Anthropomorphic 

Furry Duck 

Character Portrait

Kingsley Throttle

Undeterred by the perilous assortment of physics-defying potholes, which pockmark near every square foot of asphalt throughout Anthroxville’s anarchical road network; nor the cake-taking traffic jams, which clog-up all hopes of making it to your destination in any sort of reasonable time or frame of mind, the anthropomorphic furry duck, Kingsley Throttle, remains a bonafide petrolhead. Survive these, and you are treated to the schizophrenic signaling system, the biblical blaring of horns, and even, the road-raging rawdoggers, who drive with their bumper wedged square up your jacksie for the entirety of your commute. So bad is the situation in fact, that it is a common sight to see disgraced traffic-wardens, who, having objectively failed in every aspect of their duties, attempt to atone for their sins by committing the customary seppuku on the side of the road.

There is a reason why Anthroxville’s reputation for post-apocalyptic public infrastructure is enshrined in common folklore and cautionary tales; from jerry-rigged junctions and russian-roulette roundabouts, to optical-illusionary interchanges and Schrödinger's road-signage (Roadworks Ahead, but never once any actual evidence of any work ever taking place); to say nothing of the clog-popping parking situation which awaits if you do, by the good graces of some miracle, make it to your destination. In these parts, it's not your packages that go missing, but your postal workers. One wrong turn can result in a multi-year-long odyssey through an illogical labyrinth of gas-guzzling expressways, arterials, and turnpikes; on which the hapless soul behind the wheel is condemned to the maddening purgatory of never quite moving forward, nor actually ever stopping.

On these roads, a fanatical accounting of distance allows the masochistic motorists to salute the fact that another mile of misery has been braved; survived; bested. Whether they have found the strength to persevere through boil-bursting self-determination or some psychotic optimism, every mile traveled stands as a testament to their unflinching indomitability against all the odds. For after all, on these roads, courage is measured in inches, willpower measured in feet, and indomitability of the human spirit is measured in miles. Rough estimates to quantify each mile conquered have come in at ten percent luck, twenty percent skill, fifteen percent concentrated power of will, five percent displeasure, fifty percent pain, and a hundred percent reason to remember the train.

Naturally, considering such circumstances, many commuters have lost their faith in more or less every religion, institution, and cause. And who could blame them? For if there were a God, then surely he would have to beg them for their forgiveness. Curiously, the embolic tailbacks seem to have filled the very spiritual void that they are responsible for creating, elbowing aside the competition as one of the few things people can keep the faith in. Before they set off each morning, they can be sure of the traffic’s ever-enduring presence—even if it does move in the most mysterious of ways; and in the evening, as they leave work, they can bank on its second coming; benedicting upon them the holy trinity of never-ending bottlenecks, gridlocks, and snarl-ups. It is laden with all-embracing commandments, which motorists appear to cherry-pick accordingly to suit their needs, such as: “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s right of way,” “Honor thy lane-merging lunacy,” and, “Remember the hard-shoulder, to keep it holy.” There even appears to be a canon of ritualistic sacraments, like forsaking the use of turning signals; believing the traffic lights are conspiring against you; brake-checking a tailgater; routinely running reds; hogging the middle lane; and, perhaps most important of all, be of the opinion every other driver is an irredeemable fuckhead.

It’s perhaps unorthodox in these times, but for as long as he can remember, Kingsley has been resolute in remaining answerable to but one calling: The need for speed. “...For the needeth of speedeth is a root of all kinds of evils,” so say the bumper-to-bumper puritans. It seems, however, that in its advancing years, his pagan rattletrap of a car just isn’t up to the task these days. Not any longer, anyway. Although he leaves it unlocked every evening, nobody has yet done him the favor of stealing it. Not even Orville Stonker or John Knuckle have been tempted.

Gonzales, as it is affectionately named, is a shadow of his former self, during which he was still clearly a clapped-out clunker, yet at least Kingsley could silence the hecklers and proudly proclaim that his well-intentioned wagon started more often than it didn't. Nowadays, whenever it comes to turning the key in this grunting rustbucket, he half expects the thing to detonate. Sometimes, the furry duck wonders whether that may be a more preferable outcome rather than the succession of despondent squits which rasp out of its buggered bowels of an engine. It would certainly be more dignified. The years catch up with the best of us, sure, but Kingsley can’t help but believe old Gonzales has gone complacent on him, running off the fumes of his former glory.

You’d struggle to believe it, but this elder statesman once notched up 63 speeding tickets in one weekend. Sixty-three. A record that still stands to this day. Nowadays, if the pant-piddling pensioner ever retched out of first gear, Kingsley has personally promised to treat him to a nice waxy rub-down at a bikini carwash of his choosing. It would be the least the old boy deserved. Still temperamental like all the great artists, poets, and arm-wrestlers, Gonzales has led quite the life, boasting a staggeringly high body count (got a penchant for head-on collisions, has Gonzales), served his time banged up in the impound (on cooked-up charges, Kingsley must add), clamped, keyed, and t-boned by countless foes, fended off many an abduction by unscrupulous tow-truck bandits, and, come out last motor standing after a sensational number of multi-car pile-ups (one time including the likes of Quentin Marmalade, Effie Lollygag, Graffen Gruntsqueeze, Hercule von Hooter, Archie Bot, Mia Culpa, Julian Jodhpur, Bertie Plimsoll, Hans Hüftgold, Jasper Skint, Gloria Widdershins, Binky Pettifogger, Ludo Snufflesack, Edison Upskirt, Ripley Dither, Ivan Spaffovovich, and Gregory Fromage, to name just a few).

Although it has long lost its torque and twang, Kingsley can’t help but feel an acute pang of paternal instinct wash over him whenever clambering inside his waning chariot. Sure, it’s almost certainly going senile on him, what with the faulty cooling system, stroboscope of flashing dashlights, strange groaning noises, and tendency to violently lurch off to the left at any given opportunity; but one can’t help the machinations of the heart. Yeah, it’s paternal alright; an instinct that is otherwise alien to him, as the scratched-out ‘Baby on Board’ sticker signifies. It is true that at one time a baby, his baby, was in fact once onboard; however, the little blighter was catapulted out far and high through the sunroof, spinning like a lobbed pigskin after Gonzales had narrowly avoided a fire hydrant by swerving left into a bollard. Kingsley later came to consider it a worthy sacrifice to the motor deities, as his journey home was consecrated with a series of green lights; one after another after another.

Those were the days, and with the sun seemingly setting on his dear tin-lizzie, the furry duck has recently become both increasingly paranoid and protective when going for a splutter about town. He thinks word has gotten out about Gonzales’ demise, and that others are circling in, looking to challenge him for the crown. One day, when keeping his eyes pincered on the lopsided rearview mirror, Kingsley scoped a potential threat to the throne, swerving in and out of the oncoming traffic, parping his horn, and treating him to a few flashes of the V sign. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be the snarling Victor Wallop at the helm of some mutant-sized monster truck—and he was closing in fast. Without a moment to spare, Kingsley quickly jackknifed the upper two-thirds of his body out of the window (artfully manning the wheel with his knees) and returned fire with a barrage of insults, threats, and slurs — corroborated with a swiping fusillade of the middle finger. With Gonzales’ tooter long out of commission, this improvised bit of handiwork usually does the trick, and as with the brakes, windshield, and passenger-side door, Kingsley has come to consider the honker to be a frivolous luxury most could do without.

However, judging by the sight of Victor’s wretched face howling with tear-stricken laughter, this typically trusty salvo appeared to do little to deter the usurper-in-waiting, so Kingsley slid back into his seat, buckled up, whispered a few sweet nothings to Gonzales’ speedometer (the portal to his soul), lumped his foot down on the pedal, and…nothing. There was no surge, no battle-cry, no g-force; only an extended strafe of submissive squits. Oh boy. Even Gonzales seemed embarrassed by this one, and waved his windshield wipers apologetically. Kingsley shook his head and winced into the rearview mirror, eyebrows spliced together like two inverted commas; but could no longer see the marauding land-yacht on his tail. Had the squitage really deterred Victor? Perhaps he bowed out of the duel from second-hand embarrassment? Or a sense of knight’s honor? Unlikely. But where was he?

Kingsley imparted a few stern words of encouragement to El Señor, but to little effect, and they continued to pootle along aimlessly. This was no time to be taking a siesta on him. Truth be told, the furry duck doubted Gonzales even knew what day of the week it was—let alone the fact that they were in the midst of a death-or-glory tussle on the field of honor. Then he felt it. No wonder he couldn’t see Victor and his bombinating black hound of hell in the mirror; they were busy chewing up the oncoming traffic right beside them. Kingsley could feel his internal organs bucking like a space-hopping bronco from the mere vibrations chugging out from this beast of the abyss—and he couldn’t bear to think what sort of carnage it was doing to poor Gonzales’ undercarriage. In fact, he didn’t need to, as the pyrotechnic wheezing provided a reliable enough indication. Kingsley closed his eyes and muttered a silent prayer under his breath, before, in what was more of a mercy-killing at this point, Victor’s hydraulic humdinger whomped into their exposed flank, sending Gonzales spinning off into the ether.

Gonzales had been in some dicey situations before, but nothing like this. Fearing the worst, Kingsley crawled out and appraised the damage to his once-mighty enchilada. If this wasn’t a licking, then he didn’t know what was. He almost had to shield his eyes from the pitiful sight before him, with Gonzales’ steaming carcass laying arse over teakettle in that ditch, crumpled up beyond all recognition like a village idiot’s accordion; his wonky wheels still spinning and headlights faintly blinking the international morse code for DNR. Kingsley could hardly blame him, for Gonzales' scrambled state now made the demolition derby junkies look like showroom pulse-raisers by comparison. It was a total write-off, and Kingsley couldn’t help but think: “If Agatha Collop were a wagon...” No, that was too far. Have some respect for the dying and the dead. After shedding a few tears, he was ready to oblige Gonzales’ last wish, and pulled out his phone to summon the grim-reaper from the scrapyard—but wait, there it was again, that paternal spasm yanking at his handbrake of a heart.

Despite failing to rise to the occasion with that toothless disgrace of a performance he had put in during his date with destiny—and let's be honest, the many decades leading up to it, Kingsley couldn’t just let his old head-turner go out like this. Any other bog-standard A-to-B-mobile, sure, but this was the Motoring Matador we were talking about here, and the furry duck owed an eternal debt of gratitude for all the years of service. Both the good times and the diabolical. So he changed course, dialed in for a couple of mechanical witch-doctors instead, and sat beside his dear friend, tenderly stroking his bonked-in bonnet as his lights gently faded out.

The shamans at the repair shop mournfully bowed their heads and covered their faces when Gonzales was finally hauled into their sanctum. This was the worst case they’d ever seen apparently, and was going to cost more than a pretty penny. Kingsley flinched. Even if they could perform the impossible and resurrect him from the dead, there was a high chance Gonzales would never run a red again; let alone enjoy another head-on collision. Kingsley had to stop his hands from pulling out his phone and dialing for the scrapyard again. The necromancers were also anxious to emphasize that, as is often the case when dealing with the dark arts, the results could be unpredictable. Personality changes are common, they warned, and there was a need to manage expectations. Kingsley said that he understood, and asked whether one of those changes could perhaps be the ability to make it into second gear? They couldn’t promise anything, but did a dubious on-the-spot calculation for the costs of the voodoo ceremony (parts, labor, black magic, etc), to be paid upfront and cash only. Apparently, you could put a price on love and loyalty after all, and it came in at...”Are you havin’ a laugh?!” Kingsley spluttered, head-spinning as he staggered backwards. But what choice did he have? He knew nothing about cars.

After a few nail-biting months in the intensive care unit of these auto-magicians, Gonzales was starting to show signs of life. Kingsley had to hand it to those money-grubbing grease-monkeys; they had performed nothing short of a miracle. They even patched up his tooter, and although there would be a long road to recovery, Kingsley would be behind him every step of the way. Starting off slow, he eased him back into his groove with a couple of rear-enders here, a side-swipe there, you know, child's play. Growing in confidence, Gonzales was soon back to his fighting best, and on occasion, even revving up into not second, but third gear. “Muy bien amigo, muy bien,” the furry duck mutters with profound laconic pride whenever such a feat is achieved. Shame about the persisting squits, but you can’t win them all, can you? Before too long, they were enjoying regular hit-and-runs, and even (in spite of the spellcaster’s doubts), the odd head-on collision. Who knows, at this rate, he may one day even be ready for a little score-settling with Victor and his brutish bruiser. Only time will tell.