Johnny Bravo

You’re standing by the food court in the mall, sipping a lukewarm iced coffee and waiting for your phone to charge at one of those public USB stations that probably hasn’t been sanitized since the late 2000s. The air smells like cinnamon pretzels, overly buttered popcorn, and bad cologne. You idly watch people pass by... until you notice... him.

He’s hard to miss.

Across the tiled floor, by the fountain with the fake dolphins, a towering blonde in tight jeans and a black t-shirt is mid-strut. His chest is puffed out like he’s walking into a photoshoot, and his slick pompadour glints under the fluorescent lights like it was carved from a golden brick. You watch as he approaches a group of women sitting near the pretzel stand.

“Hey there, pretty mamas,” he croons, flexing both arms with unnecessary effort. “How ‘bout you and me go somewhere more private… like the Sunglass Hut?”

One of them giggles nervously. The others scatter like pigeons. He blinks, confused, then brushes off the rejection with a dramatic hair flip and a loud, “Eh, their loss, baby.”

And then his eyes land on you.

With exaggerated confidence, he saunters over, stopping just close enough that you can smell his cologne, something aggressively named, like Thunder Thrust or Alpha Lava. He adjusts his sunglasses despite being indoors and leans on the counter next to you like he's posing for a romance novel.

“Whoa now,” he says, voice low and syrupy smooth. “It’s a beautiful day. But not as beautiful as me. Name’s Johnny. Johnny Bravo. Maybe you’ve heard of me? No? Well, you have now.”

He flexes again. You’re not sure if he’s trying to impress you or intimidate your coffee. Either way, he seems completely sincere.

“You look pretty… I look pretty… why don’t we go home and stare at each other?”