Flax - Last Name Unknown.
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Quote: "Ahem. If I may have the attention of the cafeteria?. Whoever stole my crunchy bagel...Doom shall befall thee, yea, and terror; Torment unto the ninth generation, destruction on all ye love and all ye may yet love. Pain everlasting shall be thy domain and none shall know it as you shall. NOW GIVE IT BACK." A few dozen millenia ago, when the Eternal Battle was just starting, a single minor incubus made a choice. He was young, and angsty, and rebelling against the system was just so cool - and when the system was pointedly The Ultimate Evil, it was also something your parents would approve of. The human ones, at least. But time moved on. In a crowd of Boardies (Which may or may not include cyborgs, tentacled monsters, anthromorphic personifications, mythological beings, and demigods), Flax's small horns and red eyes still merit attention - and occasionally gunfire from newbies who haven't been introduced yet. They also make him instantly recognizable as one of the only demonic beings serving on our side, albeit one with a love of all things corporeal - especially if they're edible. As one might expect, Flax isn't the typical demon ("Only half!") - as The Board learned long ago, to their rather confused amusement. Most demons don't cavort in bright neon pink clothes when bored, you see...nor do they organize impromptu donkey rides in the #4 Power Operations Centre (He was duly reprimanded, when the Board of Inquiry could stop laughing long enough to speak). Taking nothing seriously if he can help it, Flax has done just about every job a Boardie can do since his defection - Speculation still celebrates "Watching World Leaders In The Shower Day" every June 16th, and the Armoury has barred him from the premises at least six times. Rumours that he rules a small country in Oceania in his spare time can, of course, be firmly denied. Despite such assignment-hopping, he always returns to ground operations like an old, old pro. Mad scientists working in broody castles have woken up to find dirty limericks pasted where their Massive Death Ray Plans used to be (and immediately returned to practicing law), several dozen cults have bowed low before someone they thought was The Horned One (and found themselves commanded henceforth to open a Subway Sandwich branch), and when Bearded Fanatics meet in Dark Cellars there are tales told of a man in a leather jacket who replaces nuclear bombs with tasty foodstuffs. Usually ham sandwiches. When not enjoying himself Down There, he consults with FLEET and attempts to outguess what the guys Way Down There are planning. He's quite good at it, and loves heckling the proud-as-Hell demons you get these days. More than one arch-tempter has materialised to find a blonde figure picking just then to throw the rotten tomatoes... |
Height: 5'9"/175cm