Neat idea; it would be even more interesting if we had to guess which one was the true one.
Warning: the following is extremely silly and surreal. Take precautions if necessary.
Many years ago, in a sleepy mountain village in the Pyrenees, a small child, wrapped in blankets made of alpaca fur, was abandoned by his gypsy mother on the doorstep of an elderly watchmaker. Around his neck was a locket; upon opening the locket, the watchmaker found one word inscribed - Treviathan - which he mistakenly took to be the child’s name.
Eventually, the watch market in the sleepy village dried up, due in large part that the village was so sleepy that everyone decided it was better to remain asleep than awake. Perhaps if the watchmaker had diversified to include alarm clocks in his enterprise he would have survived the economic downturn, but instead he decided to take the small child, who was now four, to start a new life in Canada. After a grueling trek across the ocean, filled with much hardship and strife, they arrived in Saskatoon; sadly, the elderly watchmaker died en route, choking to death on an odd-shaped honey-roasted peanut from one of the free bags they give you in economy class. Perhaps if they had travelled luxury things would have turned out different, but alas, the young boy was foisted harshly upon his new environment, much like a succulent lobster thrown into boiling water with a hint of garlic added for taste, except that he lacked the lobster’s exoskeleton and big menacing claws for pretection.
Yet as winter turns to summer, as night turns to day, and as baby elephants turn into much bigger elephants, with tusks and everything, so did the boy’s fortunes. Adopted by a power tool salesman and a hematology technician (jobs were much less eccentric in this strange place, the boy mused frequently), Treviathan eventually transformed himself from a Dickensian urchin, like one might find in novels by Henry Fielding, into a wimpy little brat who annoyed the piss out of his teachers because he always had to be right, no matter what. Despite his prowess at five-pin bowling and table tennis, he could find neither respect nor admiration amongst his peers; dejected, he fell into one of the most heinous addictions known to man, woman, or hermaphrodite: stamp collecting. There, the young philatelist flourished, dreaming wildly of foreign lands like Zaire and the Magyar Republic, where he might one day fit in. Hope, like the morning sun, peeked its fiery crown over the horizon of the boy’s dreams.
When Treviathan came of age, he left his adopted homeland and traversed the globe, searching for a certain je ne sais quoi, his raison d’etre, one might say. He probably should’ve gone to France, since he likely would’ve found those french phrases, and many more, like pommes frites, but instead he looked for his destiny in Auckland, New Zealand. Boarding with a Maori family, he found meagre employment working behind the counter of a seaside restaurant, dispensing pavlova to German ex-pats and dreaming leisurely about Mina, the blue-eyed lifeguard who would come by the restaurant every so often and order two 750 mL bottles of Evian water. She played his heart like a six-string Fender acoustic, black and shiny, in drop D tuning so she could hit the power chords much easier. After a turbulent two-week romance, it all ended: Mina took a job in an insurance office because the tranquil ocean surf gave her a nasty case of eczema, and Treviathan returned home to Canada, enrolled in university, and to this day still plucks fruit from the tree of experience, in the hope that one day he shall find his pineapple of happiness, without cutting himself on the prickly shards of discontent.
