Anthropomorphic 

Rottweiler Character 

Portrait

Julian Jodhpur

Like many in Anthroxville, the anthropomorphic rottweiler, Julian Jodhpur, has in recent times taken to talking in his sleep. The bailiff of tangled minds, sleep subpoenas the inner homunculus, summoning it to the foggy soapbox of the soul to spill its troubles and secrets. Some soliloquize their long-held fantasies or lifetime regrets; whilst others fess up to barbarous acts of treachery and betrayal, or baffling instances of benevolence. Sometimes, it is simply a name that they utter, such as “Agatha...Collop,” “Penelope...Snizzsnapper,” or “Clém...de...la...Crème”, as they snooze away, obliviously. In Julian’s case, it was always the same four words: “It’s just not possible.” Sometimes garbled through gritted teeth as he twists and twerks in the throes of cold sweat; others, whilst laying listlessly with a stream of tears running down his cheeks; but always the same “It’s just not possible…it’s just not possible.”

When his unsympathetic ex, Gloria Widdershins was still in the picture, and trying to doze off besides him, she would be routinely driven to the end of her wits with his chronic gibbering and resort to bludgeoning him out of it with whatever nearby instrument was on hand (lampshades, headboards, alarm-clocks, etc); demanding that he finally, in the name of Charles Moneyshot and all else that was holy, explain exactly what was not possible? Julian, well-accustomed to the nightly clobberings, never knew where to begin. Of what did she know about hand-crunchers, wrist-crackers, or knuckle-kneaders? Let alone matters of morphology, force-multipliers, or elbow-to-fingertip ratios? Least of all, she didn’t know about Roy Bibbowski, or rather, Roy ‘The Bicep-Burster’ Bibbowski. How could she? She’d never sat opposite him, man to mutant; never stared into those eyes, those mind-mangling sense-scramblers. For as far as her conception of the world was concerned, Roy was simply a well-built, gonked-up, and a little-more-than-somewhat temperamental pirate, who had somehow, to the chagrin to all in Anthroxville, not least Hercule von Hooter, managed to seize dominion of the river Ting-Fam.

Perhaps it was better kept that way. Ignorance, apropos matters of long-suffering appendages, was bliss. She need not know the self-soiling terror of the floor giving out under you as the whole room gets swallowed up by the gravitational mass of The Bicep-Burster (“The Bicep” for short) whenever facing you down, mano a mano; his hulking cosmic heft expertly sitzfleisched side-on as he gazumps a foaming pint with one biblical howitzer of an arm—while the other, a bulging irrigation of tats and turmoil, is locked and loaded on the table, cranked at the optimal 106° angle, and waiting for the signal to fire. “It’s just not possible…it’s just not possible.”

Whilst his numerous ex-partners may not have been privy to the origins of his angst, Julian was far from alone, for Roy was Anthroxville’s long-term undisputed champion in the socket-popping sport of arm-wrestling: that curious grunt-fest which captures the Anthroxville spirit like no other; the ultimate testament of it’s audacity, ambition, aplomb; it’s bombast, bolsh, berko; it’s congition, composure, calibration; it’s daring, dash, desire; it’s egomania, endurance, envy; it’s faculty, fortitude, fanaticism. Arm-wrestling was Anthroxville and Anthroxville was arm-wrestling, however, these days it seemed more like arm-wrestling was The Bicep Burster and The Bicep Burster was arm-wrestling.

“Now, while aesthetics has never been the goal of competitive arm-wrestling (also known as grunting, slamming, and grunt-slamming by its practitioners), there is a certain immutable majesty in its spectacle; an anatomical beauty in two of nature’s finest thrashing it out in a preordained showdown of raw brawn, biology, and bravado; a celestial collision course of might and glory, of victor and vanquished, of…of pure and unfettered syzygy. You can’t deny that, can you, Binky-boo?” These were Julian’s last words to another type of squeeze in his life, Binky Pettifogger (predating Gloria), having taken a risk and deciding to finally come clean, after Pettifogger had demanded to know exactly where he slips off to at ungodly hours of the night; why he had been in and out of a sling for nearly the entirety of their relationship (without any proper explanation); and what was this business with the sleep-yabbers. On the last point, there had been many instances during their tumultuous relationship, when Binky would send out some nocturnal night-feelers, only to be rebuffed with a feeble “It’s just not possible…it’s just not possible.” At first, she was sympathetic, however, after one too many impotent it’s just not possible’s over the course of their time together, her sanity, self-esteem, and frankly, sense of secondhand embarrassment had reached their limit, and hence the ultimatum.

This posed a problem for the anthro rottweiler, for he knew that she simply just wouldn’t get it. She just wouldn’t. “You wouldn't get it,” he had said initially with a bashful scoff, trying not to make eye-contact. Arm-wrestling is just one of those things that doesn’t translate across the gender divide. Much like the glory of outdrinking the lads during a major booze-up, chicks just have too much sense and reason to ever understand what it's really all about. Put it this way, nobody’s ever come out better in a girl’s estimations after they learn of their grunting obsession. Never. “You want to hear me say it? I’m a grunter, okay? Still love me?” It just doesn’t fly. Manic-depressive public-nudists fare better than the arm-wrestlers in this regard. It’s just the way things are. However, Binky had well and truly pickpocketed Julian’s heart and he had every intention of making her a permanent fixture in his life, so he needed to come up with a more convincing alibi than the usual go-to that he had been inadvertently plummeting down various flights of stairs on a daily basis.

No, she deserved more, something more substantive. He quickly groped for other concoctions in his mind. Night-club bouncer? International hitman? Repeatedly stuck in a vending machine…? But his sense of dignity prevented him from attempting any of these ludicrous clangers. Repeatedly stuck in a vending machine? Are you having a… No, Binky was too shrewd to let that pass. Christ, even some gullible halfwit like Hamilton Lickspittle would call his bluff on that one. So, out of other options, he decided on the road less traveled: honesty. To bite the barnacled bullet and come clean. To parley. To get down on his knees and make a clean breast of it in the hopes that she’d show some clemency. Hell, maybe she’d dig it? It would be a first. However, he couldn’t exactly say: “The Bicep” could he? “The Bicep did this to me.” What would she think of that? “Blame The Bicep, alright?” No, so instead, he took a risk, carefully avoiding any direct mention of the culprit in question (he didn’t want to cause her any more alarm than was necessary), and opted for an impassioned monologue about the other great love in his life.

After about an hour or so of pouring his heart out with an epic tear-jerking oration for the ages, he saw the expression on Pettifogger’s face was no longer one of dismay: it was one of revulsion. “Oh god no…oh god no…” she gasped, visibly struggling to keep her composure. Julian, ever the optimist, deemed this a moderately positive sign, all things considered. In this crucial juncture, he mustered the courage, looked deep into her eyes, and whispered “Might I equate thee to a summer’s slam?” Her reaction was instantaneous, and with the contents of her stomach decorating the floor, she clutched a nearby sink-plunger in defence and hastily exited via the kitchen window, seemingly to sidestep crossing paths with him. “Syzygy, Binky!” he howled out after her in some derranged last ditch attempt to change her mind, “Syzyou…Syzyme…Syzygy!” but to no effect. And that was that. Well, not quite, for he proceeded to leave Pettifogger a number of voicemails every day for a month or so after their break-up, challenging her to a wrestle of reconciliation.

“Too sensible for a slammer like me,” Julian sighed, after dispatching another voicemail into the void. He’d even promised to go easy on her, but she clearly wasn’t insane enough to be tempted. “It’s just you and me now, champ,” he supposed, flexing his ever-loyal right 16.24-inch caliber. A casual arm-wrestler all his life, the anthropomorphic rottweiler had only recently gotten serious. He’d always been the first to roll up his sleeves and suggest a grunt-down over pretty much any matter, such as settling scores, bar-tabs, and unfair dismissals, with anyone (excluding, of course, romantic entanglements) at any moment. Left or right, it didn’t matter – he was what the wrestling cognoscenti termed 'slambidextrous', with both bulgers primed to deliver an untold hammering at a moment’s notice.

One time, he insisted that the branch manager at Dinero Cashmoney's Cashmoney Bank, show him what he was made of, after being informed his account had been suspended as a direct result of trying to arm-wrestle an unsuspecting bank-teller three days prior. Enter the security guard, whose grasp of arm-wrestling etiquette was, at best, rudimentary. Perhaps he flunked high school anatomy class, for instead of honoring the sport's well-established decorum, he took him in an illicit headlock (a move even the uninitiated know warrants a lifetime ban) just as Julian was carefully positioning his elbow for the unsolicited showdown on the manager's polished mahogany, and was instead hauled away and introduced to the pavement. Those escapades marked his days as a mere limb-lugging enthusiast; but Julian’s passion had evolved. He had since become serious about slamming. Now, with refined fervor, he felt compelled to shift gears and would finally grundle up the courage to venture into the heart of the action, marking his much-belated debut at the weeekly arm-wrestling championship, held in Erm Wotsischops’ inflamed rectum of a pub, The Knotted Knacker. 

The sight that greeted Julian on his inaugural entrance through the pub’s blast-proof doors nearly brought him to tears. It was pure syzygy: tables stretched as far as the eye could see with grunters locked in a primal dance of combat going at each other with everything they had; gobbing and groaning as they see-sawed in an expletive-ridden tussle of motion—back-and-forth, up-and-down, side-to-side. Julian’s attention was promptly shackled by one nearby table, which was bucking like a space-hopping bronco; the two glory-grunting gladiators, Gilbert ‘Soyboy Detector’ Jitterbug and Melvin ‘Pull The Other One’ Crinkle, effing and jeffing in a cadence Julian had never before heard, as they clasped onto each other with an intensity that rivaled the desperation of castaways clinging to their sole lifeline. A mouth-foaming huddle, comprising the formidable assembly of Cactus Reus, Marty Shuffle, Rupert Taboo, Frødrik Frødrikson, Klarenz Chinstrap, Oskar Knullrufs, Digby Bladder, Mungo Mugwort, Wilbur Peppercorn, and Gideon Rumspringa, emitted throaty, guttural battle-cries, rallying behind the incendiary chants of "Let him have it! Finish him!" and "Rip his arm off!" Their collective enthusiasm manifested in a berserk mash-up of leaps and fist pumps. With resolute determination, Julian maneuvered his way to the forefront of this crazed congregation. The unfolding spectacle promised to be nothing short of a barnstormer for the ages.

After numerous futile attempts to break the deadlock, Gilbert, visibly strained and worn, hatched a cunning plan of distraction. With a devious glance, he waved his free left hand towards some imaginary specter behind Melvin, hoping to catch him off guard. In a quick and slick maneuver, he shimmied to the right, then shifted his weight to the left, unleashing a daring Shoulder-Press Chauffeur gambit. "Too early, you scoundrel, too early," Julian muttered to himself, his eyes half-shielded by his hands, nearly unable to watch. His prediction was spot-on, as seconds later, Melvin (who saw through Gilbert's ruse from a mile away) instinctively stiffened his torso, absorbing the sudden burst of pressure. He yanked Gilbert's hand out of sync, then played it like a puppet on a rollercoaster, snapping it back, then forward, giving it a diabolical-looking squeeze, then back again before finally seizing the moment and slamming it down with a burst of momentum. Julian, having peered through the gaps in his fingers at this textbook-perfect Honey, I’m Home, and gave a glazed-eyed ovation. Sheer mastery at work.

It was over, and the two gruntsters sprawled spread-eagle on the table, panting, spluttering, and wheezing. A round of beers arrived for their resuscitation: a crisp Baader-Meinhof for Melvin and a frothing Pant-Pisser for Gilbert. Julian, having witnessed this epic struggle, couldn't help but reflect on the deep metaphysical implications of the craft which he had meditated on a great deal: that arm-wrestling was in many ways a metaphor for life, in that proximity to defeat brings with it a corresponding proximity to triumph: you are never more alive than when nearly dead. Unfortunately, this philosophical revelation seemed lost on Jitterbug, who found himself far from both victory and vitality: eye’s flickering, drooling, clutching what was left of his crumpled hand, emitting strange gasping noises, and in the process of being carted out on a stretcher, with spectator Jasper Skint, slyly nabbing his Pant-Pisser before anyone could notice. 

It has been said in Anthroxville that there are only three sports: dodging taxes, chasing tail, and grunting down; all the rest are merely games. Julian would know, as he’s the one that said it, twice in fact, with the second time being in this instance to an approving Franz ‘The Get or Get Got’ Nuzzle, who had sidled over from another table upon hearing the resounding crunch of a hand from across the room. This was the anthro rottweiler's first taste of what would become his mecca. He was hooked. The pungent tang of sweat and testosterone sodomizing the air; the sonorous serenade of grunts and groans; the chorale of heckles and cheers; the galore of heaves and jeeves: he had finally arrived where he was always supposed to be. The only question: what had taken him so long? Doubt. Doubt had kept his passion half-nelsoned in a lifelong intermission. But now he had found the faith. Both his battle-hardened bulgers were raring to go, particularly the 16.24, which was virtually hissing at this point, such was the anticipation. 

Urgent to make up for lost time, Julian loped over to enlist and join the ranks, crossing the curious drawbridge over The Knotted Knacker’s internal moat of stale non-alcoholic brew, which wrapped around in front of the perimeter of the fortified bar for security purposes. With a flourish of his signature on the liability waiver and a slurping down of six consecutive Face-Pegger lagers, Julian presented himself for an official assessment. The diameter of both hands, the bi-to-tri dimensions, and the propulsive-press g-force he could muster underwent scrupulous scrutiny and jotted down in a leather-bound register. More than a mere ledger, this timeworn tome of The Knotted Knacker arm-wrestling lore, bore the weight of innumerable legends in its well-worn pages. Each entry, etched with meticulous care, seemed to pulsate with the raw power and aspirations of those who had faced the challenge of the table. Its parchment, yellowed with age, carried the lingering echoes of their grunts and struggles, as if the very paper had absorbed the sweat and spirit of contenders past. 

In a dim corner of the pub, a disfigured jukebox bearing the battle scars of countless altercations stood in mournful disarray. Instead of melodies, it emitted a discordant cry, pleading for some good samaritan to put it out of its misery. Julian, failing to articulate his bewilderment and managing only a resonant burp, promptly opted for another Face-Pegger, allowing the pitiful tune of the beleaguered jukebox to serenade his newfound...