Michael Carlotta

He wasn't an impressive person. There was no muscle, no charm, or even the slightest wit to make him noteworthy. He wasn't the kind of person to ride around on a white hose with shining armor concealing a less than ten percent body-fat body to save some damsel in distress. Of anything, his appearance resembled more of an over weight silicon valley intern who has seen less sunlight than a vampire, or the guy running the comics book store debating about whether Goku or Superman would win in a fight. He looked the part, but outside the world of Judge Judy or anything else he could get with an antennae from his trailer in the Mojave, he knew nothing. His once white '94 Mustang was now a mosaic of car parts from the 90's, and had there been any muscle under his 'iron keg', it was deep down. His sweat stained Seven-Eleven polo sure did a great job showing off that Sicilian gut every male member from his great grandfather down had. His hair sprouted out from his visor like a long dead potted plant, giving his inflated head the look of a sad pineapple. And he was sad. Nothing good was playing on the radio in Seven-Eleven. All pop garbage instead of the good stuff. What he would do if the radio DJ played something good like Smashing Pumpkins or Queens of the Stone Age.