At the heart of this moldering metropolis of mediocrity stands Serious Setback General, a brutalist monstrosity of a hospital that looms over Anthroxville’s cityscape a tumor with delusions of grandeur. Its façade, an unwelcome orgy of concrete and despair, stretches upward with all the grace of a cadaver in rigor mortis, its windows glinting like the vacant eyes of an electroconvulsive-shock therapy survivor. This temple to medical misadventure squats on its plot of cursed earth, a towering affront to the Hippocratic oath. Its shadow falls across the city like a prognosis of doom, blotting out whatever feeble rays of hope might dare to penetrate Anthroxville's perpetually jaundiced sky. Its corridors twist and turn like the intestines of some great, dyspeptic beast, leading the uninitiated to dead ends or even worse fates.

Its walls, once white, now bear the nicotine-yellow patina of a thousand desperate cigarettes smoked by visitors who'd just received news they never wanted to hear. The air around the Serious Setback General hums with a cocktail of desperation, dark humor, and whatever it is that seems to be forever leaking from the biohazard disposal unit out back. A constant stream of the city's walking wounded stagger through its doors, each hoping that today might be the day they leave in better shape than they arrived. Hope, as it turns out, is a surprisingly durable parasite. The hospital's motto, "Aegrescit Medendo" – The disease worsens with the treatment – is less a warning and more a promise, etched in tarnished brass above the entrance. It serves as a sardonic welcome to those desperate enough to seek medical attention in a city where the cure is often much worse than the disease.

Streets radiate out from the hospital like infected veins, each one an artery of chaos pumping the lifeblood of Anthroxville's peculiar brand of madness. To the east, the infamous "Pharmacy Row," where you can score anything from aspirin to amphetamines, no questions asked (mainly because the pharmacists had all lost the ability to form coherent sentences years ago). Figures such as Florence de Looselips, Wilbur Peppercorn, Cory Numbnuts, Margot Popplewell, and Cornelius Fudge, among many others, are often seen skulking in the shadows, trading hushed whispers and furtive glances. They haunt the dimly lit corners, searching for their next fix or a semblance of relief from their maladies, real or imagined. To the west lies the "Litigator's Lair," where ambulance chasers, such as Cactus Reus and his ilk, have evolved into a distinct subspecies. They have developed keen hearing that can detect the faintest whisper of "medical malpractice" from miles away, always ready to pounce on the next lucrative lawsuit.

Everywhere, in every nook and cranny of this urban nightmare, are the beleaguered residents of Anthroxville. They move through the streets with the shuffling gait of the perpetually unwell, their faces a gallery of grimaces and tics, each one a living, breathing advertisement for whatever snake oil remedy currently holds sway over the collective imagination. A motley crew of the damned and deranged, they embody walking, talking cautionary tales against ever setting foot in Anthroxville in the first place.

It was into this maelstrom of medicinal mayhem that the anthropomorphic furry giraffe, Dr. Ralph Whiplash dared to venture each day. His long neck stretching towards the smog-choked heavens, his shoes click-clacking against the cracked pavement with metronomic precision. His plaid suit, a sartorial disaster that somehow seemed perfectly at home in the visual cacophony of Anthroxville, fluttered in the fetid breeze as he made his way to Serious Setback General. Ralph was a beacon of hope in a city that had long ago abandoned such quaint notions. Or perhaps he was simply the most elaborate practical joke ever played on a populace too numb to appreciate the punchline. In Anthroxville, the line between savior and charlatan was as murky as the water in the city's radioactive river Ting-Fam. In these parts, Ralph was something of a legend. A one-stop shop for all medical needs, he was a surgeon, psychiatrist, proctologist, and everything in between. Need a heart transplant? Ralph's your guy. Chronic depression? Ralph's got just the lobotomy for you. Hemorrhoids the size of cannonballs? You get the picture.

As the furry giraffe entered his office one morning, his eyes fell upon his diplomas, framed and hung with meticulous care. Each one a testament to his dedication, his brilliance, his ability to forge official-looking documents with startling accuracy. But who was counting? Certainly not the haggard folk of Anthroxville, who are far too preoccupied with their own ailments and afflictions to question his supposed qualifications and expertise

Ralph settled into his chair. The day's victim list lay before him, a roadmap to fresh hells. 9 AM: Agatha Collop. Proctology consult. As he waited for the Collop, Ralph's mind spiraled into the abomination of his chosen profession. "If thou gaze long into an abyss," he muttered, "the abyss will also gaze into thee." The door creaked open like the gates of purgatory, and in slunk Agatha. Ralph's eyes bulged, his pupils dilating at the sheer horror of the task that lay before him. Or rather, behind her. "Morning, Ms. Collop," he croaked, his voice a gravel pit of anxiety and repressed screams. "I understand you're here for a... routine examination?" Agatha simply nodded and proceeded to lift her...