Davon/Omar Messenger

Davon was also a mud-color darkskin prettyboy with teeth like a skeleton and lips made for kissing buttflaps. He was a jubilous talkalot who pretended to pal with people like a pushy puppy. Already he be pimping palms with honkies and addressing ’em like he knew ’em. “There you is, welcome back! Love to see ya, sohn! You keepin’ it real… Scott.” He got they names off they idees as he checked ’em, but he pretended he remembered ’em. In return, they all pretended to be charmed by him. Thumper done hung out with farts that was more interesting than that nothing-muffin. His forgettable six-pack and baby-clean name-brand jeans stretched a teaspoon of charismatic gravy over two hundred fifty pounds of that nigga’s salisbury steak. If niggas was books, Davon’d be a romance novel fulla correctly spelled words. Davon was a sea of smiles and dimples, the velveeta of niggas, like a cushion and a cloud didn’t bake a cake, and that cake was sugar-free, fat-free, declawed, defanged and stuffed with puffs of nothingness. That nigga gladhanded every one them no-hoot pecker-toters who lined up to exercise they stiffies in Lipsweet.

From Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Davon wore a lor band-aid on his cheekbones. Nigga musta got a rainbow of band-aids cuz he steady wore one to match the drawers he displayed under his sagging jeans — Mr. Gregarian was mad on the “trousers” trip and curled his lip at sagging, but Davon could smile through any of Mr. Gregarian’s tut-tuts. So Davon rumped pink drawers tonight and a pink band-aid to match. Thumper ain’t even got the words to call that out.
Davon, who showed up like a smooth sac of pointless dimples, smiling at everything but responding to nothing, like he ran outta reality, looking like a charred koala bear, shit, he just sat there, like a boatload of cuteness collided with a glacier of too-good-for-this and went down in a sea of swooning females. He got on a shiny shirt with like Chinese letters or some shit all over it, like Davon was too handsome for the English alphabet. He wore a white band-aid on his cheek too. As if he’d ever risk letting his cheekbone get cut.

From Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Frowning was hard for Davon, this smile-a-minute fluffernutter man, the kinda muscle-bound plasticy stack of dimples who young women went crazy for and older men want to strangle.

From Max the Beach Bum

Tonight working the door was Davon. Simon’s eyes kept getting drawn to him because he had a big jolly grin and a rambunctious laugh, and he wore very colorful clothes for a bouncer — a lime green doo rag, matching shirt with Japanese lettering and even a tiny band-aid over a scar on his left cheek that was also the same lime green color. He always wore a color-coordinated outfit, including that mini-band-aid. The other bouncers and Simon’s dad hated it.
Nobody could deny that Davon was correct though: girlies loved it. Girls threw themselves after him. It was the dimples, Simon thought. Girls went mad for dimples. They were handsome, he had to admit, he enjoyed looking at a man with dimples. But they weren’t that special. Lots of guys had dimples.
They didn’t make a guy cute, trustworthy or nice. That was what Simon had deduced over the years. Dimples overwhelmed other shortcomings. His friend Kendra had dated a guy for months, only to admit after they broke up that he had been a jerk who stole from her and hit on her mother — he had seemed nice at heart, she said, because he had dimples. She assumed his kind soul would eventually reveal itself.
He tried not to stare at Davon, but it was hard to avoid. He didn’t want to look at the girls, after all. Davon was thick and powerful, and so big he had to duck to get into the building. His arms bulged. His smile was infectious, his dimples so deep you could fall in. He had a laugh that just made you want to laugh along with him, even if you hadn’t heard the joke.
Davon was perfectly smooth and symmetrical, except for that scar on his cheek covered up by the color-coordinated band-aid. He must reapply that after every shower. And he must have them in every color, since he changed it every day to match his outfit.

From Simon and the Bouncers