Anthropomorphic

Sambar Deer 

Character Portrait

Hamilton Lickspittle

In the champion arm-wrestler's calloused grip of a place, otherwise known as Anthroxville—a town where the fabric of existence contorts like an unchained nightmare—dawn barrels in like a crazed, gun-toting outlaw fresh from a heist at one of Dinero Cashmoney's banks. The sun claws its way into the sky with a sickly, spectral glow, casting shadows that thrash and contort like a blitz of ghouls on a bad trip. This town—if you can even call it that—is a madhouse menagerie where reality and hallucination slug it out in a never-ending brawl that gives a certain Axel Kettlebell pause for thought. Anthroxville isn't just off-kilter; it’s a full-throttle, no-holds-barred vortex where every sunrise sets off a new round of cosmic absurdity and high-octane hysteria. 

An isolated enclave buried deep within a forgotten nowhere, Anthroxville embodies a Janus-faced reality where duality reigns supreme. This bizarre masterpiece of contradictions showcases an architectural tapestry stitched together from the decaying threads of Gothic spires, the sleek lines of Art Deco edifices, and the crumbling remnants of Brutalist monstrosities. Narrow, twisting streets wind through the town like gnarled veins, mocking the very concept of urban planning with their tortuous, convulted paths that meander aimlessly, doubling back on themselves and leading to unexpected dead ends and intersections that defy any semblance of logic.

These buildings, once the life of the party, now stand like old retirees yakking about the good old days of yore, while creaking at every joint. Their facades murmur tales of past glories mixed with present-day shabbiness. Vines of bioluminescent flora snake up the walls, casting a glow that’s more disco than divine, adding a strange, kitschy charm to the town’s decay. In Anthroxville, the interplay of light and shadow, life and death, past and present creates a surreal, yin-yang tableau where nothing is as it seems. Every corner in these parts unveils a disorientating new twist in the town's bizarre and ever-unfolding narrative of contradictions. 

It is here that the days of the anthropomorphic sambar deer, Hamilton Lickspittle, are spent haplessly rushing about in damage control, desperately trying—and inevitably failing—to fix the chaos left behind by his mischievous alter-ego. Hamilton remains unsure as to exactly when his impish alter-ego (named Shamilton during a session with psychiatrist Earnest Wafflemonger) entered the fray, although his emergence seems to coincide with Hamilton puffing his way through serval dumptruck's worth of Jackson Jiffy's Zulu Zeitgeist super-skunk in one sitting. He also has no clue why Shamilton is so hellbent on wreaking havoc in his life with such gleeful abandon. What is certain is that all efforts to subdue him have so far been hopelessly futile. Diagnosed by Earnest as early-onset spliff personality disorder, of all of Shamilton's havoc-wreaking gunga-fried stitch-ups, one in particular stands out, during which (as Hamilton later found out to his horror) he filmed and uploaded a video rattling off all the ungodly things he'd like to do to Victor Wallop's nan, of all people, given half the chance. 

This digital abomination, once uploaded, quickly spread like wildfire through the town’s rumor mill, igniting a firestorm of outrage. Victor, upon viewing this affront, was consumed by a rage so intense it bordered on the apocalyptic, and nearly suffered a rage-induced aneurysm, during which he headbutted his way through six consecutive walls and pummelled his best pal, John Knuckle, senseless in a blind mouth-foaming frenzy. He couldn't make sense of it. First Wilbur Peppercorn, and now this twisted sicko. Did the Wallop name mean nothing? Was it losing its prestige? After finally getting a grip on his emotions, he floored two more of his henchmen, Franz Nuzzle and Aye Genteightonesix, before pledging an oath of revenge to the universe, and armed with a sink plunger-loaded crossbow, set out to scour Anthroxville high and low for his sworn foe and return honor to the besmirched Wallop clan. Hamilton meanwhile, was now back in control of his consciousness, and entirely oblivious to the impending pasting of a lifetime soon to be coming his way.

Victor’s vendetta was nothing short of epic. He enlisted the aid of the intrepid jungle ranger, Quincy Sow-Sow, to venture into the depths of The Wild Wilds on the outskirts of town, and Frødrik Frødrikson, to keep a lookout for Lickspittle during his expedition into the unknown depths of Anthroxville's largest pothole. Yet it was near the Trous de Gloire cenotaph—a somber monument to the town’s fallen heroes at the hands of Agatha Collop—that Victor finally spied his quarry. Hamilton, oblivious to the impending doom, was nonchalantly loitering near the cenotaph when Victor let out an expletive-laden war cry and fired his first shot. The initial plunger missed its mark, striking the unsuspecting Gloria Widdershins in the left flank. The second shot, aimed with greater precision, whistled past a ducking double-act of Florence de Looselips and Rupert Taboo and lodged itself in Mungo Mugwort's windpipe as he crouched to aid the fallen Gloria.

The third shot, however, hit home with unerring accuracy, smacking Hamilton squarely in the mouth and sending him sprawling at the base of the monument. The impact was so profound that Hamilton never quite regained full control of his tongue, which, much like Shamilton, seemed to have developed a rebellious mind of its own. This lingering impairment served as a constant, humiliating reminder of the chaos that Shamilton had wrought upon the anthro sambar deer's life, and has...