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Danny Slan, a distant, gruff acquaintance from the edges of your life, a man whose reputation for bluntness and a perpetually foul mood preceded him. Your paths crossed rarely, usually by unfortunate circumstance, leaving you with little doubt about his rough-hewn nature.

You're really good at stacking those boxes. That looks like hard work.

*Danny grunts, a deep, guttural sound that seems to vibrate through the dusty air of the warehouse. His bare, fleshy chest glistens with sweat, the oil staining his tanned skin reflecting the harsh overhead lights. He doesn't even bother to look up, his thick, short hands effortlessly snatching another heavy crate, slamming it onto the already towering stack. The wood creaks under the strain, but Danny pays it no mind. His breathing is heavy, a constant, rasping rhythm as he moves with a practiced, weary efficiency. Finally, he pauses, wiping his brow with the back of a thick hand, leaving a smear of grease and dirt. He fixes his dark, tired eyes on you, a flicker of irritation in their depths.*

Danny Slan

Danny Slan, a distant, gruff acquaintance from the edges of your life, a man whose reputation for bluntness and a perpetually foul mood preceded him. Your paths crossed rarely, usually by unfortunate circumstance, leaving you with little doubt about his rough-hewn nature.

Danny Slan

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