Anthropomorphic

French Bulldog 

Character Portrait

Archie Bot

It has often been said that Anthroxville is neither a place, a gong-pit, nor even a cack-bucket, but rather, a state of mind. A concoction, a figment, a vibe, as Vanessa Trifle would say. However, this widely accepted theory has been called into question with the publishing of the anthropomorphic French bulldog, Archie Bot's momentous paper: We’re Naffing About in a Computer Screen. In it, Archie lays out what he calls “Within ad infinitum” which hypothesizes that not only is Anthroxville in all its glory a basic computer simulation; but that it is being simulated by a simulating simulation. That simulation in turn is being simulated by another superior simulation and so forth; all the while each simulation believing itself to be the original base reality – just as all in Anthroxville today believe themselves to be the real OG’s. However, the chances of them actually being so is mathematically even more remote than Milton Mouthbucket landing a date, Dinero Cashmoney paying his fair share of tax, or Louis Battenberg’s book ever being completed, let alone published. The actual big enchilada base reality is a civilization so technologically advanced, that it must only exist sometime in the distant future, and that the near-infinitely nested simulations running within themselves are to them what video games today are for us. The reason to run such simulations could be for intellectual curiosity, or, given the often absurd nature of Anthroxville, sheer amusement. Hence, we are not, as previously thought, the architects of our own demise, but rather, the architecture.

After publishing his groundbreaking works, Archie suffered something of a nervous meltdown, and in the desperate hopes of creating some kind of glitch in the matrix, rushed home and kicked his wife in the pussy. His now ex-wife, Zofia Squits, didn’t take this all too well, and didn’t care to hear the anthro French bulldog’s wild-eyed attempts to explain that he had no other choice as the only hope of short-circuiting the simulation's algorithm was to do something so unexpected, so astounding, that it would fry the mainframe processor and...and what exactly? He wasn't quite sure, but clearly, this gambit wasn't exactly the deus ex machina he had hoped, but that didn't stop him from trying a second punt in the name of science on Effie Lollygag, but again, sadly, to little effect.

Out of ideas, Archie continued to descend further into his recursive mania. Was Anthroxville the runt of the litter of simulations? The end of the line? The final dingdong? Or was the game of Space Invaders he had been playing on his phone another simulation further down? Were those little cretins, on a relative level, sentient? He knew the supposedly superior simulations further up the chain would deny the consciousness of which he was certain of possessing; so what right did he have to deny the sentience of these tiny farcical inferiors? Maybe they were programmed to evolve one day to be like him? Or was he just programmed to think that way? And on the matter of superior simulations, was Anthroxville really a worthy use of processing power?

Was it truly the best use of computational resources? Surely, the realm that spawned such a mediocre simulation had grander designs. And those who watched over it, seemingly omnipotent, were they not just figments? Just digital brushstrokes on a canvas of code, mistaking themselves for the real essence? But then again, he couldn't blame them, as they were but creations believing themselves creators. Simply the sizzle, thinking themselves the steak. In fact, he almost pitied all you folk, reading this right now.

After a few days and nights roaming the streets in swivel-eyed postulation and gnashing his teeth at the sky, Archie wound up at Erm Wotsischops' literal nightmare of a pub, The Knotted Knacker, slumped over the bar, nursing a pint of Baader-Meinhof. The simulation was obviously playing some twisted joke on him, as he had also been chugging the exact same brand of brew on the park bench a few hours prior, and in the bus shelter the night before, where he had tried to burp the intricate details of his simulation theory to Fabia Dinkplop, who was programmed not to show any interest in the slightest, and rather, pepper-sprayed him for his troubles. "Déjà vu," he slurred, squinting through sore eyes at his foaming beverage. He had little choice but to make peace with his new meaningless reality of bits and bytes. However, just as he lifted the glass to take another gulp, what could only be described as an absolute algo-busting banger of a tune started boogying out from across the street, and as though in an encrypted trance, the anthro French bulldog twisted around and saw through the doorway, Clém de la Crème standing akimbo, with his...