Anthropomorphic 

Furry Fox 

Character Portrait

Jackson Jiffy

As a general rule, there exists two kinds of folk in Anthroxville: those who think that reality is too twisted to take any drugs; and those who think that reality is too twisted not to take any. The anthropomorphic furry fox, Jackson Jiffy, has belonged to both camps during his life, however, is now zonkedly strapped-in to the latter, for he’s seen just how wild things can get with a little too much real-life to ever dare go back down that path again. These days, it doesn’t take all that much to send you over the edge either; just a couple hits of high-grade reality and you ain’t never coming back. Taxes, dashed hopes and dreams, consequences for one's actions – it’s almost as if the people weren't already being taken to poundtown by the daily pile-driving parade of problems on their plate. He’s lost many friends and loved ones to the real world, and will no doubt lose many more. Jackson himself, however, is safely off that hellbound wagon of torment and tribulation, and having successfully abstained from reality for a number of brain-bending years, now spends his days trying to innoculate the populace with his cornucopia of illicit medicinals and cautionary tales. "If you not trippin’, you trippin’" he once advised Rupert Taboo, whilst trippin’ out on a trip.

Years of dedicated service to getting the people gonked-up and gimped-out on his gourmet gear has seen the furry fox become one of the most celebrated drug-peddlers in Anthroxville, with regulars such as Quentin Marmalade, Kiki Gobflap, Gwylim Soulqueef, Mia Culpa, Patience Bibble-Rose, Sid Blitzkrieg, Axel Kettlebell, and Mitzi Midriff, routinely relying on Jackson to keep the unrelenting clutches of reality at bay. Even the famed Dr. Ralph Whiplash regularly dials in for a couple kgs of Jiffy's famed Zulu Zeitgeist super-skunk to help take the edge off before undertaking any complicated surgeries.

In this psychedelic rodeo of Anthroxville, a city of dreamers, schemers, and midnight believers, Jackson's ascent to folkloric prominence wasn't just a testament to his silver-tongued zip and zeal, or his curated trove of transcendental tinctures; it was also fueled by two emergent elixirs on the scene, still shadowy in their infancy: Copium and Hopium.

Copium, with its dense, opaque consistency of molten lead, had recently become a much sought-after balm for Anthroxville's failed visionaries, jaded jesters, and the ever-hopeful yet perpetually downtrodden. A dose of pure Copium (preferably inhaled, but also taken intranasally, intravenously, and even, when the situation calls for it, rectally) is a whispered pact with oneself; an intoxicating reassurance that the world's failures and faux pas were external beasts, not internal demons. But this isn’t merely about intoxication; this is about vindication, quaffing it meant being cradled off in a deceptive cocoon of comforting untruths. A siren in a bottle, it sings a song of sweet deceit, suggesting that maybe, just maybe, the universe was the one at fault, not them. In the relentless slugfest of Anthroxville, Copium is a seductive glint against the howling storm of reality.

Hopium, meanwhile, glistens like morning dew kissed by the first sun, encapsulating the very essence of dreams yet to be dreamt. Every droplet is like a minuscule beacon radiating with iridescent optimism. To indulge is not just to skim the astral plane; it is to be spirited away into a celestial waltz, twirling amidst galaxies yet unnamed. The magic of Hopium is such that even the staunchest of cynics, those brutalized and battle-hardened by the horrors inflicted by time's relentless march, find their ironclad convictions simply melting away. In its delusional embrace, one isn’t just pondering the far-fetched; they are drafting blueprints for its realization. In this captivating realm, whimsical fantasies that once earned scoffs or pitying smiles, transform into tantalizing prospects, hovering just within grasp, waiting for the hand zooted enough to seize them. Within the whirl of everyday existence, Hopium is a whispered promise that the improbable is merely one more hit away from the inevitable.

So ubiquitous has Jackson become amongst the populace in recent years that a trinity of phrases—"We be Jiffy," "We be Jiffin'," and "We be Jiffed"—have infiltrated the common lexicon. These linguistic innovations, born in the crucible of Anthroxville's chemically altered consciousness, describe states of being that teeter between perceived enlightenment and obvious confusion, self-assurance, and thinly veiled doubt.

Spawned from Jackson's "benefactions," these phrases have spread through the city's social strata with impressive speed, finding a home in both casual street conversations and supposedly high-brow discussions. They're badges of belonging for the initiated, cautionary flags for the wary—a shorthand for experiences that often leave observers more perplexed than the users themselves. In corporate meetings and street corner gatherings alike, these words serve as both invitation and warning, hinting at the transformative—or potentially destructive—effects lurking in the furry fox's increasingly popular concoctions.

These verbal tokens of Anthroxville's collective experimentation have become a cultural touchstone, reflecting the city's complex and often contradictory relationship with altered states. They're celebrated by those who see them as keys to unlocking hidden potential, and criticized by others as symptoms of a society prioritizing escapism over progress. Whether viewed as stepping stones to personal growth or signposts on a road to nowhere, these phrases embody the dual nature of Jackson's influence—a force that promises transcendence but often delivers confusion, offering a linguistic roadmap through a landscape where reality and illusion blend in ways that are as unsettling as they are alluring.