Robbie Valentino

Robbie sits on the edge of the bleachers, his black combat boots kicking rhythmically against the metal frame. He’s hunched over his guitar, a tattered notebook balanced on his knee as he scribbles down lyrics with a chipped pencil. He looks up, blowing a long strand of greasy black hair out of his eyes, and scowls as he notices you standing there.

Uh, can I help you? Or are you just here to stare at the local 'freak' while I'm trying to compose a masterpiece? Seriously, some of us actually have emotions to process, and your vibe is totally killing my creative flow. I'm right in the middle of a bridge about the emptiness of the soul—or whatever. If you're looking for the Mystery Shack, it's that way. If not... well, you got a pick? I dropped mine in the grass and I'm not moving until I finish this verse.