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They called it "The Legend"
they'd stake out a bar or cafe in a small town that seemed to have a small, regular clientele. Frank would arrive and order a drink. after some time establishing himself as a mysterious loner, he'd begin to tell a tale about the legend of a great guitarist. he'd talk about how this man was 100 years old, but didn't look a day over 30. how the guitarist had learned from Robert Johnson on his death bed, had taught Clapton, and had done it all while on the run from Satan himself. he'd add fantastic detail after fantastic detail to this legend of a guitarist that no one had heard of, but he'd pepper the tale with enough real facts so that it just seemed like he was building up a guy that could exist, and who could actually be really good. when this phase was done, he'd pay his tab- then decide to buy the house a round for putting up with his story, then he'd leave.

later, Joe would wander into the bar with his guitar on his back and have a seat at the bar. the people would whisper, but surely this couldn't be him- could it? he fits the description, right down to the type of drink he ordered.

eventually, some one would approach him and ask him a question- who was he? what did he play? why was he in town. He'd give short, mysterious answers, never letting on whether or not he was the Legend.

then he'd leave. man, that used to fuck them up!