It's Difficult to Be a Legend

It's difficult to be a legend. Ask anyone who has ever become one. The vast majority of them are dead, of course, which is not difficult. Being dead, that is. You just burn all your energy and return to the earth and the stars and the sky. Molecules, atoms, that sort of thing. Cosmic dust.

No, the hard part is living up to expectations. Being who others think you are. This doesn't apply only to legends, either. Most everyone is susceptible.

Also hard: waking up and having words flow like so much coffee. The mind turns in on itself and...

“We need dialog here, stat!” He wore a pink tuxedo and a cowboy hat, was shouting through a megaphone or a bullhorn. What's the difference between those two objects anyway? Or are they simply two distinct names for the same thing?

“I'm working on it!” She scrambled through her papers to see if any contained words she might speak in a dramatic fashion. No luck. All she had were lists. They held meaning to her but wouldn't necessarily translate into something interesting for an actual audience, real or imagined.

“This is terrible!” he cried, curious at his own screaming. Would he really use an exclamation mark here or would a period suffice? He remembered the pink tuxedo and decided that the exclamation mark was appropriate. There was nothing subtle about his dress. Why should his speech be any different?

She had no papers left to check. He had no words to back his tuxedo. They exchanged glances that were doubtless meaningful in some obscure way. They would have to improvise, which is something neither of them knew how to do.

He made a pouty face. She stuck out her tongue. Speech had ceased, death was near.

Legends, indeed.