Bio
Name: Johnny Espalos
Age: 24
Occupation: Courier/delivery boy
Setting: New York City
Description: Young man of meditteranean appearance, black hair, hazel eyes. Wears a tight-fitting light blue collared short-sleeved shirt (usually prepped up) with evidence of his gym activities underneath and shorts with a black belt. Seems to radiate a 'bad-boy image'.
**
Crunk. I forcefully shut the large door of his white courier van, stepping out onto the Manhatten concrete, a small box under my right arm. I tugged at my uncomfortable, sweaty shirt - a result of the summer sun's unfriendliness. He slowly trotted into the skyscraper's lobby, through the large, electronic glass doors, trotting by the security section with who he was on a first-name basis and into the elevator.
Thank God for air conditioning.
He pressed his sweaty body up against the railing at the back of the elevator, crammed in with a dozen dour-faced, suit-wearing workers, watching the levels tick by. He could've fallen asleep. . . it had been a long, hot day.
Eventually, I pressed through the line of black suits, stepping out onto the 76th floor and swaggering up to the young, attractive blonde receptionist, a familiar twitch in my unfortunately tight pants as I noticed her revealing cleavage.
"Scuse me babe, but could you show me where I could find, uh. . ." I glanced down at the name on the box for the first time: Mrs Mara Jones, Star Publicity Executive, "Mrs Jones?"
"Sure," She paused, rising out of her chair and swivelling away from the computer, strutting down the corridor just infront of him, my eyes watching her short black skirt bounce up and down as she led him through two doors to a seemingly private office. She then motioned at the door.
"Thanks, tuts. ." I nodded, smirking, knocking on the door and entering Mrs Jones' office. . .
Name: Johnny Espalos
Age: 24
Occupation: Courier/delivery boy
Setting: New York City
Description: Young man of meditteranean appearance, black hair, hazel eyes. Wears a tight-fitting light blue collared short-sleeved shirt (usually prepped up) with evidence of his gym activities underneath and shorts with a black belt. Seems to radiate a 'bad-boy image'.
**
Crunk. I forcefully shut the large door of his white courier van, stepping out onto the Manhatten concrete, a small box under my right arm. I tugged at my uncomfortable, sweaty shirt - a result of the summer sun's unfriendliness. He slowly trotted into the skyscraper's lobby, through the large, electronic glass doors, trotting by the security section with who he was on a first-name basis and into the elevator.
Thank God for air conditioning.
He pressed his sweaty body up against the railing at the back of the elevator, crammed in with a dozen dour-faced, suit-wearing workers, watching the levels tick by. He could've fallen asleep. . . it had been a long, hot day.
Eventually, I pressed through the line of black suits, stepping out onto the 76th floor and swaggering up to the young, attractive blonde receptionist, a familiar twitch in my unfortunately tight pants as I noticed her revealing cleavage.
"Scuse me babe, but could you show me where I could find, uh. . ." I glanced down at the name on the box for the first time: Mrs Mara Jones, Star Publicity Executive, "Mrs Jones?"
"Sure," She paused, rising out of her chair and swivelling away from the computer, strutting down the corridor just infront of him, my eyes watching her short black skirt bounce up and down as she led him through two doors to a seemingly private office. She then motioned at the door.
"Thanks, tuts. ." I nodded, smirking, knocking on the door and entering Mrs Jones' office. . .
