Anthropomorphic

Chimp Character

Portrait

Agatha Collop

Embossed like a turgid wart on the index finger of Anthroxville is the anthropomorphic chimp, Agatha Collop; a fantastically unattractive specimen, graced with levels of charm comparable to that of a swollen hemorrhoid. She first reared her ugly head in the hellscape she now calls home some decades ago in the form of a mail-order-bride; much to the horror of her then-husband in-waiting, who would have sued the senses out of the agency responsible for dispatching her on the grounds of false-advertising—had he not first laughed himself into a cardiac-arrest. Setting the scene for what was to come, Agatha’s drop-dead looks have been the cause for continued public outcry and she has often been detained by law enforcement on the charge of indecent exposure and forced to cover her face with a potato sack. On the occasions when the police (and/or the sack) are slow to answer the call of duty, flash mobs of crucifix-bearing clergymen and other god-fearing folk, such as Bertie Plimsoll, Louis Battenberg, and Hamilton Lickspittle take matters into their own hands and spring upon her with hallowed cries of “The power of Christ compels you!” as they shield their eyes, before dousing her with buckets of holy water and beseeching her to piss off back to the hole from whence she came. To date, the impromptu exorcisms have proven amazingly unsuccessful, and if anything, have served only to strengthen Agatha’s resolve in staying put.

As if these pantomime-esque pogroms weren’t already enough, scandal erupted throughout Anthroxville when, in what further tested the limits of absurdity, it was revealed that the crusty old battle-axe had somehow managed the impossible and landed herself an unsolicited stalker. “An unsolicited WHAT?!” members of the public would howl in disbelief, rising to their feet and returning to the chair from which they had hitherto fallen when news first broke. The whole stalking industry meanwhile, descended into frantic disarray, and the highly decorated veteran gawker of 40 years responsible for the whopping mishap was promptly court-martialed and made to answer for his actions. Despite pleading to advanced glaucoma, and that only too late did he realize what was “Half-decent from afar, was far from decent,” he was found guilty of bringing the profession into disrepute and dishonorably discharged with immediate effect—an undignified end for a man who was widely considered a pioneer in the art of the prowl. This unprecedented move however did little to restore faith in the once-admired craft, and it has struggled for credibility ever since.

It’s hard to argue that the aesthetically-challenged Agatha has had anything resembling a fair shake of the sauce bottle. A deterministic slam-dunk one would think, however, in spite of all the evidence (à la Archie Bot), the cadre of card-carrying free-willers continually counter with their own philosophical ace in the hole that is Spencer Godwottery, who, by every measure, had all the advantages and privilege life had to offer, yet still finds his every waking moment resembling a bukkake of buffoonery—supposedly by his own volition, as they claim.

It’s not that Anthroxville’s radioactive gene pool even offers that many organic occasions to rise to in the first place. Quite the opposite, which goes some way in explaining the emergence of the X-rated zeitgeist that has come to possess the limp minds and drooling fixation of nearly every member of the populace, courtesy of such figures as Quentin Marmalade, Charles Moneyshot, Penelope Snizzsnapper, and, lest we forget, the inimitable, Cory Numbnuts. Such maddeningly slim pickings has drawn the ire of society, and made convenient scapegoats out of those who do not measure up in the looks department for all that is wrong with the world; as if to say that if only there were some more head-turners and jaw-droppers knocking about, then things wouldn't be so diabolical around here. Moral worth and value became intrinsically correlated with physical looks, and one’s treatment and station in life was wholly commensurate with their rankings in the cosmetic caste system.

Under such conditions, the anthro chimp is undoubtedly one of life’s great survivors. No question about it. You’d have to be, wouldn’t you? All double-baggers are; much more so than they’re given credit for since the odds are never in their favor; the game is rigged from the very beginning. Born into a losing struggle, from the moment they clock-in, life is one slow-motion horrorshow through the abattoir of existence; a creaking carousel studded with rusty hooks and jagged prongs which staggers through the suckerpunching hellscape of societal scorn. They didn’t even buy a ticket for the ride (who would?); it was fully-comped by the drunken coin-flipper of biology and underwritten by the wise-cracking jester of generational schadenfreude. Despite what anyone tells you, eugenics never really went out of fashion; it just got a new haircut and learned how to use a knife and fork. Careful to mind its P’s and Q’s and chewing with its mouth closed, it has cunningly rebranded itself as being inclusively exclusive. No more bitching and burping about background, intelligence, or personality; it today only has eyes for the lookers and lulus. Strictly form over function for the newly anointed thoroughbreds.

This cultural adoration for beauty has seen the pagan-like worship of the newfangled aristocracy based solely on attraction; the consequence of which can be felt rippling down through the slippery rungs of social stratification. Trouble is, nobody’s willing to take one for the team anymore, to take a punt on the runt. The further down you go, the worse it gets, and rather than uniting under the banner as comrades in arms, the ill-favored bottom-feeders are all aspiring turncoats to the cause, all looking for an out by any means possible. “Unless punching upwards, thou shalt not fray, even if it be just getting ye end away,” so goes the internalized mantra of the masses. This lack of solidarity is exactly how the derangedly superficial system maintains itself; for the frumps and munts see themselves not as members of the exploited and unsightly residuum, but rather, as a temporarily embarrassed pulse-raiser. Wheat yet to ascend from the chaff.

In fact, the only player left in town with the streetsmarts to hold its own against the hypnotic heft of the clock-stoppers, is money. It still pays to have a little wedge in these parts. Cash can put its wad on the scales and bribe its way into the romp on the upper deck. This is of little comfort for the hard-pressed masses however, who, without so much as a pot to piss in, are left duking it out in the boiler room of social mobility.

Given such a state of affairs, it would come as a surprise if the world had knuckle-sandwiched Agatha into anything other than a militant misanthrope. “I think existence has a lot to answer for,” she was quoted when hauled in for questioning, after a neighbor inadvertently made eye contact with the anthro chimp from across the street, and let out a little gulp before spontaneously combusting in front of his wife and three children. “Interesting,” remarked Lieutenant Larry Mooch, from behind the safety of a military-grade welding mask, “and this existence you speak of, is he an accomplice of yours?” “More of a mastermind,” she responded drolly. After a further few hours of questioning (and haggling), Agatha finally bribed her way into being released with just a caution, on the proviso that she agreed to cooperate with the police in all matters concerning existence. As she stepped out of the station, donning a newly issued spud sack which had been zip-tied in place, she was treated to a confection of...