I knew a guy from Staten Island once. Randy, his name was.
Short, scrawny little twig of a man, with half-baked perpetually stoned aspirations of both headlining a band and being some sort of vaguely-defined political rabble-rouser. You know the type.
Randy had a lot to say---get him on a political harangue and he'd be expounding his loosely-delineated ideas for hours---but never seemed to do a lot to make any of it manifest.
Well, he eventually made up his mind to brush off the dust of this sleepy little town and make something of himself, did Old Randy.
A short stint in Army basic training ended as abruptly as it started with an honorable discharge when he accidentally---near as we could ever figure---shot himself straight through the leg while polishing off Ole' Thunderstick (that's not what he called his rifle, it's what I'm calling it for flavor).
Thus ended Randy's brief blaze of adventure. Nowadays ye can still find him, hanging around Colebrook's Bar like he lives there, sucking down beers like he needs 'em to breathe, filling the air with the same old opinions, as vague as they are loud.