Moses Strongpeace lives on a diet of children's teeth dissolved in cola supplemented with his daily regimen of chemicals. He leads an active waking life but is prone to sudden and explosive bouts of bombast which leave him confused and angry. He sometimes sings like a fallen angel but more often just mumbles to himself in a tone somewhere between earnest and condescending.
He is about seven and one half feet tall and is covered head to toe in wiry hair, thick and black as molasses. His strength is great, equal to any man I have seen and this is a source of much pride to him. I have seen him wrestle a polar bear to the ground in front of her two young cubs.
He spent some years of his younger life as the self appointed ogre of a railway footbridge, spending his days avoiding trains and the cold cold nights accosting lone cyclists with a length of rubber hose filled with sand. He never managed to find a way to plug the ends of the hose so the sand invariably trickled out before the first blow was landed and his attacks were ineffectual.
He is a slave to the porno-industrial complex and will crawl over wet tissues and ground glass to see a photograph of a naked person. He is, however, terrified of real human nudity and runs screaming like a banshee from even the smallest sliver of exposed midriff. So scared is he that he must wear a seventeenth century ruffle collar to hide his own body from his inquisitive gaze.
When he does see fit to dress himself it is usually an edifying spectacle. He has a penchant for tight t-shirts emblazoned with erotic slogans and baggy trousers embroidered with images of famous combat aircraft, past and present. He clads his oversized hands in fingerless shark skin gloves and wears hollowed out hobbit feet slippers. He has an inherent distrust of pockets and keeps all his loose change in his voluminous nostrils.
How does he smell?
Terrible.
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