.
   "Do you have a reservation, sir?" a nicely dressed
Italian hostess asked politely.
   "Uh, no," Your Name Here replied.  Reservations? he
thought.  For a bank?
   "Hmn..."  The hostess scanned the reservation book, deep
in thought.  "I think we can squeeze you in, sir."
   Tim looked around.  The place was quite empty.
   "Is that a teller window for one, sir?" she asked,
grabbing a red menu from the side of her desk.
   He nodded.
   "Follow me, sir."
   He followed.
   She led him to the nearest teller window and then
outstretched her hand.  "Ahem," she added.
   Your Name Here slapped her five then turned to the
teller/waitress in the window.
   "Hi!" the cheerful teller bubbled, "Welcome to the
Cassville branch of the Money Hut!"  She smiled with over
enthusiasm.
   "Yeah, hi," Your Name Here replied with under enthusiasm.
   "My name is Laurie and I'll be your teller for this
transaction."  She pulled a pad of guest checks from her red
and white checkered apron.
   If she makes me order pizza, I'll kill her, Your Name
Here thought.
   "May I take your order?" she chirped, extracting a pencil
from her feathered blonde hair.
   "I'd like to cash a check--"
   "One check cashing!" Laurie yelled over her shoulder.  
"Anything else, sir?" she smiled.
   He shook his head then pulled out a check from the letter
he held in his hand.  He handed her the check.
   "Hmn..." she murmured as she took the check and looked it
over.  "Uh, sir?"
   "Yes?"
   "Uh, this check is for ten million dollars..."
   "I realize that," Your Name Here stated.
   "But it's made out to 'Your Name Here,'" she added with a
frown.
   "That's me," Your Name Here added.
   "Huh?" Laurie said intelligently.
   "That's my name," Your Name Here attempted to explain,
"My name is 'Your Name Here.'"
   "But..." Laurie added.
   "See..."  He pointed at a paragraph from a crumpled form
that he pulled from his pocket.  "It states, and I quote:  
"To whom it may actually concern, that here after and other
legal bull-doohickeys and such that now let it be known that
his name is now and will forever be Your Name Here.""
   Laurie frowned.  What the hell is this guy talking about?  
"Hey, Freddie!" she called into the back room.  "Come 'ere!"
   A bank manager walked from the back room, wearing a
conservative gray suit and an apron.
   I don't believe this, Your Name Here thought.  The bank
manager is wearing an apron with tomato stains on it.
   The pizza manager glanced at the check then at Your Name
Here.  "Cash it," he mumbled then coughed.
   "But..." Laurie said.
   "It ain't our money."  The pizza man walked back into the
rear area.
   "Okay..."  Laurie shook her head.  "But, wait a second!  
We don't have that much money--"
   "Give 'em a checking book account," coughed the manager
through the back doorway.
   Your Name Here did a double take of the manager's newly
donned puffy white chef's hat.
   Laurie tapped Your Name Here on the shoulder.  "Your      
checkbook, sir," she said, handing him a shiny black cultured
leather checkbook.
   His mind snapped.  I got the money! he thought, I got the
money!  "I got the money," he told Laurie.  "I got the
money," he told the man twirling pizza dough in the air.  "I
got the money," he told himself.
   "Oh, sir..." Laurie added, "would you like a pizza?"
   He was in too good a mood to kill her.