Anthropomorphic 

Iberian Fox 

Character Portrait

Raymond Windpipe

In the labyrinthine underbelly of Anthroxville, a city rife with paradox and perfidy, there resides a peculiar figure: Raymond Windpipe. This is no ordinary fellow; this is someone who has seen the very bottom of the financial barrel and proceeded to dig. The anthropomorphic Iberian fox is a professional in the art of losing money, a black belt in fiscal catastrophe. If there were a prize gong for going bankrupt, Raymond would have a shelf full of them. His wardrobe, a collection of ill-fitting waistcoasts that look like they were tailored by Roy Bibbowski or some other drunken sailor, speaks volumes about his state of affairs. Each waitcoast, a relic of better days, hangs on him like the ghosts of past financial blunders. His shoes, scuffed and worn, bear the brunt of endless off-piste treks to avoid running into those he owes money, his soles thin as their patience.

It seems there’s simply no money in making money these days. In fact, Raymond is absolutely sure of it. How can there be? He’s been in the money-making business for years now, but what does he have to show for it? No money. Less than no money. The worst kind: minus money. It’s a conspiracy. A paradox. A farce. It’s also, as has come to his attention, an actual living nightmare. Now try, if you dare, to attempt to complete a transaction with minus money and see how cool you can keep things. It's simply not possible, as Raymond with his bludgeoned self-respect and crumpled mound of rejected IOUs can personally attest to. “Can you keep it down,” he’ll implore a cashier, waiter, or debt-collector, trying not to cause a scene, whenever an IOU of his is refused with a hate-ridden scoff. “People will start thinking I’ve got no money.” This of course should be impossible, since that’s the stuff he makes full-time. He tries explaining as much to any third-party spectators, gawpers, and onlookers, who will inevitably gather like gonked-up junkies at one of Jackson Jiffy’s famous flash-sales. “Don't worry folks” he says, waving a rejected IOU like a white flag of surrender, "just a small misunderstanding."

As if this weren’t bad enough, Raymond’s daily humiliations reach a crescendo when pickpockets like the notorious Binky Pettifogger rifle through his pockets, only to recoil in horror, flinging his wallet back faster than you can say Cliff Bingo, as if it were toxic. The wallet, stuffed with IOUs, is a badge of dishonor, a symbol of Raymond’s unique brand of financial ineptitude. Even the thieves of Anthroxville want nothing to do with him, fearing contamination by association. He can't even blame them. Given this state of affairs, Raymond’s even resorted to trying to pay for things with his dignity (a close bedfellow of the IOU), but it turned out his account has also long been tapped out, and he simply doesn’t have a shred left to offer.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and he once attempted to offset the losses of his money-making by signing up for a couple of Gregory Fromage’s Multi-Lambo-Marketing schemes, those glittering promises of instant wealth. Instead, he found himself deeper in the mire of minus money—a feat he hadn’t believed possible. He couldn't take it anymore. One day whilst beseeching the universe for one good reason why he shouldn’t just end things now by simply waltzing up over to Anthroxville's famously disagreeable head-basher (and debt-collector as chance would have it), John Knuckle, and asking him if he thinks he's hard or something, he actually received a response. As Raymond stood there on the precipice of this suicidal mission, fate, in the form of Ripley Dither, intervened. Ripley, an upper-lower mid-level associate of Dinero Cashmoney’s Cashmoney Bank, sauntered into Raymond’s path with the air of one who held the keys to the universe. “Lower your expectations,” he intoned, as if imparting the secrets of the cosmos.

Raymond turned his head. “Minus minus money,” Ripley explained, his eyes gleaming with a mad genius, as The Knuckle swaggered off out of sight. “They cancel each other out. Minus minus equals plus. You need to lose so much that it circles back around. If you owe the bank $300thou, that’s a you problem. But if you owe the bank $300mil, that’s a them problem. Or rather, an us problem.” He handed Raymond a business card, its embossed letters reading: “Cashmoney Bank – Too Big to Fail.” Raymond’s mind whirled. “Too big to fail...” There was a pause. “Exactly,” Ripley grinned. “You’ve simply got to lose more.” And thus, the anthro Iberian fox embarked on an audacious quest to master the art of catastrophic financial mismanagement. Many had tried and failed at such grandiose fiscal folly, but Raymond possessed a unique expertise in losing money—honed over years of unintended practice. Now, with Ripley’s dubious guidance, he would channel his innate talent into a strategic plan of spectacular monetary losses.

The goal was simple, yet monumental: accumulate a debt of such historic proportions, that his financial ruin would become a matter of public concern. In return for Ripley’s tutelage, a cut of Raymond’s future, or rather ongoing, losses would be his. It was a partnership forged in the crucible of mutual desperation, and when, by chance, a certain Mitzi Midriff and Penelope Snizzsnapper...