originally a drug dealer (sep and pline, mostly), who got too into his own supply
now an indolent minstrel and perennial barfly
he’s recording wasteland history in song, collected in an indecipherable shorthand
voice: pitched high, clipped, obseqious
Ants is the resident minstrel at B’s, albeit unpaid and undesired. He’s happy to sing and play for a cup of swill — he’ll just as happily stop doing so, for a cup of swill. At his favoured table in the corner, he builds odd instruments from bits of scrap hauled out of the wastes. The music they make is primarily twangs and clanks. Ants is tall and reedy, with craggy, sallow skin, and dark goggles that obscure his bloodshot eyes.