Anthropomorphic 

Aberdeen Terrier 

Character Portrait

Mungo Mugwort

In the neon-soaked byways of Anthroxville, where mischief, rebellion, and the scent of illicit cigars intertwine, the anthropomorphic Aberdeen terrier, Mungo Mugwort, carved his legend. With red-rimmed glasses that seemed forever settled on his nose, he was a beacon of enigma, drawing the world's quirks and curiosities to himself. His attire, frequently doused with a mix of cheap whiskey stains and up-market Kerubo Soleil cologne, made it clear that here was a spirit on the edge, forever teetering between genius and madness.

On that fateful afternoon, Mungo had eased his car into a spot that, to any reasonable observer, seemed perfectly legitimate. With a mind sharpened to photographic precision, he distinctly recalls that there wasn't a single ambulance in sight. Not one. And bearing in mind that he was only going to be 10 mins tops, the emergency drop-off at Serious Setback General Hospital was as fair a game as any. However, unbeknownst to him, there were dark forces at work. The hospital, having once sworn fealty to the individual's personal exigencies, had, just like everywhere else in Anthroxville, inexplicably devolved into a nest of functionary fusspots.

Oblivious to this, Mungo was already across the street and inside the branch of Dinero Cashmoney's Cashmoney Bank, indulging in his weekly squabble with a bank-teller, pertaining to the small matter of, that while he didn't have any evidence, he had it on good authority that all his conversations where being eavesdropped on. The secrets gathered from this shady endeavor were subsequently sold to demonic institutions such as Cashmoney by a clandestine ministry called the Bureau de Blabber, helmed by a tattling technocrat otherwise known as Florence de Looselips. No, he wouldn't reveal whether or not his source for this information was Calvin Donnybrook. No, as he'd already said, he didn't have any evidence to support his claim. Did they have any evidence to support their claim that they don't? Why was he not surprised? No, he wouldn't lower his tone. Yes, genius, he was well aware that Florence was a hotel manager, but that was just a guise. She ran the whole operation. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if that wicked old yenta herself was listening in on this very conversation. The purpose of his visit today? Just to remind them that he knew what was really going on, and that he would dedicate his life to exposing them for the quislings they are – unless, suppose, they could come to some sort of arrangement? Call it a settlement for breach of privacy? What about emotional distress? Okay then, a finder's fee for such a scoop. Surely it had to be worth something? No, there was no need for security – he was about to leave anyway. Oh look, called them anyway, nice one. Ah, and he nearly forgot, was there any way they could help him deposit an expired check? No? On what basis? But it was only a few years over? Okay, a decade, give or take. So they were telling him that even if it was just one measly day past the...? Words failed him.

He made a dramatic show of tearing up the pre-signed check he'd found lodged in the pocket of his recently purchased, preloved pyjama bottoms. It was worth a try at least. No harm, no foul. And anyway, he'd gotten a great price for what was, excusing the slight niff, a quality garment. They were practically giving it away. Using the bank's chain pen, he made a note to find out exactly when the dementia home would be holding its next yard-sale, before turning to make his exit.

On his way to the door, Mungo saw the no-showing security guard was preoccupied with trying to eject an incredulous Julian Jodhpur from the premises via a familiar-looking headlock, for attempting, from what Mungo could glean from the lively commotion, to arm-wrestle a branch manager without his prior consent. "All these years and I still haven't caught his name," Mungo thought aloud, as he felt his neck give a shudder.

Crossing over the street to the hospital, he decried the fact that he'd used a black pen on his black arm, realizing that his photographic memory would be of no use to him here. Already cursing as he approached his car, an all-too-familiar piece of garish paper came into view, nestled intimately against the pristine blade of his car's windshield wiper. That seemingly inconsequential twenty-dollar parking fine might have been dismissed by anyone with a shred of sense or sanity as a minor hitch, a trifling annoyance. But for Mungo, it was a harbinger of the impending bureaucratization seeking to drown Anthroxville. In his eyes, that slip of paper was less about the fee and more a gauntlet thrown by the faceless minions of regulation.

It was a clarion call, heralding the suffocating encroachment of the insidious creep of bureaucracy that threatened to overshadow and suppress the free-range spirit of Anthroxville. He perceived that unassuming ticket not merely as a demand for payment, but as a morbid challenge issued forth by the gray, humorless squareheads of overregulation and red tape. "At the risk of repeating myself," he said, before repeating himself, it was a symbolic testament, an emblem of the insidious battle between individual freedom and the oppressive grip of institutionalized control. Every line on that ticket, every printed word, whispered of a looming era where spontaneity and free will would be casualties to the ever-tightening noose of administrative overreach.

Fueled by a potent mix of righteous indignation and perhaps an overgenerous swig of bottom-shelf bourbon, Mungo became the catalyst that sparked the birth of Anthroxville’s Sovereign Citizen movement. This wasn't your typical structured political assembly, neatly organized with agendas and minutes; no, it was more akin to a carnival of dissent, a raucous celebration of defiance against the system's absurdities. Their mission was unambiguous, yet profoundly audacious: to openly mock and deride every seemingly arbitrary ordinance that crossed their path. Through Mungo's unerring and discerning gaze, not a single rule or regulation was considered too sacred to be spared from their jeers. Every decree, each stipulation, regardless of its origin or intention, underwent rigorous examination and was frequently met with scoffing rebukes, revealing the hidden lunacy embedded within the intricate weave of bureaucratic gibberish. Before long, the street outside of Mungo's abode was reverberating with the jubilant cackles and animated discussions of its inhabitants – or rather, the few off-kilter characters crazed enough to attend.

A maelstrom such as this beckoned kindred spirits. Drawn by Mungo's seething disdain for authority, came Kingsley "Get Out Of My Lane" Throttle, a motoring maverick, known not only for his daredevil exploits on the asphalt, but also for the lyrical profundity he often waxed poetic about his car, Gonzales, with. Then there was Mia "No Ragrets" Culpa, an intractable criminal-groupie with an odd penchant for the criminally inclined, particularly those tasked with steering getaway (and preferably stolen) vehicles. Ivan "It's Pronounced Spaffovovich" Spaffovovich, entered the scene, carrying tales of his uncanny ability to glide through sobriety checks, even after a night of revelry that saw his car dancing a little too merrily on the tarmac. And not to be left out was Marty "Spare a Nickle?" Shuffle, a curious addition who, despite never having experienced the thrill of driving, was eagerly anticipating his maiden voyage, preferably without any parking restrictions to dampen his enthusiasm.

That was everyone, and bound together by an unbreakable shared resolve and a fervent commitment to their cause, they began the transformative journey of converting the very essence of Anthroxville's streets into a vibrant and ever-evolving canvas of impassioned rebellion. Within this reimagined realm they had crafted, the simple act of parking transcended its routine origins. It blossomed into a resounding declaration, reflecting their determination and the cherished principles they defended. Bike lanes, crosswalks, disabled parking zones, and even seemingly innocuous areas such as community gardens and public fountains were claimed as theaters for their brazen demonstrations. Together, they had turned the streets of Anthroxville into their personal playground. Parking became an art form, a means of expression. No spot was off-limits, no taxi-stand sacred. The Sovereign Citizens didn’t just park; they made grand proclamations. And the proclamation was clear: "Freedom cannot be curbed" – a sentiment which gained heightened significance each time they mounted one to stake their claim.

The city's backlash was swift and severe. The Sovereign Citizens found themselves branded as instigators, antichrists, and public enemy number one. The cursed apparatchiks in their maniacal drive to reassert control, targeted Mungo's non-existent finances as their primary weapon. The once seemingly insignificant twenty-dollar fine began to multiply methodically, echoing the ticking of a clock counting down to Mungo's inevitable great showdown with the system. Yet, even as the city unleashed threats of tow-truck bandits and wheel-clamping sickos, the spirit of the Sovereign Citizens remained unbroken and their resolve only further solidified. But Mungo, being Mungo, decided that if the city wanted a villain, he'd give them one they'd never forget. His masterstroke was audacity incarnate: a plan to park right up on the private driveway of President Clint Bigot himself. Not for leverage or purposes of intimidation; nor even because he was genuinely going to be passing through the area the following week and didn't want to waste his afternoon looking for a good spot that didn't also cost a bundle; but simply, because in the manic circus of bureaucracy and law, taking a prime slice of the Commander-in-chief's driveway was Mungo's unhinged howl at the moon; a brazen act in defiance against the repressive gulag of modern-day existence.

As the sun sank and the city lights began to shimmer, Anthroxville unknowingly stood at the cusp of an operation of cinematic proportions. The anthro Aberdeen terrier, leading his band of uniquely capable rogues, began orchestrating a plan reminiscent of history's most intricate heists. Each member, while not exactly handpicked, brought to the table a host of specific talents and quirks. Kingsley, with his uncanny knack for rear-ending, side-swiping, and t-boning; Mia, whose infatuation with convict getaway drivers had provided her an encyclopedic knowledge of best escape routes never to take; Ivan, the silver-tongued mastermind capable of talking his way into any tight corner; and Marty the wildcard, whose unpredictable nature could either be their downfall or their ruination.

Their preparatory phase was an elaborate undertaking of strategy sessions, blueprint studies, and reconnaissance missions. They encountered close shaves, where their cover was nearly blown, and instances where the scope of their ambition threatened to overwhelm them. But every time doubts surfaced, Mungo, with his iron-clad faith and array of voices in his head, stepped up. He rekindled his squad's spirits, reminding them of the grandeur of their endgame: parking on the very driveway of the President, a statement of unhinged defiance.

The Sovereign Citizens, with a mix of admiration and somber acknowledgment, gave a hero's send-off to Mungo. Understanding the gravity of the mission, he had chosen to shoulder it solo. Not only couldn't he bear the thought of putting his fellow comrades in harm's way, especially considering the scale of what he intended to do next, but also, perhaps more importantly, he didn't rate any of their parking abilities. Especially not under the kind of pressure they'd be contending with here. No, he would go it alone. As he revealed his decision (carefully omitting his views on their parking), their eyes spoke volumes, filled with pride, worry, and a glint of mischief, mirroring the spirit of their collective endeavors. With a deep, determined breath, Mungo declared, "Freedom cannot be curbed," his voice laden with gravity and resolve, before embarking on his daring quest.

Against such insurmountable odds, Mungo showcased resilience and patience; circling the vicinity, eyes keenly watching, waiting for that briefest moment of opportunity. For almost eight agonizing hours, he played this game of anticipation, his car belching and rattling like you'd never believe, almost as if it was having second thoughts about the whole mission and was trying to expose them. And then, as fate would have it, the gates began their slow retreat, granting passage to an exiting car shrouded in the mystery of tinted windows. Every fiber of Mungo's freedom-fancying being told him that this was his moment. Time seemed to slow as he swiftly assessed the situation, checking that the coast was clear. With only a fleeting moment to capitalize on, precision was of paramount importance. "Precision, Mungo, absolute precision," he whispered, his forehead slick with tension-induced perspiration. Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal, expertly manipulated the steering wheel, and with a face contorted with intense focus managed to slide in his vehicle without a second to spare, narrowly beating the encroaching gates..

Mungo exhaled a triumphant, "Yaaass!" The rapture of conquest bubbled within as he slipped the car into its docile neutral, making doubly sure of the handbrake's grip. His pulse, however, defied this newfound stasis and was still galloping from the sheer cheek of his maneuver. He raised his chin, a proud rebel, and in rhythmic intonation cried "Sov-ruhn--tee! Sov-ruhn-tee!" and pounded his horn, its blaring sound echoing like a call to arms. Delving into his pocket, he produced the age-worn pipe, loaded it with his favorite tobacco blend, and with a smirk of someone who's just stuck it to the system in a way previously thought unfathomable, gave that bad boy the mother of all sparkings.

Certainly, the Sovereign Citizens expected audacity from Mungo; that was his hallmark, after all. But to see President Bigot, bound and gagged in the trunk of his sedan? Well, that was an escalation they hadn’t bargained for. It was, the anthro Aberdeen terrier explained, as much a surprise to him as it was to anyone. Mungo ran through the sequence of events, in which he had not only managed to pull off the park-up of the century, but he had, in a bizarre twist, inadvertently parked atop the foremost figure of bureaucracy. "I definitely felt a thud," Mungo mused, scratching his still-raised chin, "But in the heat of the moment, I just assumed it was some hapless gardener or misplaced child." The gathered Sovereign Citizens exchanged the customary swivel-eyed glances, each grappling with the serendipity of Mungo's accidental presidential abduction, and pondering exactly what their next move should...