Anthropomorphic 

Furry Bulldog 

Character Portrait

John Knuckle

Amid the sprawling urban embrace of Anthroxville, where chimneys belch grey and the streets pulse with an ever-churning grit, there are few who embody the city's spirit quite like the anthropomorphic furry bulldog, John Knuckle, who has been tormenting his fellow residents since the day of his ill-fated inception. From the moment of his birth, John's mother sensed he was destined for major things, though not in the way she had hoped. As she gazed upon her newborn, she recoiled at the sight: a furrowed brow, blazing eyes, and a diabolical snarl that suggested something far more sinister than mere infancy: the little demon was clearly possessed.

The infant's first cry shattered eardrums and expectations alike. It was no mewling newborn's wail, but a guttural roar that would make seasoned football hooligans blush. Panic seized the delivery room as nurses froze and doctors gawked, their faces etched with horror at the unholy spectacle before them. John's mother, eyes wild with desperation, pleaded, "Take it back! I beg you! This can't be mine!" But her words fell on deaf ears as the medical staff stood transfixed, paralyzed by the sight of this aberration of nature. 

Growing up, the screams and snarls persisted, however, they were accompanied by eye-gouges, headbutts, uppercuts, and an obsession with stealing cash out of his mom's purse. This served as a prelude to what was to come, and when the furry bulldog reached his third birthday, he marked the occasion by attempting to take a nursery assistant hostage with a chainsaw – a feat that landed the young hoodlum with a criminal conviction and 18 months served in a young offender institute (YOI). This was a record in Anthroxville which still stands to this day as the youngest ever felon, with John proudly displaying the framed mug shots above the fireplace at home (both front and side profiles) in which he is treating the cameraman to a berserk middle finger. After he was released from YOI, John went on to accomplish many feats for the youngest ever, such as fraud, arson, carjacking, and extortion – impressively, all before the age of six.

Yet, as the chapters of his juvenile delinquency began to close, a fresh page was turned. The furry bulldog, perhaps bored with conventional crime, fashioned himself a new vocation: door-to-door soap boxing. Or to be precise, selling soap with the nuance of a bare-knuckle boxer. His product, Knuckle Suds, may well have been a cleanser par excellence, but it was his unique sales pitch, involving threats of cerebral trauma, that truly moved units. Although he describes this enterprising endeavor as a nice little earner, he also partakes in the odd bit of debt collecting and intimidation for his top boy, Victor Wallop. Upon first encountering Victor (while burgling the same house) it was a meeting of minds. The two lads speak the same language (mush, guv, son, innit, chief, muppet, knobhead, prick, cunt), support the same football team (Bottlejob F.C.), and share an emotional affinity for crime, boxing, arm-wrestling, pubs, and curry.

In fact, it was over a curry at Edison Upskirt's, Upskirt Nosher, that their friendship blossomed; a momentous occasion which sealed Victor’s unconditional respect for John in perpetuity. Without so much as glancing at the menu, John nonchalantly ordered 12 pints of Face-Pegger lager and a Satanic Skidmark, to which the waiter muttered a silent prayer under his breath. “Oi, you cheeky lil' cunt – stop pissin' about and go make me curry,” advised John. “And don’t go forgettin' about them bevvies either, yer prick,” added Victor. Shortly, after animated talk about Bottlejob's manager, Cory Numbnuts, being a tactical muppet, the knobhead John had knocked out that morning en route to the pub, and the mutual brethren they were both acquainted with, the Skidmark entered the arena. Even to the unordained eye, the curry was in desperate need of an exorcism (much like baby John); a bio-hazard, writhing and spluttering in agonizing convulsions from deep under the thick coating of marinaded Mughali magma. Despite the protection of a double-layered Hazmat suit, the waiter dared not look directly at the monstrosity. This made good sense, considering his predecessor had not-so-spontaneously combusted after inadvertently catching a glance at the dish's reflection from a diner's spoon across the room, all those years ago when it had last been served.

After a pregnant pause, John upended 5 consecutive pints, with the amber nectar serving as a bracer for the reckoning that twitched on his plate, awaiting his next move. "Lovely jubbly," he loudly proclaimed, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Now then, let's be seein' what the fuss surroundin' this naughty lookin' ringburner is all about, shall we?" The whole restaurant, along with the kitchen staff, watched on with silent faces of morbid curiosity. The furry bulldog brandished the prong and machete that accompanied the dish and inquisitively probed the sporing radioactive waste. With a sibilant hiss, it responded, squirting a glob of nuclear inferno into his face, nearly taking out an eye. "Oi!" John shouted in retaliation. At this moment, three of the kitchen staff collapsed, while the diners, including Quentin Marmalade, Florence de Looselips, Graffen Gruntsqueeze, Kiki Gobflap, Rupert Taboo, Digby Bladder, Fruma Putz, and Herbert Whiffpop, all scrambled to evacuate the premises.

Unperturbed, John was, “…many things, but a pussy? No way guv, not me.” With a steady hand, he wiped his face, stolidly knocked back the remaining 7 pints, and implored the waiter to get his skates on and deliver another 12 frothy ones, son. Meanwhile, Victor was squirming in a puddle of sweat as he guiltily made progress on his comparatively tame Sizzling Spicebomb, and beseeched John to reconsider. "Chief," he said, panting as he mopped his brow, "I think yer a top bloke, you ain't got nuthin' to prove, not to me, not to anyone." With a dutiful expression of destiny manifesting across his face, John dismissed Victor's concerns with a swat of his hand and a couple of exotic expletives. This was his moment. Maintaining composed in the face of such unforgiving adversity, he chugged 3 more pints, then, eyeballing the blistering abomination, he growled: "Come on then, let's be havin' yous!" With spirited aplomb, he fearlessly bayoneted the carcinogenic curry, hacking off a spitting morsel, and, with noble poise, delivered it into his well-versed gobhole. Bemusedly, after a couple of chews, he asked the waiter to correct him if he was wrong, but didn't he ask for the hot one?

The furry bulldog slowly awoke to the sound of Victor getting riled up. In the short time that he knew him, Victor always sounded like he was getting riled up, so nothing out of the ordinary there. However, there was an uncharacteristic twang of distress in his voice. "What do you mean his jacksie's a gonner?!" As would anybody at hearing such a question, John opened his eyes. He was in a hospital bed, hooked up to a cardiogram, and surrounded by an astonished gaggle of doctors, each taking a turn to peer under John's hospital gown. In the corner of the room was Victor, who had one of the doctors, Ralph Whiplash, pinned up against the wall. "After immolating the intestine and cremating the colon, the Skidmark in question passed on through on its odyssey to the rectum, where, well, what can only be described as a pyrotechnic pogrom took place," responded Dr. Whiplash.

“My professional recommendation would be to…” he continued, however, nobody would hear his professional recommendation, since Victor fashioned a frenzied tourniquet around the doctor's long neck using his stethoscope, before crunching him to the ground. With teary eyes and a trembling lip, he turned to look at John, who was pitifully sprawled out and with red smoke still fumigating out from his ears and mouth. From the sounds of things, the battlefield of his digestive system was still raging, with muffled rumbles of heavy artillery fire thundering out from his trunk.

"Mush? Mush? Talk to me, mush," begged Victor, crouching beside the bed. "What's happenin' to me, Vic?" grunted John. "You did it guv – yous is a hero," said Victor. "Sweet," John groaned. At this moment which felt like it could be his last, he came close to fessin' up to Victor about a secret that he had been keeping from him: that he, hardman John "The Knuckle" Knuckle had been seeing the shrink, Earnest Wafflemonger, for weekly therapy sessions to try and change his lawbreaking ways. "Songs will be sung about you, me lad," continued Victor, before John had a chance to make his deathbed confession. “Wicked," mumbled John, changing his mind. He'd take this secret with him to the grave. Looking side to side, Victor leaned in close to John and whispered into his ear, "And you'll need never pay for a pint again, innit – that's what's happenin' to yous. Simple as." It was those ten words, which on their own are almost meaningless, however when combined in that magical sequence, have the power to change the world – or at least, the world of John Knuckle.

Victor has since come to regret saying what he did that day and has made many attempts at rescinding on his pledge, claiming it was meant in a more figurative sense rather than literal. John, who made an inspired recovery upon receiving Victor’s vow, seems to have different ideas, and has been taking full advantage of the oath ever since. “Yer startin' to take the piss now mate, I mean 23 pints before breakfast?" decried Victor, one morning in their favorite watering hole, The Knotted Knacker, owned by Erm Wotsischops. “Never heard of an apéritif, you muppet?” responded John, as he polished off yet another beverage with one formidable gulp. “Speakin' of which, I’m still pretty parched, fancy another? Next round's on you.”