2 ft. 4 in. tall, Clarence Chesterfield Howerton

Since Frank quit drinking, he got smaller. It wasn’t gradual. It was immediate, boom. His voice softer. His stance shorter. His smile weaker. His eyes dimmer. If he turned the right way with the perfect lighting, he could disappear into apparent nothingness. He enjoyed fading out of existence.

Frank was not afraid to tell you, “I’m bracing myself for death, man. All the shit I’ve put myself through was just the prequel for this final frontier.” And every time he says it, he pats his scrawny stomach area and wheezes, which is actually how he laughs.

When he recalls his days of debauchery, he throws up a little in his mouth. They were hard times. Lots of dizziness, ugly hickeys, slaps to the face, and nausea. Successive days of bad decisions at three in the morning, shitty cocaine and fatty pork tacos could have been the death of him. No one is quite sure, but he claims he was saved by the grace of Zod.

He is a fairly cool guy until he starts going off on the one theory he lives by where white supremacy is the one and only way. If you’re still there when he pulls out the Civil War guns, you’ve stayed too long, and you should run away in a zig-zag pattern so he can’t shoot you dead in the back.

Theory