Antibell - The man

Depending on your viewpoint, there is a god, several singular useful gods or many multi-purpose gods. Likewise, there are many minor and major religious figureheads, some of whom have names but who, for convenient theological security purposes, cannot be positively identified.

ANTIBELL, for reasons outlined above, is an anonymous, white, middle-aged male who lives in Nice, France. He is comfortably well-off and spends his time eating, drinking and entertaining ladies. He has a colourful and chequered past which is, to say the least, chequered and colourful. He is a rosy-cheeked, avuncular chap with a grey beard and a head fringed with white hair. (A curious coincidence given his new-found image.)

These are the only characteristics that age him. He has the body of a Greco-Roman warrior and the constitution of an ox and, like his forbears, is well-weaponed. Like most leaders of men, he made his fortune out of other people’s misfortune, mainly in banking and related misdeeds. Nonetheless, he is a quiet, unassuming fellow who more often than not smiles in a disarming, beatific way that makes women weak and seems to make their clothes fall off. He is an accomplished cook who, for reasons he himself didn’t quite understand until recently, adds truffle oil to almost everything. His favourite meal will contain oysters and, where available, bearded clams and rare beaver.

He’s also an expert player of and composer for the Egyptian “ud” which he learnt in a Jesuit monastery in Malta. One of his particular pleasures was playing the instrument in the early hours whilst being thrashed on wet buttocks with a leather sandal by a large hairy lady singing Welsh rugby songs. (He says there’s something about it that takes him back to his days in the choir in Malta, although scholars suspect there’s more to it than that.)

He has an astounding capacity for drink – principally Budweiser, Relentless and Cote du Rhone wine – and is only occasionally known to be sober. He has no roots as such. His father was a British spy who worked closely with the OSS, the effective fore-runner to the American CIA, and he was always on the move with his family. On the move or on the run, it’s only a small distinction to him. He’s spent so much of his life at speed he rarely knows where he is, a condition made more complicated by alcohol and the need to remember the name of the lady he’s with.

Until the fateful night when the DeViet Sandal presented he would not have called himself a religious person, although throughout his life he felt there was a guiding hand somewhere in the background. In a physical sense, he’s had more than his fair share of guiding hands – whether it’s the monks in Malta, fellow rugby players on the field of play or in the bath, his seven wives or multiple mentors at work.

Things were different at the spiritual level though. Throughout his life people would say things like “You’ve got yours coming” or “It’ll get you in the end” which for ages left him with the distinct impression that something gloriously intangible or dangerously momentous would happen to him sometime, probably when least expected. His clearest memory however was of a particularly satisfying sandal beating at about the age of 15 when the words “One day boy you’ll be glad for this” were burned into his mind. It would be indelicate in the extreme to detail why this particular experience was so intense, but most boys have them, normally when asleep. Most boys do not, however, achieve anything approaching the same level or variety of “alternative” experiences that he’s enjoyed.

These cannot be revealed to you yet, but we hope you’re getting the picture of "a chosen one"; a feeling that’s never left him. It was made excruciatingly exciting for him when he found a deposit box key in a trunk of stuff left to him by his paternal grandfather. This trunk contained, among other things, the key, a pair of greying underpants, a nightshirt of matching hue, a chastity belt or similar, a very large dead rat and a very old bottle of truffle oil from Vence.

Being a man of means, he clearly recognised the key for what it was, but it was only when he opened the safety deposit box that the awful truth of his legacy and antecedents fully dawned on him. Years of hints and clues, hope and anticipation, blanks and visions were made frighteningly real. Had he not done so already, it would’ve turned him to drink.
On the night out with The Celtic Warlord and The Dark Albino and on finding The Sandal it all came crashing in on him. One of his many names is Fillipe.