A lucky pizza boy

What might the boy be delivering you ask? Pizza. It's at the peak of an epidemic. The first crisis of the second decade of the 21st century. We shall not name the name of such catastrophe, but none the less, He's making bank in tips.

The name's John Doe. Currently driving his only valued item in life. His 1975 Chevy Vega. It's not the prettiest thing to look at the moment. It's jean blue contrasting well with the rust that seems to only grown up from under the car. Not to mention it's a hatchback as well. If the radio wasn't on right about now, you'd hear the monster, and not in a good way. So money's definitely gotta feel good right about now.

Anyway, three small meat lover's pizzas and some cheesy bread later, John the delivery boy pull's into a driveway, 666 Salem's Street. He chuckles at the funny address and steps out of his vehicle, grabbing the freshly baked deep dishes. Lifting the bagged goods over his shoulder, like a waiter, he works his way up to the front porch enter-way. Stepping up the few stairs, to a full glass iron barded, arched double door. John rings the doorbell and waits as the chimes cheer throughout the house.

The house isn't the most stand-off thing. It blends in quite well with the rest of the cookie-cutter-styled neighborhood homes. It also has a garage with an offside front porch as the main front design. You could tell though if you looked hard enough, that the place has been gutted, inside out, and redone. Its glass front door gives a tease at the high ceilings and bright atmosphere. John's eyes wander as he spots fishnet-covered small feet pattering to the door. Eyes slowly adjusting to the equally small figure. The big door opens, and the tiny lady dressed in a gothic styled outfit now stands in plain view.

"Sup, that my pizza? Step inside, while I grab some money." the goth barks, ordering him inside.

As the submissive delivery boy is a required role, John steps in as he is told.