Ottoline, once accustomed to the silken cushions of power, has found herself mired in the common muck, rubbing shoulders with the unwashed masses. The once regal anthropomorphic Javanese cat now schemes and plots, her mind whirring with visions of restoring order to the chaotic pleb-fest that Anthroxville has become. To her, the public's taste is an oxymoron, and their penchant for electing that buffoon, President Clint Bigot, is proof of their incompetence. The notion that these dullards could be trusted with their own governance is as laughable as it is tragic.
In her darker moments, Ottoline's only solace lies in the thought that her fall from grace could have been worse—much worse. She often finds herself thinking of Bertie Plimsoll, a fellow embaristocrat whose degradation serves as both a cautionary tale and a bizarre source of comfort. Bertie, poor Bertie, is a sight to behold. Spotted frequently outside Mario Miff’s Miff Inconvenience Stores, he scavenges for sustenance, occasionally resorting to licking discarded teabags. This pitiful figure then rises, drops his trousers, and treats the world to public display of self-gratification—a twisted ritual that seems to help him cope with his loss of status. His antics have become something of a spectacle, a reminder that he is now painfully in touch with the grim realities of life.
There was that unforgettable day when a vagrant, a true bottom-feeder, handed Bertie some loose change and offered him life advice. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much to bear. And then, as if the universe hadn’t had its fill of Bertie’s humiliation, he found himself on the receiving end of a public beatdown by Victor Wallop, the infamous head-slammer. Bertie had somehow convinced himself that reciting poetry while publically pulling his pud could pay off his debts—a delusion that ended with him face down in the dirt. These episodes have turned him into a living, breathing parody of the down-and-out noble.
Then there's Herbert Whiffpop, whose life has taken a different, albeit not as extreme, yet still depressing turn. Once a respected member of the Embaristocracy, Herbert now earns his keep as a scribbler-for-hire, ghostwriting hate-mail for the very halfwits who used to send him vile missives. Ottoline is almost certain that some of the hate-haikus (or hatekus, as they are known) she receives are Herbert’s handiwork. One such hateku, bearing one Wilbur Peppercorn, signature, managed to tell her in unambiguous detail, that she should crawl back to the hole from whence she came in just 17 syllables—a masterpiece of conciseness and venom. While Herbert's fall is less dramatic than Bertie's, it’s hardly an enviable position. Rumors abound that he now resides in a cupboard, a far cry from his days of luxury.
And then there was Dinero Cashmoney, the only one of the old guard who’d managed to cling to a shred of dignity. Even so, his life is far from ideal. In a fit of protest against Piper Yuwot’s new tax, Dinero had taken to the skies, setting up residence in a hot air balloon. Once a symbol of nouveau riche excess, he now floated above the town, a lone sentinel watching over the mess below. It was a far cry from the days of ruling the roost, but at least he wasn’t licking teabags or ghostwriting hate-mail.
Despite their scattered and sorry states, Ottoline became determined to reclaim their lost glory. Her convoluted plan hinged on rallying the old gang, a task that seemed almost as fantastical as it was futile. Yet, in the deluded corridors of her mind, the vision of a restored Embaristocracy remained a beacon of hope.
As anthro Javanese cat plotted and schemed, she couldn't help but cackle at the absurdity of it all. Anthroxville was once, as far she could ever tell, a bastion of elegance under her fleeting reign, now floundered in the hands of the rabble. The Embaristocracy, though fallen, still held a certain allure, a glimmer of what could be if only the stars would align. The grand scheme, as far-fetched as it may be, was Ottoline's last hope of reclaiming her rightful place at the high table of society, and prove that the Embaristocracy, for all its flaws and follies, was the true guardian of Anthroxville’s soul, and so it...
