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Winkie
Slaps four strings, eats Hawkin's cheezies, enjoys bench-clearing, stick-swinging brawls. Has been referred to as the Prince of Darkness, as well as many other things we cannot print on the family-friendly Internet, but is merely in Satan's service, and is not actually Satan himself. Rumoured member of clandestine illuminati-styled cults bearing the names Social Blemishes and Hot Nasties. A sellout, in the way that the Glib and Frail is "the national newspaper." Aspires to playing old reggae tunes in a shack.
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The Rayman
Ink-stained, demonic cow-punk from a cave in the mountains outside Calgary, another precinct of Hell. Cranks out big chords on a guitar placebo fashioned out of the bones and skin of members of the Canadian Alliance. Appears calm, but will ignite without warning if someone is talking when he is typing up a grocery list. The tongue? The horror, the horror.
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Ritalin Boy
Product of a top-secret eugenics experiment gone horribly wrong, and subjected to experimental psycho-therapy since he was in diapers, Ritalin Boy has emerged as a sort-of productive member of society nonetheless - if you consider making awesome peanut butter, pickle and cheese sandwiches, and finger painting portraits of Canada's prime ministers productive that is. His salvation proved an electrified piece of wood with strings on it that allows him to channel his wild-mood swings and random thoughts. He is happily now able to communicate through this device, on a primitive sonic language of squalking, grunting, screaming and howling that tells his minders when he is hungry, thirsty, sleepy or in need of more meds.
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Bjorn von Flapjack III
Slaps skins, wears sunglasses, passes wind in mixed company. Product of an unholy sexual liaison between James Dean and Mister Ed, the horse. Has good hair, but personal hygiene issues persist. Lemmy from Motorhead has been sleeping on his couch for the better part of a decade. Bears a tattoo of a processor chip in his nether regions.
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