Anthropomorphic

Black-Tailed Deer 

Character Portrait

Cornelius Fudge

In the seething, pulsating heart of Anthroxville, where the very air thrums with the possibility of imminent upheaval, there exists a figure so adept at toppling regimes that his name has become a byword for insurrection. The anthropomorphic black-tailed deer, Cornelius Fudge, with a mind as sharp as a stiletto and reflexes honed to perfection, navigates the city's perpetual turmoil with the ease of Marty Shuffle losing his entire net worth at the slot-machines. Behind the perpetual shield of his sunglasses, Cornelius' eyes flicker with the cold calculation of a chess grandmaster who's taken to playing with live pieces.

Anthroxville, you see, is less a city than a great experiment in chaos theory, a cancerous metropolis perpetually teetering on the knife-edge of revolution. The streets here twist and turn like intestines, disgorging their contents - the movers, the shakers, the has-beens, and never-weres - into plazas that serve as impromptu arenas for the city's favorite bloodsport: politics. Here, in the shadow of buildings that seem to lean in and eavesdrop, deals are struck, alliances forged and shattered, all in the time it takes a red-eyed Oskar Knullrufs to smoke down one of Jackson Jiffy's slimline super-spliffs. The air in these parts is thick with ambition and cheap cologne, a miasma that clings to the diverse inhabitants of Anthroxville, like Grissel Putz, Hans Hüftgold, and Binky Pettifogger. Neon signs flicker like the dying synapses of a madman's brain, advertising pleasures both carnal and chemical, while the constant thrum of discontent provides the city's relentless backbeat.

It's a place where power is as fleeting as Sid Blitzkrieg's sobriety and Louis Battenberg's literary prowess, where today's tyrant, such as the current President Clint Bigot, is tomorrow's footnote, and where the only constant is the speed-freak juggling contest of coup and counter-coup. And in this maelstrom of political instability, Cornelius has carved out a niche as the preeminent choreographer of collapse. His resume reads like a who's who horror story of the deposed and disappointed. There was the time he orchestrated the downfall of the laughably short-lived Embaristocrats - Bertie Plimsoll, Ottoline Puffplinth, and Herbert Whiffpop - a trio whose names now elicit sniggers far and wide across Anthroxville. Their week-long reign ended not with a bang but with a whimper, thanks to Fudge's machinations. 

Then there was the audacious coup against Charles Moneyshot, the self-styled sultan of smut, whose Tosser regime had seemed as immovable as a particularly stubborn hemorrhoid. Fudge, in cahoots with Quentin Marmalade and Le Jerkoffs sect, managed to split the paradigm of porno wide open, a feat previously thought as impossible as Milton Mouthbucket somehow landing a date. In the putrid, festering bowels of Erm Wotsischops' tavern of torment, The Knotted Knacker, a pub whose every surface seems coated with a patina of despair and spilled ale, Fudge one evening held court. The threadbare velvet of the booth caressed him as he nursed a cocktail so dire it could be classified as a chemical weapon, his impressive silhouette cast shadows like the bars of a prison cell across the faces of his co-conspirators.

"Gentlemen," he began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to emanate from the depths of the earth itself, "and I use that term loosely, we find ourselves at a crossroads. Both Bernard Banjax's Bernard Bankrolls, and, Banjax Bailbonds beckon, ripe for the plucking. And yet, here we sit, contemplating the overthrow of this... establishment."

He gestured expansively, taking in the peeling wallpaper, the ancient dartboard peppered with the missed aims of a thousand drunken revolutions. Axel Kettlebell, muscles straining against the confines of a shirt that gave up the ghost several pints ago, nodded sagely, though it's clear the finer points of Fudge's rhetoric were lost on him. Roy Bibbowski, meanwhile, stared into the middle distance, his eyes focused on some point beyond the upended pool table, perhaps seeing a future where he understood what the hell was going on. It was a futile hope, but in Anthroxville, futility is the only currency that never devalues.

As the night wore on and plans were hatched with all the care and precision of a drunken tattoo artist, the anthro black-tailed deer allowed himself a small smile. The takedown of Bernard's dual enterprises, a veritable Janus of financial skulduggery, promised to be his magnum opus, a cadence of chaos conducted with the finesse of a virtuoso. 

In this city of perpetual upheaval, he is the eye of the storm, the still point around which the carnage revolves. Tomorrow, empires may fall, loan sharks may find themselves beached, and the balance of power may shift like sand in an hourglass. But for now, in this moment, Cornelius reigns supreme, the undisputed maestro of mayhem in a symphony of disorder, ready to orchestrate the downfall of Banjax's financial fiefdom with the same ruthless efficiency that has made him a legend in the underbelly of Anthroxville. When Marcel Gizzard and Margot Popplewell inexplicably...