Growing up poor and alone in the streets leaves one with little to do and little to work with. This left our hero with little choice but to learn a skill, something to put food on the proverbial cardboard box serving as a table. At the young age of 46 our youthful hero discovered his calling, he found amid a heap of trash behind the dumpster on 25th street next to Tony’s Somewhat-culturally-insensitive Pizzaria an instrument like he had never seen before. Gleaming in the pale moonlight, quiet promises of riches reflected off the grease. Our young and more than slightly inebriated hero took to flute like none before him. His fingers played a light dance over its length, coaxing out sounds like none other. Mellow lows gave way to whining highs, the tune speeding up to a fevered pitch as it reached its climax. He had truly found his calling and the public embraced him for it, showered him in riches beyond his dreams.
It was not to last, though, as one day a passerby informed him that he was playing a normal, mundane flute. Dreams of playing in the skinflute threesome crushed, our hero laid low his instrument never to play sweet tunes again. Such was the fall of the skinflute virtuoso.
And at some point he discovered God or something, I dunno.