Thibault Ives

It is rare in this day and age for an individual to be entirely deprived of a sense of humour, but our dear Monsieur Ives is the quintessential example of finding not only very little, but absolutely nothing even in the slightest degree partially amusing.

Perhaps it is this unique and slightly discomfiting aspect of Thibault's distinct (lack of) personality that has made him such a foregone conclusion for candidacy in the ranks of The Infantry; his intrinsic absence of creativity and underwhelming reception to jejune hilarity skillfully eschews the potential for lost focus or compromised work ethic.

In his school days in Saint Paul-de-Vence, as one can imagine he had few friends and hordes of enemies. There is little in this world that frustrates the human sensibilities more than refusal to acknowledge their self-recognized wit. Thibault would dangle, as a bat, from the bars on the playground (used periodically by their physical education teacher to demand the children of France develop better upper body strength). As Monsieur Ives reputation as a non-laugher increased, his classmates need to amuse him grew with ever burgeoning asperity.

Day after day children would approach the serious and funereal visage of Thibault in hopes that their jocular anecdotes and droll raillery would shirk a smile from the seemingly frozen upper lips of Ives' countenance.

No such fortuitous luck was ever granted to the children of Saint Paul-de-Vence.

On one occasion three young girls in his school, nicknamed Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone, probably due to there conniving and unscrupulous ways, but perhaps because in reality they always seemed to enact the unequivocal desideratum of the masses, that pent up and inexpressible exigency, the guilt ridden and questionable importunity, the forbidden desire.

Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone's real names happened to be, Adele, Margaux, and Therese, and they had simultaneously come to the despicable revelation that rather than attempt to amuse Thibault all this time individuals should have been using Thibault for their amusement. After all, what is better than an individual, who despite having a rather serious demeanor, will surely bear no ill will to his own humiliation, in a similar fashion to his disregard for the humourous out pourings of the world.

In the cool hours of the morning three girls could be seen stifling giggles in the playground of the Saint Paul-de-Vence schoolhouse.

As the morning classes retreated to the playground for 15 well-regulated minutes of respite from the academic grip of geography books and arithmetic, Thibault once again took his customary spot at the pull-up bars, positioning himself with his knees holding all his weight as he dangled, blood rushing to the head, with all the seriousness of the most austere of East Asian ascetics. His staunch resilience failed to register the gelatinous residue that remained on his hands when he positioned himself upside down on the bar.

The bell for the end of the hallowed recess rang coldly across the barren plains of the playground. All the whelps of Saint Paul-de-Vence reluctantly ventured as meager sheep into the icy embrace of the classroom. Thibault remained stuck quite profoundly to the bars. One assumes the substance the three harpies had smeared across the bars was equivalent merely to a strong adhesive, but as other children ran to the open arms of their devoted parents in the afternoon, Thibault remained stuck and dangling. Thibault had made little protest to the devious trick of the girls, but inside his anger and contemplation of vengeance was burrowing deep into his expressible consciousness.

After calling the local blacksmith and the town fire brigade Thibault was finally removed from his perch of contemplation, much to the amusement of the entire town; the story would remain a point of notoriety for Thibault for years to come.

Unfortunately, the abuse would not stop here. For days to come Monsieur Ives was the source of much derived enjoyment from the children of Saint Paul-de-Vence public school, who after the sordid activities of the three mischievous girls had been, by some divine insight, granted permission to use for Thibault for their enjoyment. All manner of pranks and tricks were exacted upon his less than amused persona, and unbeknownst to the children his exactment of revenge would be severe.

The rest of this tale, the conclusion which you are inevitably aching to know, will have to wait. For one I must be granted permission by Monsieur Ives to share such a personal story on the delivery of retribution to the children of Saint Paul-de-Vence.

With a little investigation I'm sure you could seek out the disturbed and ruined children of that town. Be warned, their madness is not for the weak of heart, and do not mention the name of Thibault Ives.

For now, know this, he is my right hand man, he has an uncanny temper, and will not take kindly to jokes.

And should you cross him, may Joshua bless you.