Anthropomorphic 

Asiatic Lion 

Character Portrait

Roy Bibbowski

In the crumbling cesspit of Anthroxville, the anthropomorphic Asiatic lion, Roy Bibbowski, is the undisputed, swaggering sovereign of the waterways. With a temper as unpredictable as his wardrobe choice and a personality as brash as the tattoos etched across his howitzer-sized arms, Roy has claimed the river Ting-Fam, which winds its way through the heart of Anthroxville, dividing it into the contentious east and west, as his fiefdom, commanding it with an iron fist from the deck of his trusty, battle-scarred steamboat, Palm-to-Palm.

Roy, with his beady, judgmental eyes peering through thick, black-rimmed glasses, and a sailor’s cap that barely tames his tangled locks, is a sight to behold. His preferred method of maintaining order on the river is simple: obliterate anything that floats. Declare open season on all vessels and let the Palm-to-Palm’s weaponized steam-powered paddle-wheel do the talking. Many a pontoon, barge, dinghy and canoe has met its untimely end in the murky, sluggish depths of the Ting-Fam, their captains left to rue the day they dared to cross Roy Bibbowski.

Despite his timber-shivering success, Roy’s reign is constantly under siege from an unexpected adversary: bridges. These hideous, utilitarian monstrosities not only ruin the picturesque view of the river but also, more importantly, threaten Roy’s lucrative ferrying business. His disdain for these structures is well-documented and oft-repeated in the smoky, alcohol-fumed haze of Erm Wotsischops' Davy Jones's locker of a pub, The Knotted Knacker, where even the beer taps weep from neglect. “If God wanted us to walk over water, he wouldn’t have invented steamboats, now would he?” This rhetorical gem is typically delivered while Roy is several pints deep into Chode-Stretchers, the local swill known for its ability to make even the strongest liver beg for mercy. Roy bellows to anyone willing—or too inebriated—to listen. This statement, delivered with the conviction of a zealot, is usually followed by a tirade about the aesthetic blight bridges impose on the landscape, culminating in an expletive-ridden rant that rarely leaves Roy in a mood fit for polite company/ that isn’t three sheets to the wind .

Roy’s hatred for bridges is nearly as legendary as his love for arm-wrestling. Unable to utter the “B” word without descending into hysteria, he challenges anyone who disagrees with his anti-bridge stance to a frenzied arm-wrestle. These socket-popping contests, held in the dimly lit corners of The Knotted Knacker, are more like public executions. Roy’s mitts, a vice of wrath and fury, have left many a challenger’s arm hanging limp and lifeless. After his inevitable victory, the anthro Asiatic lion downs the last of his pint, packs his pipe with some Sheela na gig super-skunk from his dealer, Jackson Jiffy, and staggers back to the Palm-to-Palm with a couple of half-conscious pissheads in tow. These press-ganged punters, often too drunk to resist, find themselves aboard and conscripted into Roy’s service, tasked with manning the deck in Roy's ongoing war against rival boats and, of course, those damned bridges. Their tenure is typically short-lived, ending with a ceremonial walk of the plank after a few days of enforced labor, sending them to the murky embrace of the Ting-Fam.

Now, no matter how many times Roy and his motley crew dismantle the bridges, the landlubbers of Anthroxville insist on building more, attempting to connect the east and west sides of the town and cut Roy out of his toll-charging racket. The options for crossing the Ting-Fam are thusly limited: cough up whatever toll Roy feels like charging (often calculated based on one’s face, attitude, and stance on whether or not arm-wrestling should qualify as a professional sport ); risk the perilous, slapdash bridges that Roy is likely to eradicate at any given moment; or attempt the death-defying leap using the madcap ramps strategically placed along both banks of the river.

These ramps, little more than suicide devices, have seen many a foolhardy driver try—and fail—to leap the river. Kingsley Throttle, in his enigmatic wagon Gonzales, remains the sole successful jumper, a fact that sticks in Sheriff Bobby Lockjaw's craw like a fishbone. The Sheriff’s attempt to follow Kingsley’s daring escape ended in ignominious failure, with his squad car belly-flopping into the river after barely making it a third of the way across. Most attempts at ramp-jumping end in a similar fashion, with cars plummeting into the water or colliding mid-air, leaving the drivers to join the soggy ranks of those who thought they could evade the anthro Asiatic lion’s crossing fee.

The populace, largely resigned to Roy’s whims, pays the toll and prays they won’t be the next victim of his unpredictable temper. Anthroxville remains a town divided, both by the river and by the whims of its self-appointed aquatic overlord. Roy Bibbowski, the ever-buccaneering tyrant, continues his reign, a growling testament to the power of brute force and sheer stubbornness, lording over his watery kingdom and raging against the bridges that threaten to bring his empire crashing down, and when Ottoline Puffplinth and Lola Pipsqueak...