Anthropomorphic

Shar-Pei Character

Portrait

Bernard Banjax

In the smog-choked electric haze of the economic penal colony known as eastern Anthroxville, where dreams are mortgaged to the moon and interest rates are measured in quantum units of stitch-ups, jinxes, and hard-luck, the anthropomorphic shar-pei, Bernard Banjax, reigns supreme. His establishments, Bernard Bankrolls, and Banjax Bail Bonds, stand like twin pillars of lambent madness in an environ gone sideways. Both serve as Anthroxville’s sordid numen, its genius loci; the yin and yang of the city's Janus-faced psyche, where hope is peddled and despair is brokered with the same feverish energy of the grunt-slamming Roy Bibbowski in the midsts of a title-deciding arm-wrestle. The symbiosis of these otherwise immiscible ventures, together bathed in the emulsive glow of flickering neon, function as foment beacons for the city's wide-eyed dreamers and midnight believers, its fantasists and felons; each a testament to the wild oscillations between triumph and tragedy that pulsate through the city's veins.

Beneath an awning weathered and worn like the face of Agatha Collop on a good day, side-by-side doorways beckon the brave and the broken: one portal leading into the pressure cooker of high-stakes plots and pitches, the other, a taut lifeline flung from the unforgiving clutches of the law. Here, in this ungodly corner of this ungodly city, a short molotov’s throw away from the despicable haunts like Erm Wotsischops’ infernal moshpit of a pub, The Knotted Knacker; Edison Upskirt’s demonic eatery, Upskirt Nosher; and Victor Wallop’s Wallop Solutions, the fist-flying trinity of loan-sharking, muscle, and debt collection, Bernard finds himself amongst good company as he orchestrates the balance of both risk and redemption, ensuring that he always comes out on top.

Through the left door leading to Bernard Bankrolls, every rogue and roughneck in Anthroxville who fancies both themselves and their shot at glory comes loping in, effing and jeffing, arms laden with the tools of their trade: maps crisscrossed with urgent red lines, photographs of supposedly impregnable vaults, and blueprints of buildings with weak back doors. Far from the trappings of glamor the name would suggest, a boxy, low-ceilinged, almost claustrophobic space greets them; the décor retching of an aesthetic best described as vintage penitentiary chic, with chairs that have seen better days and better brawls, each one bearing the scars of a thousand anxious shifts and nervous twitches.

Here, under the flickering fluorescence that does no one any favors, the air is thick with the scent of pent-up aggro and risk-to-reward ratios; a mélange that somehow manages to be less than the sum of its parts. The wallpaper, a study in the art of peeling, seems to give up on itself halfway down the wall, much like the patrons who find themselves here in this waiting room, halfway between a life of the humdrum homie and the allure of the lawbreaking bigshot.

Each aspiring miscreant, gripping their freshly dispensed ticket, casts wary glances around the room, sizing up their rivals through a lens of well-warranted disdain and derision. Like many before them in the notorious confines of Anthroxville, they understand all too well the ruthless nature of their environment: a harsh, zero-sum game where one's gain is inevitably another's loss. The air vibrates with the subdued murmur of conspiratorial schemes and the sporadic burst of laughter — a sound tinged more with anxiety than genuine mirth. At the helm of this dubious assembly sits the warden of wrong'uns, the cigarette-strafing receptionist Grissel Putz, who seems to exhale smoke more often than breath.

Every so often, the pivotal moment looms, and the room condenses into a palpable stillness. Grissel, having just snuffed out her latest cigarette, momentarily forsakes the urge to ignite another in favor of engaging the intercom. The gritty rasp of her ravaged voice announces the next ticket number, her tone suggesting she's calling an off-peak bingo round rather than a critical juncture in a felon's career. The holder of the auspicious digit rises; the next contender, a swaggering silhouette against the backdrop of the faded and peeling decor. With a mix of bravado and barely concealed trepidation, they give the one finger salute to all in attendance, before approaching the imposing vault door, a massive steel maw that stands as the final arbiter between aspiration and the stark reality that awaits. Entering the number feels like the roll of dice on a gambler's sticky palm—the mechanical clunk of each digit is a punctuation in their personal narrative. The door, a relic from a time when such vaults protected the spoils of the city rather than brokered them, groans open, and the aspirant steps through, disappearing into the void.

A sharp intake of breath and a stunned "Holy moly..." reverberate through the vault as the door swings shut. Encased behind impenetrable glass on either side, an extravagant display assaults the senses: mountains of cash that seem to breathe with the promise of illicit gains, diamonds scattering rainbows in every direction, sports cars gleaming under sultry, soapy caresses. Sometimes, even Mia Culpa is cavorting about in this cornucopia of criminal desire, designed to whet the appetite, to inflame the greed, to get the ball rolling. 

Bernard, ensconced in the heart of this sanctum, offers only the slightest twitch of acknowledgment as the gawping newcomer breaches the threshold of his domain. This sparse gesture, a minute elevation of an eyebrow, might as well be a fanfare given the anthro shar-pei’s usual impassive demeanor. Surrounded by the glow of screens that cast an eerie light across his features, each flashing with the vitals and metrics of the city's illicit pulse, such as black market exchange rates, breaking-and-entering heatmaps, police patrol patterns, and even, the latest known whereabouts of the archduke of all things abominable, John Knuckle, Bernard seems more a fixture of this vault than a participant within it, his attention momentarily flickering from the digital heartbeat of Anthroxville's underworld to the flesh-and-blood reality before him.

Then, without preamble or pause for breath, he launches into the fray. His voice, carrying the weight of authority and the sharp edge of scrutiny, slices through the air like a shiv, dissecting the viability of the venture laid at his feet. The questions are a barrage, a rapid-fire inquisition into the hows and whys of the proposed endeavors. "What's your entry point? How will you bypass security? Who's your fence?" He grills them on escape routes, on accomplices, on the split of the take; their assessed Cost-to-Bribery Ratio (CBR), their Snitch-Management-Efficiency (SME), and, perhaps most importantly, their expected Return-on-Illegality (ROI). He probes not only for the viability of the venture but for the mettle of the crook. It’s not just a question of nous in this game, but also one of nerve. Have they got the plums to pull it off? Can they prove it? But not too much, mind: it’s essential to get this balance right. Oftentimes, they have too many minerals without enough vitamins, as was the case with Hamilton Lickspittle, who once boldly pitched a quick in-n-out stick-up job at next door's Banjax Bail Bonds. In Hamilton's words, he couldn't believe it had never been hit before, before speculating how much moolah they had just sitting there for the taking. A commendable level of guts, even Bernard had to concede, but, as is all too often, simply none of the guile. Needless to say, Hamilton didn't secure the bag.

His criteria are stringent, for his investment is not merely financial but reputational. If he senses a plan is half-baked, a risk too great, or simply doesn’t like their face, he’ll hit them with his classic opener, “With all due respect…” before proceeding to reject the hopefuls in the most disrespectful way possible, “...and for that reason among a circus of others, I’m out – or rather, you are.” A swift press of a buzzer reveals a second vault door, a less ceremonious exit for the rejected, as Bernard dismissively waves them away from his presence.

As the echo of their retreat fades, Bernard reclines, his mind a whirlwind of strategic calculations, pondering the likelihood of their venture's rogue continuation without his endorsement. Should he deem it tangible, he reaches forward for the phone and makes the call. Direct lines to either Lieutenant Larry Mooch or Sheriff Bobby Lockjaw are his to command, cementing his status as Anthroxville’s chief whisperer of secrets. This is the cornerstone of a meticulously crafted hedging strategy, where Banjax Bail Bonds scoop up and reap the rewards of Bernard Bankroll's rejects.

Having the monopoly on bail services within Anthroxville's murky confines, Bernard ensures a cyclical flow of clientele. He alone holds the only keys to the cash register of freedom, making it inevitable that the ventures he declines become the very same ones that bolster his bail bond business. This seamless interplay cements his position, guaranteeing that every rejection from his vaulted chamber feeds directly into his dominion. Moreover, this intricate web of information and influence affords Bernard an unparalleled shield of protection. The anthro shar-pei's value to the Anthroxville PD as its most prolific informant places him beyond the reach of handcuffs; his word is taken as gospel, eliminating the need for any formal inquiries. In this way, Bernard not only orchestrates the fate of others but secures his own, playing a game where he is always the winner, safeguarded by the very law that hunts his clientele, and it is for exactly this reason that when a certain Margot Popplewell turned up at...