Anthropomorphic

Sika Deer

Character Portrait

Edison Upskirt

Not quite a diner, restaurant, or fast-food joint, the anthropomorphic sika deer, Edison Upskirt's eatery, Upskirt Nosher, stands as a staple-defining institution in the gastro gong-pit that is Anthroxville. Nestled just a couple of blocks from Erm Wotsischops’ howling hemorrhoid of a pub, The Knotted Knacker, and within spitting distance of Bernard Banjax's financial misadventures Bernard Bankrolls and, Banjax Bail Bonds, this culinary hellscape dares patrons to take their lives into their own hands with every bite. The building itself, a ramshackle structure that seems to defy physics and building codes in equal measure, leans precariously to one side, as if trying to escape its own reputation. Its exterior, a patchwork of scorch marks and hastily applied fireproofing, tells a tale of countless culinary catastrophes barely contained within its walls. 

The neon sign above the entrance flickers with menacing glee, its erratic pulses of light and shadow spelling out dire warnings.

DIGESTIVE TRACT: THE FINAL FRONTIER

blazes in searing red, a foreboding herald of the gastronomic odyssey that awaits within. The ominous message dances and writhes, as if possessed by the very spirits of indigestion it portends. Each flash serves as both invitation and warning, daring patrons to cross the threshold into a realm where culinary adventure and digestive peril intertwine.

The non-descript "food" (if one can call it that) at Upskirt Nosher is so violently spicy that Anthroxville's Bomb Disposal Unit conducts routine raids, mistaking the infernal aromas for chemical warfare. A permanent picket line of battle-scarred proctologists maintains vigil outside, their desperate petitions to President Clint Bigot to shut down this explosive ringburner on humanitarian grounds falling on deaf ears. The local fire department, having grown weary of false alarms, now simply parks a truck outside during business hours, its crew resigned to the inevitable conflagrations that erupt with alarming regularity. The firefighters, in a stroke of entrepreneurial genius, have set up a lucrative side business selling aloe vera gel and industrial-strength toilet paper to the stream of whimpering customers stumbling out of the establishment. They've even started a loyalty program: "Buy ten emergency ice suppositories, get one free colostomy bag."

Inside, the air thrums with danger. Spontaneous combustions among the daring diners are as common as the complimentary fire extinguishers served alongside each order by waiters encased in double-layered HazMat suits. These brave (or possibly suicidal) servers navigate the treacherous dining room with the grace of disaster-zone first responders, their movements precise and deliberate as they dodge geysers of flame erupting from unsuspecting plates. The floor, a mosaic of blast shadows and suspicious stains, is said to be cleaned nightly with a mixture of industrial-grade bleach and holy water – though some swear they've seen the mop smoking ominously after each use, and emitting a faint, demonic whisper.

The walls, once a cheery pastel, now bear the scars of countless flavor explosions, creating an obscene tapestry of culinary carnage. Splatter patterns of varying hues create a dizzying, abstract mural that seems to shift and writhe in the flickering light. In some places, the more potent sauces appear to have even eaten through the plaster, revealing glimpses of a mysterious void beyond. The reds range from deep crimson reminiscent of a demon's blush to a fiery scarlet that could ignite the air. Streaks of terrifying orange-red tinge evoke images of molten metal fresh from the forge, while splatters of eye-searing vermillion pulse with sacrilegious intensity. Flecks of rich burgundy, dark as a moonless midnight, complete the red spectrum with a foreboding undertone. The greens span an equally alarming gamut, from a sickly chartreuse that churns the stomach to a muggy bile that seems to throb with mutant energy. Patches of unnerving lime glow with toxic potential, while streaks of otherworldly olive shimmer with an uncanny light. Occasionally, a splash of an indescribable shade adds a particularly disturbing hue that seems to defy the known color spectrum altogether, its very existence a mockery of natural law.

Framed reviews from food critics line these ill-omened walls, their glass cracked and frames charred, bearing testimonials that range from "An assault on the senses!" to "I've seen the face of God, and it was weeping." These critiques, penned by the bravest (or most foolhardy) gastronomes, are displayed like trophies of conquered foes. One review, its paper curled and singed at the edges, simply consists of scorch marks vaguely resembling the words "HELP ME." Another, written in what appears to be blood, declares, "I have stared into the abyss, and the abyss stared back..." Amidst these grim accolades are posted safety warnings, each more unsettling than the last. One sign, its edges bubbling from some caustic splatter, reads "In case of flavor breach, do not look directly at your food." Another, partially obscured by what looks suspiciously like claw marks, warns, "Spice-induced time travel is not covered by our insurance." Beneath it, a hastily scrawled note in jittery handwriting adds, "Neither is spice-induced dimensional shifting. Don't ask how we know."

Scattered among the photos are various artifacts from legendary challenges, each a testament to culinary atrocity. A bent spoon, its metal warped as if it had briefly liquefied, sits in a place of dubious honor. Nearby, a partially dissolved bowl bears witness to contents so corrosive they burned through the ceramic. Most unsettling of all, a single, petrified taste bud floats in a hermetically sealed case, a grim reminder of the sensory casualties in these gastronomic battles. Above, a "Wall of Flame" sign flickers sporadically, casting an eerie glow over a showcase of faded photographs. These images immortalize past eating challenge champions, including the notorious Rupert Taboo, the daring Wesley Smidge, and the indomitable Bridget Kookold. Their expressions, frozen in time, are a disconcerting blend of triumph and gastric distress—capturing the precise moment of their pyrrhic victories.

Flanking the entrance to the restrooms, another sign vies for the attention of Nosher's patrons with its stark message: "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." This infernal warning, etched in what appears to be char marks on flame-resistant metal, sparks spirited debate among the regulars. Does it pertain solely to the impending bathroom experience, or does it encompass the establishment as a whole? The ambiguity only adds to the sign's menacing allure. Below, scrawled in what might be hot sauce or something far more sinister, a helpful addendum suggests, "For best results, close eyes and think of Anthroxville."

The menu, barely visible through the choking red haze of sin, sulfur, and spice, reads like a list of war crimes: Sizzling Spicebomb, Fizzling Firefeast, Nuclear Nightmare, and the infamous Satanic Skidmark – the latter rumored to contain a measure of Agatha Collop’s diabolical homemade chili oil. In recent years, only John Knuckle, the devil incarnate himself, has mustered the plums to attempt this apocalyptic dish, an event that caused such gastrointestinal pandemonium that it's now commemorated annually as "The Day of a Thousand Howls."

On this notorious anniversary, daring patrons flock to Upskirt Nosher to pay homage to Knuckle's legendary feat, though none dare to fully reenact it. Instead, they opt for milder menu items, pushing their limits just enough to capture the spirit of the day without risking total digestive annihilation. Local hospitals have learned to staff extra nurses for this event, bracing for the inevitable influx of tear-streaked customers clutching their bellies and questioning their life choices – all from merely sampling the "safer" dishes. The emergency room at Serious Setback General even has a dedicated "Upskirt Nosher Wing," complete with reinforced toilets and soundproofed cubicles for the privacy of wailing victims.

Behind the scenes, Edison and his cadre of spice-summoning psychopaths engage in dark culinary sorcery. Hot-headed mutinies erupt hourly, with Edison's bellowing cries of treachery echoing through the serving hatch, followed by the crashing cacophony of airborne cookware. Glimpses into the kitchen reveal the anthro sika deer locked in mortal combat against a backdrop of flaming stovetops, pirouetting to fend off knife-wielding attacks from all angles. His antlers, singed and scarred from countless battles, serve as both weapon and shield in these culinary skirmishes. Somehow, between recurring coup attempts (which Edison highly suspects Cornelius Fudge of instigating), orders are miraculously fulfilled. The kitchen staff, a motley crew of culinary mercenaries and exiled chefs from the world's spiciest regions, seem to thrive on the chaos, their maniacal laughter mixing with the sizzle of hellfire-hot pans and the occasional explosion from the walk-in freezer. Rumors abound that Edison recruits his chefs exclusively from maximum-security prisons and asylums for the gourmet insane, offering them a chance at redemption through the medium of gastronomic warfare.

The restaurant’s supply chain is as mysterious as its recipes. Deliveries arrive under cover of darkness, the trucks unmarked save for the biohazard symbols. Local farmers speak in hushed tones of a shadowy figure who visits their fields at midnight, leaving behind bags of cash in exchange for their most mutated and terrifying produce. The Upskirt Nosher's herb garden, a twisted jungle of sentient plants and carnivorous vegetation, is tended to by a former botanist who reportedly went mad after tasting one of Edison's experimental condiments. Visitors to the garden claim to have seen tomatoes pulsating with unholy light and peppers that whisper obscenities in long-dead languages.

The restaurant's basement, off-limits to all but the most trusted (or expendable) staff, is the subject of wild speculation. Some say it houses a portal to the very depths of hell, from which the anthro sika deer draws his diabolical inspiration. Others insist it's home to a subterranean spice mine, where flavor crystals of untold potency are painstakingly collected and harvested. Whatever the truth, the occasional tremors and unearthly howls emanating from below do little to quell the rumors.

Despite its reputation – or perhaps because of it – Upskirt Nosher draws a rogues' gallery of regulars. Johann Underbelly, Archie Bot, Grissel Putz, Axel Kettlebell, Marcel Gizzard, Herma Frodite, and Clém de la Crème make daily pilgrimages to play Russian roulette with their innards. Even Quentin Marmalade once arranged a covert rendezvous here with Penelope Snizzsnapper, then the star of Charles Moneyshot's Moneyshot Motion Pictures, to discuss a potential Ménage à Moi Productions flick.

The meeting ended prematurely when Penelope's tail caught fire after accidentally dipping it in a bowl of Molten Magma Mayonnaise, a condiment so potent it's rumored to violate several international treaties and the laws of thermodynamics. The resulting conflagration set off a chain reaction that ended with half the dining room engulfed in blue flames and Quentin's fedora achieving low earth orbit. Eyewitnesses swear they saw the hat streaking across the night sky for weeks afterward, a fiery comet of spectacle and synthetic fibers. This incendiary incident has since become folkloric, whispered about in hushed tones by Nosher's patrons as they nervously eye their own plates, wondering if today might be the day their meal decides to fight back with equal ferocity.

In Anthroxville, where culinary standards limbo under a bar set impossibly low, Upskirt Nosher proudly claims the title of worst munchhole in town – except for all the others. It's a testament to the iron-clad stomachs and questionable judgment of Anthroxville's denizens that this gastronomic thunderdome not only survives but thrives, serving up chaos and indigestion in equal measure to all who dare enter its doors. Local legend has it that surviving a meal at Upskirt Nosher grants one immunity to lesser forms of food poisoning, a claim that remains unverified but widely embraced by the establishment's devoted (if somewhat singed) clientele.

As night descends upon Anthroxville, Upskirt Nosher transitions into its nocturnal phase, a crepuscular metamorphosis that hardly dulls its fiery spirit. The daytime inferno mellows to a smoldering purgatory, the screams of the damned subsiding to a chorus of muffled whimpers and occasional gasps. Edison, ever the maestro of gastro chaos, oversees the shift change with a satisfied smirk on his broiled muzzle.

The neon signs flicker with renewed vigor, their garish glow a beacon to night-owls, insomniacs, and those with questionable judgment. A fresh wave of the intrepid and foolhardy trickles in, drawn like moths to a flame – or in this case, moths to a thermonuclear reactor. In the kitchen, the night shift take to their positions, a cadre of gustatory nightmares ready to unleash gastronomic bedlam upon the unsuspecting. The grills, never truly cool, reignite with hellish intensity. Pots bubble with paranormal concoctions, their contents defying both description and several laws of physics.

As the clock ticks past midnight, Upskirt Nosher stands ready, its 24/7 operation a testament to the ceaseless appetite of Anthroxville's denizens for culinary adventure (or misadventure). The cycle of devilish, delirious, barley-edible, doom continues unabated, proving that in this corner of the world, the fires of indigestion – much like the restaurant itself – never truly sleep.