Anthropomorphic 

Furry Horse 

Character Portrait

Rupert Taboo

Anthroxville, a demented carnival where catastrophe and farce collide like John Knuckle's unsolicited fist meeting the jaw of an unsuspecting victim, has and continues to endure countless absurdities that stretch the very fabric of reality. Take, for instance, the saga of the seemingly bottomless pothole, into which the intrepid Frødrik Frødrikson daringly plunged, armed with nothing but a can-do attitude and an implausibly long rope, in his audacious quest for the ever-elusive all-time low. There is also the unspeakable “Problem,” also known as the “You-know-what,” “That-which-cannot-be-addressed,” and “The-mother-of-all-loads” – a catastrophe so nebulous and all-encompassing it defies comprehension. No one dares confront it, save for one: Zofia Squits, the reluctant heroine no one asked for and no one deserved, with a grim determination that borders on the fanatical. Her battle plan is simple: tackle it head-on while everyone else averts their gaze and whispers in hushed tones.

Financial mayhem isn’t ever far behind, courtesy of Dinero Cashmoney, who engineered a financial meltdown of biblical proportions in protest against Piper Yuwot's unprecedented tax scheme, transforming any vestige of wealth into an abstract concept overnight before absconding in his hot-air balloon, cackling at the chaos he left behind on terra firma. There was also the Flatwa, an open call to splat on sight, declared by the flat-earth fundamentalist, Pat O’Plateau against all globalist infidels, chief among them the hapless Johann Underbelly.

And who could forget the chronic dancing plague, a phenomenon as inexplicable as it was infectious, unleashed upon the unsuspecting populace by none other than the manic Clém de la Crème? His absolute banger of a tune ripped through the city's squares and winding streets, turning them into kinetic crucibles of frenetic motion and uncontrolled limbs. The spectacle was somewhere between a rave and a seizure clinic, with citizens seemingly possessed, dancing until their feet shredded and their minds teetered on the edge of sanity.

But in the warped mind of the anthropomorphic furry horse, Rupert Taboo, none of these disasters could hold a candle to the sudden hanky-panky crisis that had Anthroxville by the throat. This was no ordinary fiasco; this was existential. The good citizens, Rupert included, had long been lulled into a blissful delusion, convinced that the good times would blaze on indefinitely. During these gilded days, you didn’t go looking for hanky-panky; it it came looking for you, ambushing both the keyed-up and the unsuspecting alike, with waves of mischief, madness, and unbridled merriment, where boundaries of propriety were not just blurred but obliterated. The city was a constant fiesta of indulgence where anyone—regardless of their station—could find their way from the pits of the ungratified and aggrieved to being thoroughly hankied and even more pankied, often without the slightest bit of effort. The abundance was obscene; it seemed to even ooze from the cobblestones and drip from the eaves, saturating the air with its heady, rambunctious promise. Everywhere you looked, there it was, and yet the populace just simply couldn’t get enough.

Many, including Rupert, speculated that Anthroxville itself had been conjured into existence through some cosmic hanky-panky. Even the most imaginative minds couldn't fathom a more plausible explanation. It turned into a citywide obsession, with folks engaging in an endless pursuit of the stuff, driven half-mad by an insatiable appetite for more. And who could blame them? Both a luxury and an essential, it was the lifeblood and doctrine of Anthroxville. A sensory overload that promised adventure and excess at every turn, it fueled their wildest dreams, powered their madcap ambitions, and turned every waking moment into a sugar-coated trip. This wasn’t just some idle pastime; it was the pulse of the city, the manic heartbeat that kept everything thrumming with frenetic, electric energy. To be without it? Unthinkable. Like yanking the plug on a neon-drenched funhouse, casting the entire city into a drab, soul-sucking void. Hanky-panky wasn’t just a part of their lives—it was the very essence of their existence, the shimmering thread woven through the chaotic, kaleidoscopic fabric of Anthroxville’s soul.

Then, as abruptly as one of arm-wrestling champ Roy Bibbowski's title-winning finishers, the unimaginable happened: a sudden, inexplicable shortage of hanky-panky. The origins of this calamity were as elusive as Raymond Windpipe making good on one of his IOUs, sending the town into a frenzy of disbelief and speculation. Overnight, the streets of Anthroxville transformed from playgrounds of excess into desolate avenues of unfulfilled desires. Those who once reveled in the city's licentious bounty were now left clutching at the tattered remnants of their shattered utopia. They had believed, with a naivety verging on the tragic, that the good times would roll on forever.

Public appeals for the stuff became the desperate new reality. The air buzzed with plaintive cries: "Excuse me, ma'am, can you spare some hanky-panky?" Anthroxville had become a caricature of its former self, where the search for its missing mojo became an all-consuming obsession. The once-bustling city, now bereft of its lifeblood, seemed to teeter on the brink of collapse, its vibrant essence replaced by a hollow echo of desperation. The furry horse had suffered more than many during this fallout, for as something of a connoisseur, he had made the…