Badger Buckman: 1st wave
His name was Ted Buckman. His full, and unfortunate, name was Ted Badger Buckman. Ted’s parents had been walking in the woods when his mother collapsed and spontaneously gave birth to him. Before she slipped into permanent unconsciousness her final whisper to Ted’s father was that she could see the badger, the badger up on the mound in the trees, watching over. That this badger was sacred, and that her baby must be called badger. Her final message, her final request. Ted’s father couldn’t bring himself to hinder his son’s life by naming him Badger Buckman. So instead pushed it to the middle name, where it could be hidden, buried. It was not the premature death of his wife that led Ted’s father to drink himself to death so rapidly. It was that he had dishonoured his wife’s final wish.
So Ted grew up without any sort of family, and only knowing the sparsest of details about his parents, which were of course only bad bits.
Ted loathed himself for letting himself get gripped by alcoholism.
“Idiot.” He said, stumbling home from a bar. “So predictable. You predicatable fucky fuck face.”
He lived in Fursty Spring State, which was actually a tiny, bleak town in the middle of nowhere. Archaic and backwards in many ways. It had been his uncle that had raised him, for a few years, in his younger days. A scatty journeyman boxer that really did care about Ted. Gambling debts forced him to flee far north to Wiccy Mashatuusuts, a place more remote and desolate than Fursty.