I found out today that there is a Timothy J Walsh living within two miles of me here in Purgatory. I don't know him, nor do I care to meet him. In fact, I may have to snuff him if I ever have the displeasure of making his aquaintance. Ain't nobody allowed to walk the streets with my name! Next thing you know I'll be wrapped up in an alternate reality the likes of "The Big Lebowski," where some nihilist pisses on my rug, or I'll start looking like Harvey Pekar or worse--feeling like Harvey Pekar.
There is a gentleman with the same name as Pop Dukes within six blocks of the QV Mo Headquarters. They do not share the same middle initial but share the same taste in naming their brood. That George Walsh named his son James, the same name as The Bastard (aka El Capitan Del Bastards). I don't think they have same middle initial either, so no big deal.
Point is this, if you happen to open up a newspaper someday and read that a man named Timothy J Walsh was murdered in Cape Coral, Fl., don't be alarmed, I'll still be treading heavily on this rock. However, I'll probably be on the run, because I'm the one who done killed that faux-motherfucker.