Eater of chocolates. Devourer of beers. Starer at teen girls.
His serape: a chair cover. He has three cars in his yard, but neither of the three have wheels. He has four kids. Each of the four run around the house in underwear, and Quis doesn't know their names. He does remember his pit bull's name though: Hambali.
You would think him an immigrant-one of the disreputable kind, but he had never in his life seen the sands of Mexico, though there was a spit of the Aztec in his veins. Some people just never fit in anywhere, no matter where they go, even if he just sat there in the living room like a potted plant most of the time; he would be unhappy, and he would know, even if no one else realized his plight.
As a birthday clown, his balloon animals were always creepy, illiciting blank stares, then realizations, and everyone looking away, uneasy. He would frequently fall asleep during engagements, even amidst the noise of restless children.
As a sleeping inebriate, his belly represents a climbing obstacle for the young ones, and to balance atop the beast is the height of prowess. It has a subtle rise and fall with his horsebreaths, as he ruins air, draining the room of life-giving oxygen.