Anthropomorphic 

Furry Lynx 

Character Portrait

Luther Popshot 

"Chicanery, chicanery, where art thou chicanery?" the anthropomorphic furry lynx, Luther Popshot can often be heard mewing to himself, wincing in confused anguish at the once-familiar hands of his, outstretched and facing inwards, trembling, as he stands despondently on some sullied street corner of Anthroxville. You’d struggle to believe it looking at them now, but these pesky paws before him used to get up to all kinds of chicanery. 

There was a time when Luther wouldn’t trust them as far as he could throw them; keeping a wary eye on this deviant-dishing double-act at all times – and one can only imagine how twitchy the other folk of Anthroxville must have been in the certain knowledge that they were out on the loose, somewhere or other, getting up to all sorts of shenanigans. Famous, or dare he say, fabled, for their misdeeds and monkey-tricks. Shortchanging various unsuspecting cashiers at Mario Miff’s Miff Inconvenience Stores with swizzing sleight-of-hand; mucking a card or two up his sleeve like a maestro when having a caper at the poker tables of Charles Moneyshot’s casino; copping a crafty feel of some nearby passing saucepot, whenever his partner Norie Bluffbork was looking the other way.

Like he said, all kinds of chicanery. "Sorry about that, my mitts have a mind of their own," he’d lie, whenever caught in the act – which was an exceptionally rare occasion for the rascal of ill-repute. That was the life of a full-time cheat. You have to have a go, to try your luck and see if the going's good. It’s a prerequisite of the trade. Every day, rising at the crack of dawn, rubbing your mischief-makers together as you‘d set off out into the world for another hard day’s cheating. It ain’t honest, but boy is it much.

Never one for being the envious type, Luther found himself perfectly suited for the time-honored disposition, as he naturally approves, if not actively celebrates, others having more than he does for the simple reason that it means he can cheat them out of it. A generalist in the domain, rather than pigeon-hole himself into one particular line of specialization, such as the case with the pickpocketing fingersmith, Binky Pettifogger, or the breaking-and-entering bigshot, Orville Stonker, Luther always preferred to keep his options (and his nippers) open, cheating whatever came his way. So what happened?

"Cheater's block," as diagnosed by fellow cheat, the fraudulent au fait, Gregory Fromage. A connoisseur of deception himself, Gregory had once grappled with this insidious malaise after an extended episode of some serious jiggery-pokery. "Can happen to the worst of us," he warned with a raised look of concern over his pince-nez, adjusting his beret as he slyly pocketed an unwitting wad of cash cheerily fisted over by Luther as a downpayment for one of his purportedly unforged art forgeries. The furry lynx had just gone into great detail explaining how the day before, whilst doing the rounds going door-to-door and collecting fake charity donations for the victims and their families of The Great Gin Fizz Jihad (lest we forget) at Erm Wotsischop’s active warzone of a pub, The Knotted Knacker. Yet, in the thick of his operation, an unfamiliar sensation gripped him.

Approaching Julian Jodhpur's residence, Luther's usual cunning betrayed him. Instead of spinning a tale or weaving a web of lies, he rang the doorbell and bluntly declared, "Hello there, fancy a swindle?" Julian's brows furrowed in confusion and a touch of amusement. "Perhaps another day," he replied, gently shutting the door. The same bewildering honesty plagued him at Bella Imbroglio's threshold, then Percy Crumpet's, and later, at Nina Glücklich's stoop.

By the time he had reached Wesley Smidge's place, the honest declaration of his intentions had metamorphosed into a quasi-tragic comic routine. “Bonsoir and salutations...now normally I'd scam you sideways right about now, but I thought a prelude might be refreshing,” he began, tipping his hat with an exaggerated flourish. Wesley, puzzled, managed to stammer, “A... what now?” before Luther interrupted, "A pre-cheat meet-and-greet. A courtesy, if you will." For a moment, they just stood there, Wesley leaning against his chipped doorframe, blinking in confusion, Luther shuckling in silence from his hips, the quiet moment interrupted by the background commotion between Mungo Mugwort and a tow-truck driver. With a resigned sigh, Wesley said, "Well, I suppose you better come inside then." And as bizarre as it may sound, Luther found himself in the peculiar predicament of actually accepting a genuine invitation.

Trailing Wesley down the length of the corridor felt akin to wading through quicksand, each step heavier, weighed down by the oppressive grip of the cheater's block. The stifling atmosphere in the hallway, laced with temptation, made Luther's brow dampen and his teeth grind in quiet agony. To his left, a wallet bulging with promise and a set of car keys gleaming erotically, beckoning him; on his right, a forsaken crossword puzzle, its vacant squares seemingly mocking him, especially since he already knew every last answer. And then, there was Lola Pipsqueak, Wesley's beguiling partner, gracefully contorting in a yoga pose in an adjacent room, the air around her humming with a mischievous energy. Yet, in this maelstrom of temptation, Luther's once notoriously roguish hands lay limp and inert, as if they'd taken a vow of honesty overnight...