Anthropomorphic 

Lurcher Character 

Portrait

Marty Shuffle

Amidst Anthroxville's backdrop of gritty surrealism and grimy decay, is Marty Shuffle, the anthropomorphic lurcher of legendary irregularity, draped in a plaid shirt that once had aspirations of tartan grandeur, now hanging limp over his bony frame. Perched atop his narrow skull is a hat that whispers of better days, now as much a part of him as the skin he wears. Glasses, perpetually loitering on his nose, suggest a gravitas that belies the chaos simmering beneath. His shirt, a relic from a time when he might have once cared for appearances, is now faded and threadbare, much like the dreams of those who traverse these streets. The hat, once a mark of sophistication, now sits askew, a silent witness to the countless stories and misadventures of its owner. Marty's eyes, behind those smudged lenses, hold a depth of experiences both demented and bewildering, a testament to a life lived on the fringes of sanity. In a city where the extraordinary is commonplace, Marty's presence is a blend of the poignant and the preposterous, an embodiment of Anthroxville's essence in all its chaotic glory. His very existence challenges the mundane, standing as a symbol of derrangement and eccentricity in a world that revels in its own peculiarities.

Marty's life exemplifies absurdity, a hymn to the horizontally disinclined. Each morning, with the tenacity of a marathon monk, he runs multiple miles backwards. Not for exercise, not for salvation, but for the sheer thrill of adversity. Sixteen miles of relentless journey, all while chain-smoking cigarettes, tripping over, and colliding with obstacles every few steps. Seeing where you're going would be too easy. Marty relishes the challenge, embracing the chaos and unpredictability of his path, each stumble a demonstration to his commitment to living life on his own terms.

"Think standing. Live standing. Sleep standing. Wake standing. Slot standing. Stand standing," he croaks, his voice a gravelly symphony of determination and eccentric conviction. Marty, the self-proclaimed oracle of the streets, is a fixture of Anthroxville, a living legend shrouded in grit and cigarette smoke. He claims he's never sat down, not once, not even when playing the slot machines. His legs, spindly yet resilient, stand as evidence to this absurd declaration. Buildings might be vertical, but Marty insists, "The energy is horizontal." Not him though. Marty defies this horizontal energy, standing tall against the current of life. His presence is a stubborn monument to his unique brand of wisdom, a vivid portrayal of his creed of perpetual verticality. Every creak of his joints and every rasp of his voice is a defiant symphony, a challenge to the sedentary ways of the world around him. His eyes, sharp and alive with fervor, reflect an unyielding spirit that mocks conventional norms.

A proud member of Mungo Mugwort's Sovereign Citizens, Marty has embarked on the Sisyphean task of reading Mugwort's magnum opus, "Mungo's Search for Meaning" while on his backward runs. His dedication to this ludicrous endeavor is matched only by his passion for slot machines. One tale he recounts with particular relish is his escapade at Charles Moneyshot's casino. Up $30,000 at the slots, he waged an epic battle to return to zero. He then borrowed $30,000 and lost it all. "Winning is a loser's game," the anthro lurcher declares, the fire of a street preacher in his eyes. "You'd rather be down 30k and fight your way back to zero than start from zero and win 30k. Zero is equilibrium, as nature intended." To date, he still owes loan shark, Victor Wallop, that initial $30,000, plus an additional $4.2 mil in interest.

"Chasing your highest self is a psyop," he rants to anyone within earshot. "Crafted by the perpetually-housed, no-slotty sickos. You should be racing yourself to rock bottom – just ask Frødrik Frødrikson. Only when you've dug your own personal Hadean pit of despair can you find true happiness." Marty's philosophy is a twisted ode to nihilism, urging his few followers to embrace poor decision-making with the zeal of a cultist.

In his warped worldview, hate journaling is a daily ritual, a cathartic exercise in self-flagellation. Each loathsome detail of one's existence is meticulously penned down, a venomous inventory of personal failings. Marty then shouts these confessions at some passing rando, his crooked grin splitting his face with manic glee. His approach to self-improvement is akin to a demolition derby, where the goal is not to emerge unscathed but to revel in the wreckage.

Marty's advice for the weekend is as reckless as it is fervent. "Slot up," he commands. "Break-off relations with friends and loved ones, re-finance your organs, cash out your last 20 bucks in coins, and dive headfirst into the nearest slot-a-thon. By the afternoon, you should be ready to flee the country with a fake passport, throwing up in the sink from the sheer horror of your decisions." For Marty, the thrill is not in the winning but in the glorious struggle back to nothingness.

Why does he do it? What's his motivation? Admittedly, the fact that he often subsists by licking disused teabags for nourishment doesn't bolster his credibility. "And why do you think you're scared of taking risks?" the anthro lurcher once asked a potential disciple, Fruma Putz, as she navigated an alleyway in search of black-market 'nules from Gilbert Jitterbug. "Obviously because I don't want to end up a scuzzo like you," she retorted, her eyes wide with fear. "And no, I've already given you my change," she added, in response to Marty’s hat being held out for the sixth time that minute. That was the common denominator with all these second-rate normies. Mediocrity. For after all, those who can, do; those who can’t, slag off the trailblazers and stiff the renegades. Marty thrived on their contempt, wearing it like a badge of honor. He believed their disdain only proved his point: that the true path to enlightenment was littered with the debris of societal rejection. His ragged existence was a salute to his unwavering commitment to his philosophy, a life lived on the fringes, unburdened by the trappings of conventional success. In his world, the scuzzos were the true visionaries, and the so-called normies were the real failures, too scared to take the plunge into the chaotic depths where real meaning could be found.

"I rolled my first cig before I said my first word. My first word? Slot-machine." He'll reminisce about his earlier years, to anyone who will listen. “In second grade, my teacher asked my favorite color. Standing, I looked her right in the eyes without blinking and said, ‘Slot-machine.’ She was perplexed. Even at seven, I played by my own rules.” When Ripley Dither, Lola Pipsqueak, and Ludwig von Flitter once...