Anthropomorphic

Greyhound Character

Portrait

Bertie Plimsoll

In the swirling, frenetic piss-pot of Anthroxville, where the social hierarchy churns and gurns like a champion arm-wrestler's bicep, the scramble for power is a spectacle as absurd as it is fiendish. This city, a throbbing organism of ego and ambition, sees factions rise and fall with the regularity of a yo-yo going through an identity crisis. Among the usual suspects—a cavalcade of crooks, conmen, and charlatans—emerged a peculiar breed of sophisticates who thought they could sidestep the brutish brawl and ascend to the zenith of society on the strength of their delusions alone.

Now, Anthroxville is a place where the pursuit of power is a full-contact sport, a chaotic melee of the grasping and the desperate. Yet amidst this eternal punch-up for primacy, this curious clique of highbrow hopefuls made the baffling claim of some pre-existing natural order, an inalienable hierarchy that no amount of duking it out could ever hope to alter. It was their birthright, they declared with a straight face, to wear the trousers in this grand societal circus. They spoke of destiny with the kind of confidence usually reserved for one of Marty Shuffle's unsolicited motivational speeches, convincing the masses that their ascent was as inevitable as death, taxes, and an attempted swindle at the hands of Gregory Fromage.

And, bizarrely enough, the citizens of Anthroxville took them at their word—at least for a week. For seven dizzying days, the town indulged their delusions, hypnotized by the sheer audacity of their claims. No sooner had these self-proclaimed elites settled into their lofty positions, than they were unceremoniously dethroned in a whirlwind of revolution. Thus was born the Embaristocracy, a cadre of erstwhile aristocrats who now found themselves plunged into the grimy depths of common life. The fall was swift and brutal, a slapstick tumble from grace that left them more disoriented than a drunken Sid Blitzkrieg at dawn.

Among these fallen figures, such as Ottoline Puffplinth and Herbert Whiffpop, was the anthropomorphic greyhound, Bertie Plimsoll, who once basked in the golden glow of high society. With his impeccable flair—a blue blazer crisply pressed, mustard-yellow trousers, a jaunty fedora—and his air of faded nobility, Bertie is the very picture of dignity undone. His descent from the heights of princely privilege to the mundane grind of the masses had been particularly harsh. Gone were the days of champagne and caviar; now, Bertie found himself navigating the banalities and degradations of everyday life with a cocktail of bewilderment and impudence.

"Fuck off, old sport," he would retort, whenever some unwashed yokel had the gall to question what a supposed nobleman was doing bagging groceries at Mario Miff’s Miff Inconvenience Stores. Like many of his kind, Bertie clung to the belief that his current state was but a temporary aberration, a brief sojourn among the troglodytes before his inevitable return to glory. But the grim reality, starkly reflected in his bank account, suggested otherwise. "It's a grower, not a shower," he quipped nervously during a desperate visit to Victor Wallop's Wallop Solutions, seeking a high-interest loan to cover an alarmingly high utility bill. Laughed out of every other establishment, the anthro greyhound had come crawling to Victor, a sneer of desperation on his face.

"You know I'm good for it," Bertie pleaded, his fingers fumbling with his tie as sweat dripped down his face. How in the devil's name had it come to this? Victor, a hulking figure with the disposition of a well-seasoned head-banger, merely snarled and nodded to his enforcers, Franz Nuzzle and Aye Genteightonesix, who were already cracking their knuckles in anticipation. The situation was dire, and Bertie could feel the pit of poundtown opening beneath him.

Once the toast of Anthroxville's elite, Bertie now slogged through life with a curious blend of defiance and despair. He had once been the dazzling centerpiece of grand galas, the irresistible charmer of the city's most coveted dames—names like Gloria Widdershins and Tiffany Taradiddle still conjured memories of evenings filled with laughter, stolen glances, and perhaps the occasional misplaced undergarment. But now, those glittering nights were but a distant echo, replaced by a far grimmer reality.

The anthro greyhound had become a ghost in the winding streets of Anthroxville, haunting the places where he once reigned supreme. He sought solace in the small, tawdry pleasures that remained within his grasp. A busy street corner offered a semblance of company, even if it was just the bustling hustle of the crowd. He'd close his eyes and summon racy scenes from one of Quentin Marmalade's naughtiest flicks, their lurid fantasies a meager substitute for the real excitement he once knew.

His public acts of self-pleasure in front of the jeering masses of Anthroxville became his core coping mechanism. Half-bewildered and half-defiant, Bertie would drop his drawers with a flourish, engaging in these sordid displays with a grim determination as his glasses fogged over. It was as if he was daring the world to cast their eyes and acknowledge the stark contrast between his privileged past and his heavy panting present. "You know I'm good for it..." he'd holler manically as he plied his new trade in rip-roaring fashion, "...you know I'm good for it...you know I'm..." This was his new life: a public pud-puller. In one of his more lucid moments, Bertie realized that his previous quip to Victor had been a gross misstatement; he had always been a shower, his grandeur evident from the start, now reduced to a pitiable exhibition.

This was his new existence: a public spectacle, a living, breathing cautionary tale. The jeers and heckles from the crowd were a harsh chorus that followed him everywhere, punctuated by the occasional scream or the ominous arrival of the law in the form of Lieutenant Larry Mooch and his goons. But he wouldn't let that stop him. "You know I'm good for it!" The transformation from revered socialite to reviled pariah was not just a fall from grace—it was a headlong plunge into the abyss, which would take him...