Anthropomorphic

Cocker Spaniel 

Character Portrait

Earnest Wafflemonger

Anthroxville isn't just a town; it's a relentless, pulsating entity, thrumming with the vibrancy of a thousand electric trips and the fevered dreams of those who've witnessed the edge and not yet returned. Just navigating its streets feels like weaving through a dazed and dosed-up brain on the cusp of a meltdown. The roads here stretch like elongated veins, throbbing with the traffic of peculiar vehicles that spew neon smoke and echo the dissonant symphonies of their drivers' souls, à la Kingsley Throttle. Buildings don't stand so much as they keel, sloping and oozing into one another like melting wax; their walls splattered with the graffitied passions of generations that have drunk deep from the well of existential chaos.

The air hangs heavy with the scents of overripe fruits, burning rubber, and the sweet tang of turmoil. Marketplaces resonate with the cacophony of haggling over abstract concepts: a jar of laughter, a pouch of last night's regrets, a bottle filled with pure, unadulterated déjà vu. The citizens of Anthroxville exist in a perennial haze, their faces reflecting stories so bizarre they give even the most stoned-out, wild-eyed traveler of the subconscious, be it Oskar Knullrufs or Jackson Jiffy, pause for thought. You'll find old cranks bemoaning the theft of their favorite shadow, young artists painting with colors yet to be invented, and children swapping tales of their latest trip to alternate dimensions.

And then there are the pubs and gin joints – cesspools of distorted realities, such as Erm Wotsischops' Knotted Knacker. Patrons in these parts don't just drink; they imbibe experiences. One gulp and you're reliving the first moon landing, another sip and you're floating in the vacuous void of space, a shot more and you're in the throes of an intergalactic arm-wrestle.

In this synaptic circus, sanity is almost as out of place as a nun at one of Quentin Marmalade's jamborees. Minds don't just fray here; they unravel, dance, and more occasionally than not, explode into kaleidoscopic bursts. The mundane is an alien concept, with every moment saturated in a visceral, surreal intensity. 

So it is, the anthropomorphic cocker spaniel, Earnest Wafflemonger is the ringmaster, the alchemist, the only one who has the nous and know-how to take on the maelstrom of Anthroxville's collective soul. The overwhelming nature of this cyclone of psychosis renders traditional therapeutic methods woefully inadequate for all but a few exceptions. His alternate therapies? They are a dive headfirst into the storm, a wild dance with one's demons to the beats of a frenetic drum. They aren't for the faint-hearted, but then, faint-heartedness has no place in Anthroxville. This is a world in a perpetual trip, and Wafflemonger is the shaman guiding its inhabitants through their deepest, trippiest visions.

In the recesses of his unconventional treatments, Earnest reserves the talk-therapy sessions for only his most unhinged clients, such as Victor Wallop and John Knuckle, for whom, talking about their feelings feels like a synthesis of Earnest's most extreme therapeutic methods, including:

Dream Drainage: Where patients are strapped to tilting tables, their heads lower than their feet. Through a series of trepanation holes, their nightmares ooze out, drop by drop, only to be collected and force-fed back to them in a frothy, bitter concoction. 

Caged Confessions: In which patients are crammed into suffocating iron maiden-like cages. Every uttered emotion sharpens the internal spikes, forcing them to either suppress their feelings or face piercing consequences. 

Shadowed Sutures: Shadows aren't merely watched; they're stitched onto the client's skin. Each movement becomes an agonizing dance of inner demons quite literally tearing them apart.

The Thorned Threading: The labyrinth's paths are strewn with broken glass and rusted nails. Patients crawl, each cut and puncture symbolizing a reopened mental wound, while ominous clouds gather overhead, shadowing their torturous journey.

Agatha Anagnorisis: Locked in an underground lair, patients are bound to a chair with their eyelids propped open by mechanical clamps. Before them is a colossal portrait of what many deem the most awful sight imaginable: Agatha Collop. The sheer intensity of the screams is such that even Earnest hesitates to employ it, reserving this harrowing experience for the most dire of situations when all else has proven ineffective.

Temporal Torment: The teas Earnest brews induce paralytic states. Patients are aware, but immobilized, forced to relive their traumas on an endless, maddening loop, with no hope of intervention.

Screaming Silos: The chamber not only amplifies the client's fears but also modifies them into mocking, jeering voices that relentlessly berate and belittle, driving them to the precipice of sanity.

Puppets of Perdition: Made from hair and discarded nail clippings of the client, these puppets reenact their worst memories, their strings manipulated by the unseen hands of their past tormentors.

Rorschach's Requiem: The blotted substances on the cards are blood and tears, each drumbeat a death knell, revealing monstrous apparitions that hint at impending doom.

Drowning Dirge: A grand piano's melodies trap patients in a watery grave. Every note prolongs their submersion, the symphony climaxing as they hover between life and the suffocating embrace of their deepest phobias.

Amidst practices that, to an outsider, would appear utterly demented, highly unethical, and most certainly illegal, the anthro cocker spaniel's approaches have garnered widespread recognition throughout Anthroxville for their success. Take, for instance, the Agatha Anagnorisis procedure. Sure, at first, the patient's pupils quiver, attempting to avert their gaze. Their breathing becomes erratic, and they make futile attempts to break free, their restrained hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Salty tears form, but they can't blink them away. Expressions twist in sheer agony, and muffled cries find their way between clenched jaws. Then starts the real screaming, often for the full duration of their session, until Earnest steps in, announcing, "That's time," and releases them back into the wild to have at it. However, after a few weeks of this intensive regimen, something begins to change in the patients. At first, it is almost imperceptible...