Anthropomorphic

Persian Cat 

Character Portrait

Gideon Rumspringa

Welcome to Anthroxville, the neon-lit lunatic asylum where reality is a vague memory and psychosis has staged a hostile takeover. Here, the architecture mimics the madness of its inhabitants: buildings leer with crooked grins, their façades flickering with signs that announce absurdities and impossibilities. The city's populace parades in a carnival of existential crises, swaggering with the bravado of those who’ve abandoned any pretense of normalcy—not just with the world, but with themselves.

The air vibrates with an electric charge, a mix of anticipation and dread, as if the atmosphere itself has a nervous tic. The streets pulse with a wild, erratic heartbeat, convulsing in waves of laughter, screams, and the occasional sound of collapsing architecture. Every corner promises its own madcap spectacle, a theater of the absurd playing out in an unending loop.

Over there, flat-earther Pat O'Plateau is on a mission, riding atop a steamroller, hunting a globalist with the fervor of a zealot at a witch trial. Just up the street, Kiki Gobflap audaciously fends off a pack of rogues and roughnecks with nothing but a humble sink-plunger. Further along, fallen aristocrat, Bertie Plimsoll is up to his usual antics, dropping his drawers and publicly pulling his pud for all to see. Around the corner, moment-junkie Mitzi Midriff chases the dragon of the present, her frantic search for the next fix of now, leaving behind a cataclysm of anti-climaxes in her wake. Back the way you came, Archie Bot raves about his latest theory: simulations within simulations within simulations, drawing a crowd of bemused onlookers who half-listen, half-eye a quick escape.

Above it all, the hot air balloon of tax exile Dinero Cashmoney drifts aimlessly, emblazoned with four giant dollar signs on either side of the basket and one underneath. They flash like strobe lights, casting a garish, pulsating glow across the sky, a surreal beacon of excess and avarice. Meanwhile, deep below, the swashbuckling Frødrik Frødrikson plunges into city's largest pothole, determined to find the Anthroxville's elusive all-time low, a quest as quixotic as it is Sisyphean.

Anthroxville thrives on its own absurdity, a perpetual motion machine of madness fueled in no small part by the gimp-gonking gear hawked by one Jackson Jiffy. The notion of a frank and honest straight-shooter is not just improbable, but laughable. Moon-howlers, eye-swivelers, and tongue-lashers roam the streets unabated, dictating that everyone shoots from the hip and thinks with their spleen. Sticklers, squares, and stiffnecks are relics here, unfit for survival in this delirious ecosystem. This is a city where the loose-livered and the mentally-manic flourish; a lurid fever-dream where sense and reason were evicted long ago.

At the epicenter of this urban madhouse is the anthropomorphic Persian cat, Gideon Rumspringa, whose notoriety as an artist rivals that of the fraudulent au fait, Gregory Fromage, But where Gregory confines himself to studio forgeries and framed deceptions, Gideon’s art is raw, public, and searingly immediate. He’s a street artist, or more precisely, a tattoo graffitist, etching his scrawled visions onto unsuspecting canvases of flesh belonging to the doped-up, the black-out drunk, and the otherwise incapacitated, reviving a medium long dismissed as passé. None of his tattoos are consensual; they are considered graffiti, an invasive and unappreciated blight on the tapestry of everyday Anthroxville life.

He has successfully tatted the likes of Bernard Banjax, Patience Bibble-Rose Jasper Skint, Franz Nuzzle, Rio Kazoo, and Axel Kettlebell, among countless others, each a testament to his dash and daring. But why were tattoos quite so reviled in Anthroxville? Once the proud insignia of the outlaw, tattoos took a nosedive down the social ladder, landing squarely in the sanitized arms of mainstream conformity. It became too socially acceptable, too prim and proper. Gideon's vision was to bring it back full circle and back to its roots, undoing the gentrification that had tamed it so. However, as the anthro Persian cat will readily explain, this was not just a personal crusade—it was a...