But then his Twitter account went silent, and True began to worry.Ĭhiefs fans grew concerned, too. He was supposed to be on his way to Houston for the Chiefs- Texans game, and she wondered if his phone was broken. 16, True was back home at a Kansas City-area Costco and saw a man in a purple K-State tracksuit, who reminded her of Xaviar. She had no reason to doubt him, or any idea of the mystery surrounding his real life. He said he was close to his mom and had family in Los Angeles. He told her he graduated from Kansas State, managed warehouses and had an apartment in Chesterfield, an affluent suburb of St. She was a Kansas Citian finishing up her master's degree at Arizona State University, and Xaviar, along with Chiefs Twitter, made her feel closer to home. True, 23, with blond hair and blue eyes, didn't even know what he looked like behind the wolf mask before they met that night. He was young and successful, at least that's what he said on Twitter. On game days, he was the guy in the wolf suit, often shown on TV, who'd run around tailgates in head-to-toe gray fur, claws and a mask, firing up fans. He entertained his 40,000-plus followers with stories of a freewheeling, sports-crazed bachelor who put big bets on the Chiefs while traveling the country to support them. There, he was ChiefsAholic, one of the most famous fans in the Kingdom. They'd met through Chiefs Twitter, a community bound by devotion to its NFL team. It was just dinner and drinks between two Kansas City Chiefs fans, not a date, although now Lindsay True wonders if he thought it was.

HE PICKED HER up in a tidy red crossover hatchback with leather seats, dodging light traffic and awkward silence on a September night in Arizona.

Regular gooba