Anthropomorphic 

Alpaca Character

Portrait

Herma Frodite

The anthropomorphic alpaca, Herma Frodite—Bottlejob F.C.'s ultras commander-in-chief—surveyed the carnage before her. Anthroxville lay in ruins, its pubs drained drier than a teetotaler's drinks cabinet. The rampaging horde of hardcore Bottlejob supporters had left a trail of devastation that would make a category five hurricane look like a gentle breeze, all in response to the latest footballing fiasco.

It had started, as these things often do in Anthroxville, with a spectacularly botched attempt at justice. Cory Numbnuts, Bottlejob's hapless manager and former adult film star extraordinaire, had led a crack team of coaching staff and players in what could only be described as the world's most incompetent hostage situation, in which they'd attempted to persuade the match officials not to fix their crucial game against Match-Fixers United. Unsurprisingly, this master plan had gone about as well as Bottlejob's last attempt at defending a corner. The Anthroxville Football Soccer League's (AFSL) response was swift and merciless: a 4200-point deduction that sent Bottlejob plummeting through the league tables faster than Marty Shuffle's weekly wages down a slot machine.

"Numbnuts," Herma hissed, adjusting her specs. "I haven't seen a cock-up this massive since they announced him as manager." Indeed, the riots that had erupted then were legendary, a warm-up act for the current apocalypse. But now, with Anthroxville's other watering holes reduced to hollow shells of broken glass and spilled dreams, there was only one target left: The Knotted Knacker. As Herma led her army of inebriated imbeciles towards the pub, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia. The last time she'd seen chaos on this scale, she'd been pelting Cory Numbnuts' effigies with flaming bottles of Pant-Pisser lager. Now, here she was, about to lay siege to Anthroxville's most notorious boozer.

The assembled Bottlejob fanatics – Anthroxville's finest collection of evolutionary dead-ends – gazed at their leader with the kind of vacant adoration usually reserved for flashing neon signs and the hypnotic swirl of a roulette wheel. These knuckle-draggers, bless their withered synapses, were utterly oblivious to the fact that their supposedly ball-busting commander was packing ovaries instead of clackers – a revelation that would've short-circuited their already tenuous grasp on reality.

As she raised her bullhorn to rally the troops, Herma couldn't help but marvel at the beautiful absurdity of it all. Here she was, a woman mistaken for a man, a supposed testosterone tornado, gearing up for what would be a battle for the ages, a clash of titans in a temple of tippling. Herma felt the familiar thrill of her double life coursing through her veins, more intoxicating than a quadruple shot of Mithridates 99% proof. Tomorrow, she'd revert to being the cardigan-wearing neighbor who organized the local book club and tutted at people who didn't use coasters with the passive-aggressive fury of a thousand disappointed librarians. But tonight? Tonight, she was the most feared ultras leader this side of sanity, about to lead her merry band of malcontents into the hallowed halls of The Knotted Knacker.

It was a transformation more dramatic than Bottlejob's nosedive through the AFSL tables, a metamorphosis that would make even the most outlandish Anthroxville urban legends pale in comparison. As The Knotted Knacker loomed before them, the anthro alpaca knew this was going to be a night for the history books, assuming anyone would be sober enough to remember it come morning. Anthroxville would never know what hit it. Neither, for that matter, would The Knotted Knacker. But then again, neither establishment was particularly known for its powers of observation or its ability to resist a good, old-fashioned free-for-all.

Erm Wotsischops, the pub's long-suffering proprietor and self-appointed general in this war against sobriety, had fortified The Knotted Knacker with the paranoid genius of a man who'd seen one too many last orders. Rumors swirled through the baying mob like spilled lager on a sticky floor, each more fantastical than the last. They spoke of a moat filled with non-alcoholic brew so insipid it could induce instant sobriety, an obstacle course of distractions that would disorientate even the most single-minded drunk, and bar staff trained in the arcane art of Volley Service - a technique so devastating it was said to be banned in seventeen countries and three alternate dimensions. Herma raised her bullhorn, the battered device looking like it had survived more battles than most of her followers. "Right, you sentient skidmarks," she bellowed, “Let’s have at it!”

With a primal scream, Herma launched herself at the Knacker's reinforced doors. Her army of hooligans followed suit, their collective IQ dropping with each thunderous impact. The doors, however, stood firm, clearly having been designed with the average Bottlejob ultra in mind. Undeterred by the doors' stubborn resistance, Herma's eyes scanned the crowd, settling on two particularly thick-skulled ultras, Axel Kettlebell, and Spackle Knockabout. With a sharp gesture, she directed them to the front. Understanding dawned on their faces, a rare occurrence for Bottlejob supporters. They nodded grimly, accepting their new role in this alcohol-fueled crusade. The assault on the doors resumed with renewed vigor. Axel and Spackle, their heads lowered like battering rams, led each charge. 

The impact of flesh and bone against reinforced wood echoed through the street, punctuated by grunts of pain and determination. Again and again, they hurled themselves at the unyielding barrier, each attempt leaving them more battered but no less resolved. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of futile collisions, a deep groan emanated from the doors. The sound of splintering wood filled the air as the entrance to the pub finally gave way. The doors swung open reluctantly, as if mirroring Erm's daily reluctance to welcome his patrons.

As the anthro alpaca and her rabble of Bottlejob ultras staggered in, they found themselves facing a gauntlet of boozy brilliance that would've made even the legendary tactician Frødrik Frødrikson question his life choices and reach for the nearest bottle of Face-Pegger. First came the obstacle course of distractions, a maze of sensory overload designed to befuddle and discombobulate. Blaring slot machines, hypnotic pinball tables, and strategically placed tabloids featuring scantily clad pulse-raisers, such as Penelope Snizzsnapper in various stages of undress, created a carnival of confusion. One hooligan, momentarily mesmerized by a flashing jackpot sign, walked face-first into a support beam and crumpled like a discarded betting slip.

Herma raised her bullhorn again, "Don't be fooled by these cheap tricks, you pathetic piss-artists! Make for the bar!” But Erm Wotsischops and his battle-hardened bar staff were ready. With a war cry that sounded something like "Tally-ho!" they launched their opening salvo – a barrage of pre-poured, flaming whiskey shooters catapulted across the room. 

The air filled with streaks of blue flame as the projectile potables arced towards the invading force. Several ultras, their survival instincts overridden by a Pavlovian response to airborne alcohol, lunged at the soaring libations with the desperation of Bottlejob strikers finally spotting an open goal, attempting to catch the flaming shots in their mouths. The resulting scene looked like a demented fire-breathing contest gone horribly awry. Yelps of pain mingled with belches of flame, creating a symphony of stupidity that echoed throughout the interior. Undeterred, the horde pressed on, only to be confronted by the pub's pièce de résistance: the legendary moat of non-alcoholic brew. This frothy barrier, installed by Erm's visionary great-grandfather, Yahno Wotsischops, had repelled many an invasion of soused simpletons with the effectiveness of garlic against vampires.

Herma, her specs fogged and askew, peered at the moat in disbelief. One particularly addled ultra, mistaking the moat for a giant pint of Zugzwangler, dove in headfirst with a joyous cry of "Bottoms up!" His gleeful expression curdled faster than milk in the Anthroxville sun as he resurfaced, spitting out the non-alcoholic brew with a look a utter betrayal. "It's a trap, you absolute muppets!" Herma shrieked, her voice cracking like Bottlejob's defense under pressure. "It's not real beer… it's... it's... an abomination!" But desperation, it seems, is the mother of inebriated invention. In a moment of drunken brilliance that would have made even Gregory Fromage's insurance scams look pedestrian, the ultras began to link arms, forming a human bridge across the moat. It was a feat of engineering so spectacularly moronic that even Erm, watching from behind the bar with his sink plunger raised and ready, had to pause in reluctant admiration.

As the first wave of swivel-eyed louts stumbled across this swaying, sentient, belching bridge, they found themselves face-to-face with Erm's last line of defense: his crack team of bartenders, a ragtag bunch of booze-slingers who'd seen more action than a geriatric workout video. Erm, his bloodshot eyes narrowing with grim determination, barked out, "Volley Service!” His plan was simple yet diabolical: nullify the invaders by getting them so thoroughly sloshed they'd forget why they came in the first place. After all, an ultra too drunk to stand is an ultra too drunk to pillage. The bar staff snapped into formation with the practiced ease of veterans who'd fought in the trenches of intoxication since time immemorial. They arranged themselves in two rows, a phalanx of pint-pullers ready to face down the tide of hooligans surging towards them.

The front line, armed with speed-pouring sleight-of-hand and the dead-eyed stare of the chronically overworked, focused on slinging drinks faster than Binky Pettifogger's pickpocketing prowess. Behind them, the second rank wielded broom handles like claymores, fending off the more enthusiastic punters attempting to vault the bar. The anthro alpaca, momentarily taken aback by this display of alcoholic acrobatics, adjusted her specs and muttered through her bullhorn, "What on earth…"

The ultras charged, a wave of belligerence and body odor crashing against the bar. The front line of bartenders moved with the fluid grace of choreographed chaos, pulling pints and pouring shots with machine-like efficiency. Glasses slid down the bar like greased lightning, finding their mark with unerring accuracy. Meanwhile, the second rank twirled their broom handles with deadly precision, cracking knuckles and deflecting airborne empties. One particularly agile barman executed a perfect backflip, simultaneously knocking out a would-be bar jumper and uncorking a bottle of Baader-Meinhof with his teeth. Herma watched in awe as her forces were systematically watered and walloped into submission. "Bollocks," she muttered, "they're actually competent."

The bar staff rotated positions with clockwork precision, fresh faces moving to the front to deal with the onslaught while their comrades took a breather and assessed the battlefield. It was a dance of drink-pouring devastation, a ballet of booze and bruises. But even the mightiest defenses have their breaking points. As the night wore on, the sheer number of Bottlejob ultras began to tell. One by one, bartenders were yanked over the bar, disappearing into the seething mass of loutdom only to re-emerge minutes later, glassy-eyed and chanting nonsensical football slogans. Erm, watching his troops fall to the insidious process of Initiation, let out a primal roar that momentarily silenced the pub. With that, he grabbed a bottle of Mithridates, took a heroic swig, and then…