Spore

Nicknames, I love 'em, fascinated by the psycho-social connotations of each one. Never had one, myself. A long time ago, a few friends took a stab at calling me "Ken-doll", but nobody's even tried to use that one in ten years. Guess my general demeanor and faded looks do not suggest affectionate diminutives. I take great comfort in that. But lots of my favorite people have been and/or still are heavily nicknamed. Sometimes names not of their choosing, but they are stuck with them just the same. "Hoss", because he was so HOS-pit-able, "Pima" cause of where he was residing, "Desert Dog" because he raised dogs in the desert, "Troll" 'cause well, he kinda looked like one when he was drunk. All of them assigned their monikers by a mushroom-like fellow called "Spore", because he floated on the wind without so much as a wallet and would root like mycelium on your couch.
Spore had a magic methods for procuring every drug imaginable and had few sexual boundaries. That might have helped with the whole drug procurement. His other mystical talents included the ability to give someone a nickname, sometimes seconds after meeting them, that stuck with them for life, living in comfort without a J-O-B and, oh, serious depression. He was really good at depression and describing it. So... when the inevitable happened, we had a hell of a party. Well about four parties, actually, if you count one per day.
Spore was the kind of fella that could only have been conceived in some sort of unholy three-way tryst between a wood-nymph, a fruit bat and a garden gnome. One too beautiful and grotesque for this world. When the time came to kick the smack habit, he set up a tent on the Taylor River, alone, and sicked it out for a week straight. The tent collapsed in a storm on the first night, so he wrapped himself in the nylon and brewed tea over a small fire in the rain for the next six days and nights. He came back to town so strong, so ready, then just lost it two weeks later when his cold-hearted woman gave him the boot.
One massive dose that evening and he never felt sad or empty again. The nicknames live on though, in people that shared and are destined to live out all of Spore's crazy adventures. That was our light at the end of his tunnel...
Praise be to the Flying Spaghetti Monster and His Prophet Darwin. Ramen.