Felix Montbertrand

the patron saint of switchblade fights

name: Felix Gerrard Montbertrand
age: mid twenties
nationality: French
hair: black, short, generally messy in a 'I meant to do that' kind of way
eyes: hazel
height: six feet even

"No. No, damnit…. we've been fucking for… .four hours." the man can be clearly heard to offer in response to some suggestion by his companion, "It's time… for a drink." - Felix, to Sybine

"Bette', anyways, tiger. If she even looks at you the wrong fucking way again I'm going to remind her what dyin' once was like, but she ain't getting up if I do it." - Sybine, to Felix

"I always swim, dear." the slender dark-haired man replies, moving in his usual unhurried fashion down the aisle past her and toward the doors, the hand not currently resting in his pocket reaching out to touch her arm as he passes, giving her a quick, wicked wink. "Simply a question of how many corpses my raft's made out of at the end of the day." - Felix, to Sybine

Two sets of taillights burn dim and divide,
Stretch for miles making track marks across what veins fail to carry.
You should have taken my keys while my hands were shaking.
You could have kept the dead gone, entombed in the soil of arms.
Raise the breathing abrasion with a turn of the key.
Lost motor skills and a set cruise control.
Mangled insect screams through the puddles of drool.
Mainline the highway baby,
Tie off the concrete veins and set the radio to fm
Love songs clocked relapse defined by the rpm's of a static heart,
Reanimated by the rush of eyes and horizon.
Nothing warms like a road flare when caution sets.
Anodyne seeps like dashed yellow lines through the withdrawn rearview addict.
Drenched to the drawn teeth in seething foam.
If you wanted me dead, you should have called me home.
Rumble strip as pulse prevents retreating eyes, dilate and close.
I can feel the dry heaves moisten, I can feel the blood withdraw.
You are my failed twelve step program.
A red light could kick this habit, a needle full of the junkies fuel.
Drops of blood on her fingertips.
Your arms are a deprivation chamber.
Sterile to sixty in forever flat.
Dissolve into the coast like john wayne.
A hero and his heroine.


general information
Even a month or so after his arrival Felix has managed to remain in the public eye while offering an almost total dearth of personal information. He is certainly getting out more, most often seen with the petite paparazzo Ella Priest, though lately he's been spotted frequently with an equally tiny redheaded woman by the name of Sybine Ray.

Nearly all doors appear open to the man, equally comfortable and just as likely to be spotted in a biker bar or a posh downtown club. Despite the wide variety of locales to which he seems accustomed, there is not near the same range and variety present in his wardrobe; khakis and a button-down shirt are more or less the nearest he's ever seen to casual, with a nice suit or tie and sport jacket just as likely.

The Foo Fighters - The Pretender
Panic! At the Disco - There's a Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered, Honey...
Cake - Satan Is My Motor
The Foo Fighters - Low
Queens of the Stone Age - A Song For The Dead

for sybine
The Foo Fighters - Everlong
Every Time I Die - Rendez-Voodoo
A Perfect Circle - Thinking Of You
Daft Punk - Digital Love
Every Time I Die - The New Black

weapons of choice

Sybine Ray, tiny redhead and general terror of LA


Felix's pre-production 2006 Audi R8 LeMans

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