Anthropomorphic 

Furry Tiger 

Character Portrait

Quentin Marmalade

For as long as anybody can remember, pornography has been an intrinsic part of Anthroxville life; an edifying cultural zeitgeist that draws a mass following of devotees who submit their whole being over in fanatic piety to its instructive teachings. Observers often greet close friends and relatives with a reverential bow and a "May porn be upon thee, brother,” which is met with a solemn “And upon porn, be thee,” in response. Its moral guidance and mollifying influence has long proven to be a harmonious force of social cohesion and unity throughout Anthroxville society, binding together practitioners of all class and creed in solidarity with a shared common belief system. All followers prayed at the altar of Moneyshot Motion Pictures, brainchild of the long-reigning sultan of smut, Charles Moneyshot, of whom, full, supreme, and universal power of production was uniquely vested upon, and hence, deemed as divinely infallible.

Or so it was thought. However, as is so often the case, all was not as it appeared, and brewing beneath the surface was a growing disquiet. These murmurings, which questioned the absolute authority of the Moneyshot gospel (with particular concern about the jarring jump cuts and puzzling plotholes in the material produced) threatened ideological rupture, and although many efforts were made to quash the seditious disturbance, the movement continued to grow in size.

Heading up the dissident faction was the anthropomorphic furry tiger, Quentin Marmalade, whose momentous foray into the industry with the launch of his urbane, Ménage à Moi Productions, brought tensions to a breaking point. The battle lines of the sectarian divide were now clearly delineated, forcing every believer’s hand in picking a side to pledge their allegiance, in what was ramping up to be the eschatological showdown of the age.

Loyalists to the throne of the Moneyshot Motion Pictures dynasty, such as Roy Bibbowski, Bernard Banjax, Orville Stonker, Digby Bladder, and Victor Wallop, were those known as The Tossers: a pragmatic, no-nonsense, cheerless folk of traditional orthodox values. Now the lauded Tosser work ethic is often attributed – by Tossers at least – for both the creation and continued maintenance of Anthroxville society. It may not always be pretty, but they get the job done. No question. As they see it, they are the custodians of civilization, and while porn [blessed be the fruit] might be a sacred gift from the gods above [and the hand that giveth], if one wishes to secure their salvation, it must only be indulged in quid pro quo tandem with the toils of hard graft. Thus it is written in Tosser scripture: "To one's labor ye must dignify, before ye make the bald man cry."

To this end, the straightforward and instantly gratifying efficiency of Moneyshot Motion Pictures [hallowed be thy name] more than fits the bill. They were realists after all, and there was simply not enough time in the day to be pompously pussyfooting around in ponderation of their porn. Not when also tasked with devoutly keeping their nose on the grindstone for the greater good of humanity. No chance. Porn for the people – why couldn’t it be left at that? If it ain't broke, why fix it? So, it stands to reason that Tossers hold Quentin Marmalade and his pretentious filth in the utmost contempt, seeing its proselytizing allure of self-indulgent hedonism as corruptive to the collective consciousness, and thus, an intolerable perversion of the natural order.

Meanwhile, the newly spawned class of the furry tiger's Ménage à Moi Productions separatists, including the likes of Clém de la Crème, Herbert Whiffpop, Jackson Jiffy, Ludwig von Flitter, and Gregory Fromage, were known as Le Jerkoffs (pronounced Zhj-erk-offs): a decadent, fanciful, and effete band of elitists, who hailed Quentin as the patron saint of the bon vivant; the long-prophesied paladin of taste and refinement and a magisterial force of cultural grandiloquence and expression. They recoiled in rejection at the utilitarian banality of the "Porn for porn’s sake" doctrine of the established Tosser order; seeking out rather a certain level of class and abstraction when it came to burping the worm.

As they saw it, it was impossible to reconcile their differences: they were simply cut from a different loincloth. For instance, Tossers gorged on porno while Jerkoffs luxuriated in pornaux. For them, it serves as a benediction to a higher-calling; a divine expression of artistic concupiscence, best performed in a ministerial genuflection to consecrate the spiritual ablution of the solipsistic soul. No longer hostage to horology, they lull a gentle falsetto as they give themselves over to the celestial authority of the eternal; surrendering all disquieting notions of the metaphysical. This ordained act of raison d’être serves as an interpolation of the mortal existential ache, conferred into the ineffable heights of empyrean evanescence. Upon the rapturous deliverance of the crescentic quasar, Le Jerkoff cantillates a mantric chorale and twirls upright in a ceremonial pirouette of transcendental purgation. Tossers meanwhile bash out a quick tugjob and call it a day.

Or rather, as Jerkoffs can best make out, they subject themselves to a frenzied fiasco of self-mutilation. Swivel-eyed, grimacing, and ghoulishly jackknifed with an ironclad tourniquet grip, the hellbent Tosser haggles with the intangible, grunting as he goes with fire and brimstone expletive-ridden motion. Debasing himself further yet still with a berserk confection of gormless gurns and spiteful buffoonery, the Tosser thrashes forth wildly, vengefully consumed by an incurious primordial instinct. This chaotic charade recklessly continues up until the point of near dismemberment, upon which he will either conclude with a beastly jeer or collapse into a catatonic stupor. Either way, it is a pyrrhic victory by all accounts.

The sacred schism established a stratifying class divide throughout Anthroxville, and Tossers have long arrived at the conclusion that Jerkoffs "Wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if it bit them on the cock.” Thus it is observed in the Tosser proverb: “Hard times create Tossers. Tossers create good times. Good times create Jerkoffs. And, Jerkoffs create hard times.” “Get a job yer frickin’ fart sniffin' Jerkoff!” a Tosser will yell, whenever he encounters his foe in the wild. "Thou fobbing fat-kidneyed nut-hook,” Le Jerkoff will sneer in response, “both hands art already employed full-timeth!”

For all its troubles, the rift has been credited with ushering in a golden era of porno, as the inevitable oneupmanship between the two sects manifested into an ongoing arms race for viewership and converts. Ménage à Moi Productions marked its fabled inception with the carpal-tunnel-inducing debut, J'accuse le Coq Connaisseur, which set the stage for what was to come from the ambitious new studio. Moneyshot Motion Pictures meanwhile, responded by upping the ante with the groundbreaking, Meat and Two Veg, Please, which was met with an approving cacophony of cor-blimeys yodeling out throughout Anthroxville upon its release.

In seeking to build upon his strong start, Quentin worked tirelessly in sending pulses racing with the epic, film-noir thriller, Esprit de la Spit-Roastée, which caused a far-reaching hikikomori epidemic amongst members of Le Jerkoff community, who found themselves hugging the hog as if possessed. Only the heavy panting cries of "Holy moly...here I go again," at 90-second intervals gave any indication that they were somehow still alive and lucid.

Undeterred by the success of his sworn nemesis, Moneyshot and his leading man, Cory Numbnuts, sent eyes popping out of their collective sockets with the high-budget, box-office bonanza, Hand to Gland Combat, quickly following up with the now-eulogized, cult-classic, Mushroom-Tip Mayhem 2. The ball now was well and truly in Quentin's court after this double slam dunk, and Anthroxville awaited in silent, one-handed, anticipation as to what would be his next move.

Showing himself equal to the moment, the furry tiger did not disappoint, sending jaws dropping across the divide with his career-defining, cinematic masterpiece, Non Ennui. Non? Oui. Its mind-melting machinations proved too much a test for many Tossers, and sent countless numbers reeling off their canonical axis to renounce their faith and risk eternal damnation by converting to the ways of Le Jerkoff. Adding to the drama was the fact that Quentin had scandalously solicited the services of Moneyshot star, Penelope Snizzsnapper, for the lead role, which resulted in a deluge of lawsuits, filed by the litigation lothario, Cactus Reus, on behalf of Moneyshot camp on the grounds of plagiarism. Fortunately for Ménage à Moi Productions, the case was thrown out by the judge, after he asked Charles whether he himself would be running the risk of a cease and desist when schtupping his wife of 40 years later that afternoon and trying out a few of those same exact maneuvers – assuming the old bubbeh's false hip would hold out. "Spoken like a true Jerkoff," sneered Charles, as he stormed out of the court followed by Cactus, who treated all in attendance to a 360° middle finger swivel. To this day, the rivalry between Moneyshot and Marmalade wages on.