Anthropomorphic

Punk Sphynx Cat 

Character Portrait

Sid Blitzkrieg

In the splattered, splotched, and splodged annals of Anthroxville’s records office, mysteries pile up like Marty Shuffle's bad debts after a night at the slot machines. These aren’t mere bureaucratic documents; they’re the stuff of legend – ellipses, cliffhangers, and eternal TBDs – all chronicling the peculiar tendency of the town's residents to disappear as frequently as common decency at Erm Wotsischops' pub, The Knotted Knacker. One moment, they're yomping about their business; the next, they've simply evaporated into the ether, leaving behind nothing but a lingering whiff of bewilderment. The archives are bulging with cases classified under "Lost and Forgotten," each one eliciting no more than a nonchalant shrug from the public, who often mutter, “What took them so long?” They await the inevitable with a morbid punctuality, knowing full well that notables like Calvin Donnybrook, Mitzi Midriff, Louis Battenberg, Archie Bot, or Jasper Skint would eventually join the ranks of the vanished.

In all their combined years of operating, Margot Popplewell and Marcel Gizzard of Anthroxville’s Detective Agency of Hunch and Premonition have yet to receive a single request to investigate and get to the bottom of a reported vanishing. It’s considered part and parcel of life in Anthroxville; par for the course; a quotidian hazard, as inevitable as the getting jumped by John Knuckle or swindled by Gregory Fromage. This peculiar phenomenon is so common, in fact, that many have even disappeared while waiting for others to do so, vanishing into thin air like a magician’s trick gone wrong.

Among the myriad of the gone-and-forgotten, some do make a less-than-triumphant return, seeking a hero's welcome that materializes into an awkward shuffle and averted glances. Friends and loved ones, irked more than relieved, often lament with a sardonic grin, “If we’d mounted a search party, we might’ve had to find you.” These returning phantoms, more like misplaced luggage than conquering heroes, usually disappear again soon after, swallowed once more by the town's indifference. Their brief reappearances are as fleeting and unnoticed as Axel Kettlebell's constant overtures to Mia Culpa, leaving behind little more than a vague sense of irritation. The townsfolk, well accustomed to the whimsical nature of their community, barely raise an eyebrow at these fleeting specters, treating their short-lived returns as little more than a minor inconvenience.

Yet, those who appear from nowhere, with no past or pedigree, captivate Anthroxville with all the intrigue of an unsolved murder mystery, wrapped in a riddle, and cloaked in a conundrum. These enigmatic figures inspire a feverish frenzy of speculation and gossip, each theory more outlandish than the last. Among these curiosities is the anthropomorphic punk sphynx cat, Sid Blitzkrieg, a creature of peculiar repute, whose sudden materialization set tongues wagging and imaginations sprinting like Gilbert Jitterbug's overly-caffeinated clients. Sid was not just another oddity; he was an event, a phenomenon, a living riddle that seemed to mock the very concept of normalcy. His arrival was less of an entrance and more of an invasion, a bizarre comet blazing across the night skies of Anthroxville, leaving in its wake a trail of bewilderment and awe.

It was Binky Pettifogger an opportunist with a penchant for late-night skulking, who first laid eyes on the naked and forlorn figure, the neon-pink glow of Florence de Looselips' hotel, The Snoop Inn, bathing the scene in a surreal luminescence, casting Sid in an almost spectral light, a ghostly apparition on the prowl. From a distance, Sid’s hairless, lanky form and vacant stare bore a passing resemblance to Ludwig von Flitter, Anthroxville’s resident mad scientist. Ludwig was also known for his nocturnal wanderings, during which he’d mutter cryptic nonsense and occasionally invent something accidentally useful. Binky, undeterred by Sid's apparent lack of pockets—her usual treasure troves—closed in with practiced nonchalance for what she hoped might be easy pickings. Her mind raced with possibilities, each more inventive and improbable than the last. But as she drew nearer, recognition faltered and curiosity took the reins. She recalled pilfering Ludwig’s pockets earlier that night outside one of Mario Miff's Miff Inconvenience Stores, yielding nothing more than a black notebook filled with scribbled doodles that might have been alchemical formulas or grocery lists. This naked doppelgänger, then, was an altogether different breed of mystery. The punk sphynx cat skin's, hairless and taut, gleamed eerily under the garish pink light, his eyes reflecting a mix of confusion and...