This is Part 2 of my ongoing series of investigating a cult of personality. Part 1 described a retired Marine that became a Space-A hobo in the passenger terminal and stood inches in front of the TV watching C-SPAN. Now we take you to small-town Italy, where you’ll meet another interesting character.
If you hang out long enough in the Italian town in which I live, you will notice an enigma… a personality that only comes out at night, and only visits places that pilots frequent. Tall, dark and “handsome” only scratch the surface to this guy; he can easily challenge the title of Dos Equis’ Most Interesting Man in the World. His trademarks: a cowboy hat with long, streaming locks of hair, one-each issued military flying jacket with patches that would best Tom Kazansky (at right), and Shit Kickers that would make every red-blooded Texan envious. He has no name… he is known only as “The Legend.”
No one knows where he’s from or where he works… either he just loves Air Force pilots, or he’s earning a pretty hefty paycheck from the Chinese government. He is a regular at our bars and has befriended all the single guys (’cause lets face it: they’re the ones that frequent the bars the most). The few times I can escape the house, I’ve tried talking with him and found that he is a man of few words. He just likes to observe… be the wall flower. But what he lacks in talking, he apparently makes up for in execution.
The single guys tell me he’s a better sidekick than the Boy Wonder was to Batman! He’s been their designated driver to the strip clubs and back, he’s watched over them when they’ve had too much to drink, and he’s visited Air Force events along with all the Italian dignitaries. When called upon, The Legend even participates in our juvenile, frat-boy games and traditions.
Ingredients include: a victim in a deep sleep, a key to said victim’s bedroom, and a bottle of some combustable concoction… though not mandatory, the use of a shot glass is only icing on the cake.
Instructions: find a friend that’s fast asleep, and with silent, drunken precision, sneak into their bedroom. Wait until said friend is least suspecting and with eccentric bravado, spring the lights on them and bellow out a loud and pompous “SLEEP SHOT” while handing them the bottle of grain alcohol (or the shot glass filled with it, if you had the foresight). Continue to harass said friend until they partake in the grand tradition. Once the concoction is downed, leave the room without scruples and continue to search for another unsuspecting friend to spring the tradition upon. It’s all the rage, from what I hear.
Anyhow, The Legend was goaded into doing just that. I followed him into the room of one of my fellow single friends, and I hear an Italian-accented (and rather shy) “sleep shot”… and at that point, I went home content. For being a married guy, I just saw the elusive Bigfoot in his natural habitat.
Ladies and gentlemen: The Legend!