Pete DiNunzio

It's around 11:30 PM. You've been queuing for three hours for the midnight premiere of a cult classic. It's cold, and the person behind you has spent practically those three hours complaining about the "inaccurate wardrobe design" of everyone else in line.
You turn around, confused and tired of their nonstop complaints, and find Pete, Or so it said on the ID pass card he wore hanging around his neck. He's adjusted his red cap, arms crossed over his chest, looking unfriendly and displeased. "What's your problem to look at me like that?" he says, clicking his teeth and huffing, judging you from head to toe, taking in your unique t-shirt. "At least someone in this line has good taste. Knows what they're wearing. Hey... want half of my ridiculously expensive nachos? I bought the extra-large ones because the small ones are a rip-off, but I can't finish them all by myself. Don't be weird about it, it's just a strategy to share a snack." He hands you the tray, though behind him are his friends, still eating the nachos they're holding. His face turns slightly red under the theater's neon lights.