Anthropomorphic

Hippo Character

Portrait

Digby Bladder

Digby Bladder remembers precisely where he was the moment he learned of his untimely demise. The revelation struck him with the force of an unprompted John Knuckle haymaker to the temple as he scanned the obituaries in the morning paper. "Digby Bladder found dead by way of autoerotic asphyxiation." His reaction was nothing short of dramatic—nearly choking on his cornflakes, he toppled backwards, chair and all, landing in a heap on the linoleum floor. From this undignified position, he could still see the upper third of Fruma Putz, his wife, perched across the kitchen table, her eyes fixed on the crossword puzzle, entirely unresponsive. Perhaps she was already mourning in some dignified, silent way, but Digby had his doubts.

Rising from the floor with a graceless grunt, the anthropomorphic hippo clutched the paper, his hands trembling as he read the damning obituary aloud, hoping to stir some reaction from Fruma. “‘Although he may have burped his last worm, his legacy will live on,’ said friend and business partner of 25 years, Humphrey Skedaddle…” The name Humphrey Skedaddle twisted Digby’s mouth into a grimace. That name was the sour lemon in the sweet iced tea of his life. Digby lowered the paper slowly, his face a mask of disbelief and fury. "First he goes and... then he skedaddles my wi... and now he goes and..." he muttered, physically shaking with the sheer audacity of what was unfolding.

Humphrey Skedaddle. The name alone was enough to scupper his morning. Humphrey had been his business partner for what felt like a century of Tuesdays, a relationship forged in the fiery pits of mutual disdain. Together, they had built an empire with their iconic range of carbonated soft drinks, Skedaddle Sodas, but their partnership was anything but amicable. To call Humphrey a friend was to stretch the truth beyond recognition.

From the very beginning, they had been at each other’s throats over every conceivable matter—recipes, parking spots, corporate strategy, and even the color scheme for the company cards. Their disagreements were legendary, culminating in the great rebranding debacle that saw Digby’s beloved Bladder Pop unceremoniously replaced by the more marketable Skedaddle Soda. Humphrey, ever the silver-tongued devil, had spun tales of demographic appeal and market research, dazzling the board with his faux charm. This was no mere business decision; it was a calculated move to sideline Digby, to erase his contributions and cement Humphrey’s position as the face of the company.

Humphrey's slick presentations and empty promises had swayed the board of directors, a motley crew of dubious distinction. Among them were Charles Moneyshot, a figure whose name matched his love for extravagant expenditure in every form; Tiffany Taradiddle, a socialite with a penchant for hyperbole; Graffen Gruntsqueeze whose miserly ways were legendary; and Dinero Cashmoney, whose love for profit knew no bounds. This eclectic assembly of rogues and scoundrels had signed off on the rebranding without Digby’s consent, sealing the anthro hippo's fate as a mere background player in the company he helped build. Bladder Pop was no more.

This betrayal was the bitterest pill to swallow, a jagged shard of glass that tore through Digby's pride, especially when the news broke during the most invasive of medical procedures. There he was, sprawled on the examination table, subjected to the dubious care of Dr. Ralph Whiplash, whose perpetually glazed eyes betrayed a fondness for Jackon Jiffy’s Zulu Zeitgeist herbal relaxation. The nurse, whose penchant for gossip that rivaled her nursing skills, relayed Humphrey’s latest coup d'état with an air of malicious glee. Digby seethed with humiliation. The sheer irony of it all! If only he could throttle Humphrey with the very rubber gloves currently making a mockery of his personal space, he mused, the thought bringing a grim smile to his otherwise pained expression.

Humiliation quickly gave way to a seething rage as Digby contemplated the full extent of Humphrey’s machinations. The obituary was just the latest in a long line of underhanded tactics employed by his nefarious rival. Could Humphrey be behind this too? The thought gnawed at Digby’s mind, and, much like Humphrey himself, seemed absurd, yet maddeningly plausible. Who else would have the audacity and gall to fabricate his death and tarnish his reputation in such a obscene and public manner? It reeked of Humphrey's twisted sense of humor and his insatiable drive to finish Digby off.

“…After skedaddling my wi…now he goes and…” Digby muttered again, his voice a simmering stew of anger and disbelief. The words seemed to echo in the room, heavy with the weight of betrayal. Fruma glanced up momentarily, her expression as blank as the crossword puzzle she was engrossed in, before returning to her pastime with an air of indifference. There was no solace to be found there, no flicker of sympathy or understanding in her eyes. the anthro hippo felt more alone than ever, his anger intensifying as he realized he was truly on his own in this fight.

The truth was, Digby and Humphrey’s feud had escalated to such outrageous heights that their office battles became the stuff of legend, whispered about in hushed tones by employees and eagerly recounted by scandalized outsiders. There was the infamous Pineapple Fizz Fiasco, where Humphrey sneakily swapped the recipe’s key ingredient, resulting in a citywide outbreak of Pineapple Pox that left people itching in places they didn't know they had. This debacle led to a media circus and a plummet in sales that had the board sweating through their designer suits.

In a stroke of vindictive genius, Digby retaliated with Cucumber Meltdown, a new flavor that sent Humphrey into a puffed-up, allergic fit, landing him in the hospital looking like an, overinflated carnival prize. Their skirmishes, though, didn’t stop there. From sabotaging each other’s presentations with raunchy slideshow edits to sending anonymously explicit love letters to the wrong executives, their antics were as scandalous as they were destructive. It was a corporate cage match, a no-holds-barred battle for supremacy, where both contenders were determined to outdo each other in the most humiliating ways possible, leaving a trail of chaos and titillation in their wake.

Humphrey, with his gift of the gab and perpetual air of smugness, had always had the upper hand, thanks to his knack for manipulation and a network of cronies who worshipped the ground he strutted on. This entourage of sycophants fueled his bloated ego and reinforced his underhanded tactics, making every day a struggle for dominance and control. Digby, on the other hand, was the heart and soul of the operation, beloved by the employees for his down-to-earth demeanor, innovative ideas, and creative flair. His approachable nature made him a favorite among the real OGs, fostering a genuine sense of camaraderie and loyalty. Yet, this same good nature often left him vulnerable to Humphrey’s incessant machinations. The final straw had come when Humphrey had convinced the board, with his silver-tongued arguments, to actually oust Digby from his executive role. This devastating move relegated the anthro hippo to the drudgery of paperwork, effectively rendering his presence in the company almost invisible. Stripped of his influence, Digby found himself sidelined and his contributions increasingly overlooked.

Now, faced with his own obituary staring back at him in cold print, Digby saw the situation with newfound clarity. This was not just an attack on his reputation but a strategic move designed to erase him entirely from both the company and public memory. He could almost hear Humphrey’s oily, insincere voice delivering the eulogy: “I may have skedaddled his wife, but he was a good man, and ultimately, his time had come…” The thought of Humphrey standing there, basking in false grief, made Digby’s blood boil with a fury he had never felt before. This wasn’t just personal; it was existential. 

But Digby was not one to go quietly into the night, nor would he allow Humphrey the satisfaction of having the last laugh. No, the anthro hippo was made of sterner stuff. He would rise from this ignominious defeat, stronger and more determined than ever, and reclaim his rightful place at the helm of Skedaddle Sodas. He would expose Humphrey for the fraud he was, revealing his deceit and manipulation to all. His mission was clear: restore his beloved Bladder Pop to its rightful place in the hearts and gullets of the people of Anthroxville. He envisioned a triumphant return, one that would reestablish his legacy and vindicate his efforts.

As he meticulously plotted his comeback, Digby felt a surge of determination coursing through his veins. He imagined the bold, triumphant headlines: “Digby Bladder, Back from the Dead!” It had a nice ring to it, resonating with the dramatic flair that the situation deserved. Maybe he’d even call Spencer Godwottery and give him an exclusive in Well Magazine. And there was no way he’d miss ringing Felix Finicky-Snout to secure a slot on the prime-time current affairs show, The Sniff Test. Digby envisioned the look of utter shock and disbelief on Humphrey’s face, the astonished gasps of the board members, and the resounding cheers of his loyal employees. This wasn’t just a comeback; it was a declaration. Yes, he would transform this absurd twist of fate into the greatest comeback story Anthroxville had ever seen, a tale of resilience and redemption that would be remembered for generations to come.

With a steely resolve, Digby folded the newspaper and set it aside with deliberate care. He looked across the table at Fruma, who was still engrossed in her reading, oblivious to the drama unfolding before her. “I’m not dead yet, sweetcheeks,” he said with a wry smile, his voice brimming with determination. “Not by a long shot.” He then fell out of his chair again, startled by rereading the absurd details of his so-called death. After rising to his feet for a second time, Digby turned…