I imagine Otis dwelling somewhere in the haze that separates myth and reality. Belonging to neither but embodying both, he was the bastard child of an itinerant Bible salesman and saloon singer/prostitute who entered a life of crime and perversity at the age of 12. They say he has hands like basketballs. Not just the size of basketballs, but big orange spheres at the end of each arm. His near-encephalitic head requires him to have his hats custom made.
After a stint in juvie for stealing, in no particular order, a car, a small dog, and the innocence of the girl next door, he decided to devote his life to charity but got bored with that after 6 months and managed to squeeze his way onto the roster of the Columbus Ironmen, who were at that time scraping the bottom of the barrel in the D class of minor league baseball. With Otis batting cleanup, the Ironmen stopped scraping the bottom of the barrel and started digging a hole underneath it.
Before long he was carrying in the family tradition and selling bibles door to door. Tiring of having to work on his feet, Otis recast himself as a song and dance man before realizing that would also require him to work on his feet. But by then it was too late and, having invested his life savings in a single tap shoe (he was saving up for the left one...) he had no choice but to pursue a career on stage. As a song and dance man he made a terrific bible salesman, and was soon reduced to begging on 42nd Street.
In a demoralizing turn, he was evicted from his begging spot on 42nd and demoted to 34th where he eventually discovered Koreatown and his life was forever changed.
To this day he can be seen begging for spare change in the form of 20 dollar bills, telling passers-by "please...I just need another 20 for a handjob. Can you spare 20 bucks for a man in need?"
It is said that if you haunt the fast food joints and internet cafes in the vicinity of the Empire State Building you may catch a glimpse of him, his enormous bald head under a diamond crown hat with a feather in the band, his two tone shoes gleaming in the neon glow of the city that never sleeps. secretively logging in to massageplanet to post his works of art for the voracious mongers who are his only audience.
At least that's how I imagine him.