Anthropomorphic

Exotic Shorthair Cat

Character Portrait

Cory Numbnuts

In the festering armpit of civilization known as Anthroxville, where the air perpetually smells of stale lager and broken dreams, there exists a soccer club so spectacularly inept that it makes several of Dr. Ralph Whiplash's lobotomized patients look like a crack team of chess grandmasters by comparison. At least the doctor’s subjects had the decency to dribble in a straight line. Bottlejob F.C., on the other hand, approached the opposition's goal with all the coordination of a drunken Herbert Whiffpop attempting the Anthroxville Tango on a greased-up dancefloor. In the pantheon of sporting mediocrity, Bottlejob F.C. stood alone, their ineptitude so profound it bordered on the metaphysical. They were less a soccer team and more an elaborate practical joke played on the concept of athletic competition itself.

Bottlejob's latest run of form had been nothing short of miraculous, if by miraculous one meant "soul-crushingly dire." Twenty-seven matches had slouched by in a parade of incompetence so staggering it ascended to the realm of performance art, without so much as troubling the scoreboard, let alone the opposition's keeper. The players seemed to labor under the collective delusion that the goal was somehow radioactive, skirting it with the panicked determination of Kingsley Throttle avoiding a breathalyzer after a three-day bender, somehow always managing to find a creative—and often baffling—route in the complete opposite direction, their trajectories on the pitch resembling the fever dreams of a swivel-eyed cartographer. Bottlejob's strikers, if one could dignify them with such a title without dissolving into fits of hysterical laughter, treated the penalty box as if it were the event horizon of a black hole—a point of no return from which no goal, no matter how determined, could hope to escape. 

It was in this climate of unmitigated despair, where hope went to die and dreams were strangled in their cribs, that the Bottlejob board made its move. In a decision that could only be described as a collective aneurysm—or perhaps a shared psychotic break—they appointed as manager the anthropomorphic exotic shorthair cat, Cory Numbnuts, formerly of Charles Moneyshot's "Moneyshot Motion Pictures." Yes, that Cory Numbnuts—the prodigious porn star and sworn enemy of Quentin Marmalade, whose ability to find the back of the net had made him a legend in the sticky-floored cinemas and behind the beaded curtains of Anthroxville's seediest establishments. From "Hand to Gland Combat" to "Mushroom-Tip Mayhem 2," Cory had demonstrated an unparalleled talent for scoring, albeit in a field where the goalposts were considerably more anatomical. In the erotic arena, Cory's ability to hit the target was matched only by his knack for leaving audiences simultaneously exhausted and begging for extra time.

Cory was, to put it mildly, an unconventional choice. His face, a peculiarly round visage complete with comically oversized spectacles and a bowtie that seemed to have a life of its own, was more suited to hosting a midsummer tea party than the blood-sport masquerading as soccer in Anthroxville. His wardrobe – a jarring combination of plaid shirts and argyle sweater vests – suggested a color-blind academic who had stumbled into a particle accelerator mid-experiment, rather than a battle-hardened veteran of the pitch or adult film studio. The ensemble was topped off with an expression of perpetual bemusement. His eyes, magnified to comical proportions behind those thick lenses, darted about with a nervous energy.

The announcement of Cory's appointment sent shockwaves through the Anthroxville Football Soccer League (AFSL), a competition so violent and corrupt it made bare-knuckle brawling look like a game of pat-a-cake. The league, a festering boil on the already suppurating skin of organized sport, reacted with a collective intake of breath so sharp it threatened to deplete Anthroxville's already questionable air quality.

Other teams in the testosterone-soaked league, such as Hoof and Hope Athletic, Match-Fixers United, Whip It In Wanderers, Have Some of That A.F.C., and local tycoon Dinero Cashmoney’s eponymous vanity project, Cashmoney Ballers – watched the unfolding spectacle with a potent mixture of amusement and carnivorous glee. This wasn't mere schadenfreude; it was anticipation and malevolent mirth elevated to an art form that promised to turn the upcoming season into a spectacle of sublime catastrophe.

The Bottlejob fans, if one could ennoble this frothing mass of degenerates with such a civilized term, reacted with their customary grace and decorum. Which is to say, they erupted into a riot of such magnificent proportions that even Anthroxville's premier merchant of mayhem, John Knuckle, an individual whose forehead appeared to have been used as a battering ram since infancy, found himself momentarily slack-jawed in awe – before getting stuck into the middle of the action. The ensuing chaos was a masterpiece of madness, a symphony of destruction conducted by the invisible hand of collective lunacy. It was as if every pent-up frustration, every half-baked conspiracy theory, and every drop of Pant-Pisser beer had coalesced into a perfect storm of outrage.

As fists flew and bottles arced through the smog-tinged air, The Knuckle couldn't help but feel a twinge of professional pride, after all, it takes a special breed of communal insanity to transform a simple managerial appointment into a dress rehearsal of the apocalypse. "We want a proper gaffer!" hollered an incensed Franz Nuzzle, the words exploding from his maw in a spray of gristle and spittle, each globule a tiny meteorite of outrage. "Not some four-eyed perv in a bow tie!" Victor Wallop, whose name was less a moniker and more a life philosophy, concurred by headbutting a nearby lamppost. Orville Stonker and Axel Kettlebell, despite their ongoing blood feud over the outcome of some heist or burglary, found common ground in their outrage. 

Herma Frodite, the indomitable ultras leader whose age was as enigmatic as her reputation, stood shoulder to shoulder with Binky Pettifogger at the epicenter of the mayhem. Like a hard-boiled general surveying her ragtag army, she barked orders and obscenities with equal gusto. Her gravelly voice cut through the chaos as she reached for yet another brick from the debris to launch at passing vehicles. Herma's aim, honed by years of pelting referees with whatever came to hand, was deadly accurate, her slim frame belying the strength of her throw.

The board ensconced in their ivory tower (or rather, their asbestos-laden portable office), remained steadfast in their decision. "Cory Numbnuts," they declared, "has demonstrated an unparalleled ability to score. His prowess is simply the stuff of legends. Granted, it's been in a different arena, but the principle remains the same. Get it up, get it in, and hope for the best."

The statement did little to quell the unrest. If anything, it fanned the flames of discontent higher than a pyromaniac at a fireworks factory. The streets of Anthroxville became an actual warzone, with impromptu barricades constructed from overturned police cars and burning effigies of Cory adorning every few yards.

Meanwhile, in the dank underbelly of the AFSL, the news was met with gleeful anticipation. This was a league where fair play was considered as mythical as Frødrik Frødrikson's quixotic quest to find the city's all-time low rock bottom in a pothole, or the notion of fiscal responsibility in President Clint Bigot's kleptocratic regime. Matches routinely descended into frenzied punch-ups that would make the Saturday night free-for-alls at the infamous Knotted Knacker pub look like a polite disagreement at some genteel charity cake sale.

The beautiful game, as played in Anthroxville, was less about skill and more about survival, with tactics ranging from "kick the ball" to "kick anything that moves" to "kick anything that doesn't move, just to be sure." Tackles were less about winning the ball and more about rearranging the opponent's skeletal structure. The league's motto, "What happens on the pitch, stays on the pitch (unless it requires major surgery)," was more of a blood oath than a sentiment. Referees weren’t so much arbiters of justice as they were unwilling participants in a violent pantomime. Many had taken to wearing full riot gear under their uniforms, though this did little to deter the more enthusiastic players. It wasn't uncommon for a referee to be kidnapped mid-match, by fans, players, and coaches alike, only to be returned at halftime with a new tattoo and a thousand-yard stare. The players themselves were a motley crew of thugs, chancers, and the occasional actual soccer player who'd taken a wrong turn at the Anthroxville city limits and found themselves in this hellscape. They entered the field rigged-out with shin pads reinforced with steel plates that could deflect small artillery fire and boots that wouldn't look out of place in a medieval torture chamber. The pitches themselves were less a sporting arena and more a gladiatorial colosseum, their turf nourished by a rich compost of blood, sweat, and the shattered dreams of the vanquished. 

The stage was set for a spectacle that promised to be less about soccer and more about redefining the very concept of chaos. Here, in these charnel houses of sporting ambition, Cory Numbnuts was about to make his managerial debut, armed with nothing but his wits, his spectacles, and a playbook that one hoped contained more than just positions from the Kama Sutra.

As the sun set over Anthroxville, casting an apocalyptic glow over the smoldering ruins of what was once the high street, one couldn't help but wonder: Could this flustered, four-eyed former fornicator really be the savior Bottlejob F.C. so desperately needed? Or was this simply the latest chapter in a saga of ineptitude so profound it threatened to tear the very fabric of reality? Anthroxville teetered on the brink of either witnessing the greatest comeback in sporting history or the most spectacular car crash since Bottlejob's last match.

A week later, Cory Numbnuts watched from the sidelines, his oversized spectacles fogging up with each exasperated sigh. He'd seen more convincing attempts at penetration in the blooper reels of "Meat and Two Veg, Please" than in Bottlejob's last 87 minutes of flailing futility. Three minutes left on the clock, each tick a death knell to his team’s aspirations. As another shot sailed wide, narrowly missing a catatonic spectator in row Z (the closest the team had come to scoring all match), Cory wondered if perhaps he should have stuck to his previous career. At least there, when someone yelled "shoot," something generally transpired—even if it was merely a premature conclusion to the day's filming. However then, just as the anthro exotic shorthair cat was about to make…