LORE DROP #001: Squalino Pizzarolo

Squalino was born in a pizza box on the top rack of a Route 35 pizzeria oven. Both of his parents are large pies. Pepperoni, extra cheese. They run the lunch rush and have never once been late.

He was gifted. He read at two and did long division at four. By six, he had memorized every topping combination on the menu, including the ones nobody orders. His parents framed his report cards and hung them over the oven, and the grease got to them.

They had one plan for him: medical school. "A doctor in the family," his mother told the delivery drivers. "Not a slice. A doctor." They bought him a stethoscope for his eighth birthday. He used it to listen to the walk-in freezer.

At thirteen, he found a skateboard behind the dumpster. It had three wheels. He fixed it with a bottle cap and cheese.

That same night, he skated the kitchen floor for the first time, after close, in the dark, all grease and no brakes. He's done it every night since. The night manager mops around him.

He got the aviators the same week. He hasn't taken them off since. His parents have asked. The answer was a kickflip.

Every Sunday, his mother still leaves medical school brochures on the counter. Every Monday, they're gone. Nobody knows where they go. The crusts are missing too.

He bites only crusts. When the family asked why, he said, "The middle is for people who listen."

Current status: Not a doctor. Skating. Nothing to report.