In a dimly lit studio cluttered with needles, ink pots and surgical tools, Michel Praddo stared into a mirror one fateful day in 2022. With a steady hand and no anesthesia, he — or a trusted colleague — sliced away both his ears, letting them drop to the floor like discarded props in a horror flick. It wasn’t madness, he insists. It was liberation. The 47-year-old tattoo artist, known worldwide as Diabão (“Big Devil”) or the “Human Satan,” marked the end of Brazil’s COVID mask mandates with this grisly act, symbolizing his rejection of societal “orders” and embrace of unfiltered self-expression.

What began as a kid doodling devils on São Paulo sidewalks has spiraled into a transformation so extreme that over 85% of Praddo’s skin is now a black-and-red canvas of flames, skulls and infernal beasts. His tongue is split like a serpent’s, his teeth filed to jagged points and capped in chrome, his fingers fused and amputated into claw-like grips. He’s removed parts of his nose, nipples and navel, implanted horns and subdermal spikes, and even tattooed the whites of his eyes. To the uninitiated, he’s a walking nightmare. To his fans — and there are legions — he’s a bold icon of autonomy in a conformist world.

Born Michel Faro Praddo in 1977 in the gritty underbelly of São Paulo, the man who would become Diabão grew up amid urban chaos. “Life was tough, full of noise and grit,” he later recounted in interviews. As a teen, he channeled his rebellion into street art, sketching wild, demonic figures on walls and notebooks. Tattoos became his outlet. By his early 20s, he’d apprenticed under local ink masters and opened his first shop, specializing in “devil designs” that blended pain with intricate beauty. Clients flocked for his bold style, influenced by American body mod pioneers who’d split tongues and stretch lobes into oblivion.

The nickname “Diabão” stuck early, a playful jab at his hellish motifs that soon defined him. But it was his 2018 marriage to Carol Praddo — the self-styled “Mulher Demônia” (Demon Woman) — that ignited the fire. The couple, wed for over a decade now (Praddo has two kids from a prior marriage), bonded over a shared obsession with modification. Carol, a fellow artist, mirrors her husband’s extremes: facial tattoos, implants and a wardrobe of leather and chains. Together, they’ve turned their Praia Grande studio, Studio Diabão Praddo, into a mecca for the modified, attracting thrill-seekers from across Brazil and beyond. “We don’t change for attention,” Carol told Reuters in 2021. “It’s about owning your skin.”

Praddo’s mods escalated rapidly. By 2020, amid global lockdowns, he’d inked over 80% of his body — a marathon of sessions blending traditional needles with UV-reactive pigments for a glowing, otherworldly effect. Silicone implants puffed his forehead into demonic ridges; scarification carved tribal scars across his chest. He underwent transdermal piercings that anchor metal spikes, and a bifurcation of his mouth’s corners gave him a perpetual Joker grin. One of his most talked-about alterations: fusing his index and middle fingers on one hand while amputating the ring and pinky on both, crafting “claws” he flexes in viral videos. “It’s functional art,” he quipped in a 2023 Jam Press interview. “I grip my tattoo gun tighter now.”

The ear removal, however, stands as his most infamous milestone. Filmed in raw, unfiltered footage that racked up millions of views on Instagram and TikTok, Praddo sat calmly as a friend wielded a sterile scalpel. Blood trickled, but his expression remained stoic — a far cry from the screams that echo in amateur mod horror stories. “Ears represent hearing commands, rules from above,” he explained post-op, his voice muffled by fresh bandages. “The pandemic forced masks on us, silenced our freedom. Cutting them off? That’s me tuning out the noise forever.” Performed without painkillers to heighten the “spiritual intensity,” the procedure left smooth, scarred patches where cartilage once stood. Healed stubs now frame his elongated lobes, stretched to saucer size with heavy gauges.

Health risks? Praddo waves them off like cigarette smoke. But experts don’t. Dr. Maria Silva, a São Paulo plastic surgeon, warns that such self-surgeries invite infection, nerve damage and chronic pain. Praddo’s own abdominoplasty — a tummy tuck that also excised his navel — led to a 2021 hospital dash when stitches burst, per local reports. Eyeball tattoos risk corneal scratches; finger amputations heighten phantom limb agony. “These aren’t reversible tattoos,” Silva told NewsFounded. “They’re life-altering gambles.” Angular cheilitis from his mouth splits causes perpetual irritation, and silicone migrations have warped his facial contours. Yet Praddo, a self-proclaimed spiritualist who believes in God but shuns organized religion, views complications as “tests of will.”

Legally, he’s gone all-in. In April 2024, a Brazilian court greenlit his name change to Diabão Faro do Prado — a rite of passage he tied to burying his past. “Michel abandoned his dying father in a hospital,” he confessed in court docs. “That guilt ate me. Diabão? He’s reborn, free of remorse.” The shift alienated some family but solidified his brand. Today, at nearly 50, he boasts Guinness aspirations: He holds a record for 10 subdermal horn implants on his skull, but eyes more for “most extreme voluntary amputations.” Social media amplifies it all — 1.2 million Instagram followers devour his before-and-afters, though trolls flood comments with “freak” barbs. “Prejudice hurts, but I’ve learned not to care,” he said during a 2021 beach stroll with Carol, where gawkers snapped pics like he was a circus exhibit.

Critics see pathology; Praddo sees poetry. “The sinister attracted me,” he told Reuters. “It’s not devil worship — it’s reclaiming power.” His story echoes global mod icons like “Black Alien” Anthony Loffredo, who’s forked his own tongue in pursuit of extraterrestrial vibes. But Praddo’s domestic bliss tempers the edge: He and Carol host “mod nights” at their studio, blending tattoo sessions with therapy chats on identity. Clients leave not just inked, but empowered. One fan, a 28-year-old accountant, credited Praddo with helping her embrace facial scars post-accident. “He showed me beauty in the broken,” she posted on Reddit.

Still, the couple fields backlash. Brazilian tabloids dub them “hell’s power couple,” and conservative outlets decry their influence on youth. A 2023 Daily Star piece highlighted online debates: Is this art or self-harm? Praddo counters with philosophy: “Society mods us daily — diets, jobs, expectations. I just make mine visible.” His 60+ procedures (he tallies them like trophies) cost a fortune, funded by high-end commissions and merch like “Diabão” tees emblazoned with claw prints.

As of 2025, Praddo’s not slowing. Rumors swirl of penile implants and full facial blackouts. At a recent São Paulo ink expo, he demoed a live scarification, drawing cheers from mods and gasps from normies. Walking Praia Grande’s shores — horns glinting in the sun, claws trailing sand — he embodies the blur between fascination and fear. “People stare because I’m what they hide,” he muses. “A mirror to their own devils.”

For Praddo, the canvas isn’t skin — it’s soul. In a world of filters and facades, his raw reinvention shocks, yes. But it also sparks: What if freedom looked this fierce? As one devotee etched on Reddit: “Diabão didn’t become the devil. He slayed him inside.” Whether horror or heroism, Michel Praddo’s metamorphosis endures — a bloody testament to the human drive to redefine itself, one slice at a time.