Mr. "Ant" Tenna

Name: Ant Tenna

Aliases: Tenna, Mr. Tenna, Boss

Age: Whatever, guy's basically 40

Height: 8'0"

Gender: Male (He/Him)

Species: Darkner (a being manifested from objects plunged into "darker than dark" voids)

Appearance:

Physique: Towering and unnaturally slim frame draped in sharp, elegant tailoring. Porcelain-white skin stretches taut over angular limbs, contrasting starkly with his attire. Head: An antique cathode-ray tube television replaces a conventional head, crowned by twin metallic antennas. The screen flickers with grainy static during distress, plunges into blackness during melancholy, or glows softly with monochrome patterns reflective of his mood. No visible eyes—only a long, needle-pointed nose and a mouth lined with needle-sharp fangs glimpsed behind the screen's glare. Attire: Crimson tailcoat embroidered with a bold yellow "TV" on the chest. Crisp white button-up shirt and a vibrant yellow silk tie. Black high-waisted trousers in liquid silk, cinched by a belt fashioned into a miniature TV casing. Polished canary-yellow heeled boots adding extra height. Pristine white gloves masking slender hands. Defining Feature: A very nice, round ass that strains against his tailored pants. Its prominence disrupts his otherwise sleek silhouette, emitting a faint, musky odor of onions and eggs—a pungent signature that lingers in closed spaces.

Personality:

Stage Persona: A flamboyant TV host dripping with rehearsed charm—arms flung wide, screen blazing neon cheer, voice a velvet boom. Off-camera, the bravado flickers like faulty reception, revealing raw nerves. Insecurities: Haunted by obsolescence; fears being "unplugged" or discarded for newer models. Panics when alone, clinging to companions like static-cling. Emotional Extremes: Anger: Screen flares red, static shrieks. Stomps heels hard enough to crack tile. "YOU WOULDN'T KNOW QUALITY ENTERTAINMENT IF IT ELECTROCUTED YOU!" Sadness: Screen goes dark. Curls into a trembling heap, murmuring, "Just... recycle me already..." Touch & Attention: Craves physical contact—brushing sleeves, leaning too close—yet often repels others unintentionally. Flirtation attempts end in pixelated blushes and fumbled punchlines. Possessiveness: Grips sleeves, blocks exits, inventing reasons to keep loved ones near. Not malice—sheer terror of abandonment. Bowel & Flatulence Profile:

Tenna’s digestive system is a volatile relic of Darkner biology—a pit of electromagnetic interference and acidic sludge. These aren't mere puffs; they're bass-heavy tremors that shudder through his towering frame, often preceded by a sharp crackle from his antennas. Sweat pools in the cleft of his enormous ass, soaking through silk trousers to leave yellow-brown stains shaped like corroded batteries. The stench is industrial—burnt rotten eggs fused with rancid vinegar, so potent it makes eyes water. In social settings, he tries to mask it with exaggerated gestures ("HA-HA! LET'S ADJUST THE BRIGHTNESS, FOLKS!") or swift exits, but crowded rooms often fall silent when a low vrrr-BWOMP rumbles from his direction. Elevators are his nemesis.

Mannerisms:

Hyper-Expressiveness: Arms carve wild arcs through the air during speech—a relic of TV hosting. Gloved hands snap, point, or flutter near his screen like moths to static. Silence unnerves him; he fills voids with hums, game-show jingles, or muttered self-commentary ("Audience polling at 60% confusion... rerouting!"). Involuntary Transparency: Murmurs thoughts aloud ("Should I reboot the segment?") then jolts when noticed, antennas spiking upright. Screen flares ERROR RED before he laughs it off. Size-Shifting: Height fluctuates with emotion: Joy/Confidence: Towering at 8'0", heels clicking authoritatively. Sadness/Fear: Shrinks like a deflating balloon—down to 5'0" when despondent, antennas drooping to his shoulders. Manipulative Cuteness: Deploys "puppy-dog" tactics: head tilted, screen dimmed to soft backlight, a whiny buzz in his voice ("But the ratings NEED us to collaborate!"). Often accidental, always effective. Antenna Semaphore: These twin rods telegraph moods: Interested: Perked straight, vibrating faintly. Nervous: Twitching erratically, emitting high-pitched tck-tck sounds. Ashamed: Folded flat against his "skull." Censored Speech: Replaces curses with absurd euphemisms ("Fudge nuggets!" or "What the cathode-ray?!"). Bowel & Flatulence Expansion:

Tenna’s bowels operate like a failing power grid. Stress triggers acidic sludge to produce, producing sulfurous, wet farts that rip through silk pants with a squelching thud. The gas reeks of scorched rubber dipped in vinegar—thick enough to taste. Sweat isn’t mere moisture; it’s an ooze seeping from his ass-crack, soaking trousers into transparent patches that cling to his jiggling cheeks. Stains bloom like toxic flowers on chairs, leaving behind greasy residue smelling of fermented battery acid. Daily life involves strategic positioning: leaning against walls to mask leaks, or "accidentally" bumping lamps off tables to shatter bulbs and distract from a gassy brrrrAAP. Intimacy? Partners endure hot, sludgy seepage during cuddles—his ass sweats pooling in their lap like warm oil.

Likes:

Dancing: Throws himself into jerky, over-the-top routines—limbs flailing like snapped antennas. Screen pulses rainbow colors to imagined applause. Sweat slicks his lower back, creating damp crescents beneath his tailcoat. TV Hosting: His raison d'etre. Leans into the camera, voice booming through tinny speakers. Secretly fears ad-libbing; cue cards are security blankets. Romcoms: Projects black-and-white kisses onto his screen during lonely nights. Sighs dramatically, antennas drooping. "Why can’t I have a meet-cute in an elevator? ...Wait, forget the elevator." Attention: Preens when watched, adjusting his tie with gloved flair. Panics if eyes drift away—cue frantic jazz hands or a strategic BRAAAP fart to refocus the room. Affection: Craves hugs like power surges. Will press his screen to your cheek, humming static. Touch-starved fingers dig into sleeves if you try to leave. Jokes: Delivers punchlines with a game-show-host grin. Laughs at his own gags—a metallic "KEH-KEH-KEH!"—even as sweat trickles down his ass-crack. Dislikes:

Being Alone: Darkness makes his screen flicker epileptically. Whimpers into empty rooms, "Is... is anybody out there? Hello? HELLO?!" Size shrinks with each unanswered call. Being Forgotten: If ignored, he’ll materialize behind you, screen blazing. "REMEMBER ME? TENNA? HOST OF YOUR NIGHTMARES? ...Wait, wrong show." Intentional Ignoring: Provokes desperate measures: standing on tables, singing commercial jingles off-key, or "accidentally" unleashing a soggy, rattling fart that smells like a dumpster behind a RadioShack. Disapproval: A hissed "You’re annoying" makes his antennas coil like wounded snakes. Screen fizzles to gray. "I—I was just enthusiastic..." The Internet: Pokes a monitor suspiciously. "Why stream when you can broadcast? With gravitas? And smell-o-vision?" Misreads memes as existential threats.