Anthropomorphic 

Furry Labrador 

Character Portrait

Ripley Dither

After the sudden closure of Cashmoney Bank, with its maniacal owner, Dinero Cashmoney, ascending to the skies in a multi-story hot air balloon, the bewildered citizens of Anthroxville were left in a lurch. Dinero, that audacious architect of financial pandemonium, claimed his aerial escape was merely a protest against Piper Yuwot’s controversial new tax being enacted, a stance which he broadcasted on loop from his airborne palace. Yet, for the denizens of Anthroxville, who found themselves locked out of their accounts and life savings, Dinero’s high-altitude defiance was nothing short of disastrous. The President Clint Bigot administration however, refused to budge in this high-stakes showdown.

An investigation by Spencer Godwottery’s Well Magazine, discovered there may be more to the closure than Dinero was letting on, and having ensnared a upper-lower mid-level associate, the anthropomorphic furry labrador, Ripley Dither, who plied his trade on the investment floor of the infamous bank, an alternate account to the official line was revealed. With a notable penchant for flapping his tongue after a few stiff drinks, the loose-lipped raconteur spilled the beans at Erm Wotsischop’s pub, The Knotted Knacker, revealing a story far more twisted than the one fed to the public. Whether he was oblivious to being recorded or simply too inebriated to care, Ripley’s account was as riveting as it was damning.

"So you want to know where all the money is? Ripley began, his words slurring slightly as he downed another round. "Alright, between you and me, we made some... let's call them adventurous investments across Anthroxville. He leaned in, eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and regret. "You're familiar with Gregory Fromage, right? Well, we went all in on a number of his Multi-Lambo-Marketing schemes. We also took a leveraged-up investment in his artwork, which turned out to be forgeries…of his own forgeries. He even swindled us on a couple of bridges, if memory serves. Never came to fruition, but what the hell. You lose some, you lose some. Then there were the investments in Ivan Spaffovovich’s Senticoin cryptocurrency. The deposits? We took them to cover these risks. Gotta be in it to win it. Granted we lost, and lost big, but hey, that's the game."

The furry labrador paused to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before diving back into his tale. "Staff morale took a hit after those flops, so I signed off on buying lifetime platinum subscriptions for both Quentin Marmalade’s Ménage à Moi Productions, and Charles Moneyshot’s Moneyshot Motion Pictures for the entire team and their extended families. We bought so many subscriptions, we didn’t know what to do with them all. Some were even donated to charitable causes. Do you want one? Still got plenty on the portfolio."

Ripley’s eyes glazed over momentarily, perhaps lost in a haze of past excesses. "Every day at Cashmoney was a circus. We just didn’t care. Every Thursday, we’d force an intern to smoke a missile silo’s worth of Jackson Jiffy’s Sheela na gig super-skunk, drink 6 cubic meters of Face-Pegger lager, then spin them around several thousand times until they could barely speak, let alone stand. Wherever they threw the dart, that was our next investment. Sure, we had concerns regarding risk assessment: Was the intern shitfaced enough? Do they need a few more spins? That kind of stuff.

He chuckled bitterly, his voice tinged with a hint of madness. "Have you ever heard of Axel Kettlebell's brand, Brawl Fuel? How about John Knuckle’s Knuckle Suds soap? Me neither, but we just went all in for the laughs. It wasn’t our money, after all. Truth be told, I shouldn’t have even been in the room. After a near-fatal brain hemorrhage from a multi-car pileup, I can’t count past twenty-two without completely spacking out. You can thank Kingsley Throttle for that. And the voices… oh, the voices. They tell me to buy high and sell low. Makes sense to me, but do you honestly think I have a clue? Yeah, the Yuwot Tax was a kick in the taint and sent markets into freefall, but that wasn’t what made the bank implode. Dinero saw the storm coming, grabbed what was left, and made for the skies away. Simple as that."

Ripley paused again, seemingly having a silent argument with himself before continuing. "Some of the traders freaked out when Archie Bot started telling them they were just a computer simulation. Turned into manic-depressive nihilists overnight. Maybe things would’ve been better if they actually were simulations. Me? I’m just a brain-damaged schizoid who doesn’t care. Still don’t. By the way, do you want some subscriptions to Ménage à Moi Productions? Got plenty to spare."

Ripley’s tale, part tragic, part farcical, was a rollercoaster of mismanagement, reckless abandon, and the sheer absurdity that characterized Cashmoney Bank. As the evening wore on, the furry labrador's words grew more slurred, his gestures more animated. He leaned back, a smug smile playing on his lips as if Penelope Snizzsnapper herself had...