Reggie lives a party lifestyle – but not a glamorous one. While some of his Goanna kin enjoy a charmed high-society existence, Reggie’s more likely to brown-paper-bag it — not just to cover up his King Cobras but to huff the fumes of whatever paint or gasoline is within reach. He hangs with winos and bums; and more often than not, he ends his nights alone and passed out in a ditch somewhere.
How he got this way is hazy, in large part because of the memory loss he’s inflicted on himself. But he knows he’s destined for better things, if he can only pull himself out of his self-destructive spiral and get back to the one thing he does best: playing the rusted trumpet he carries with him in a battered case everywhere he goes…