Anthropomorphic 

Camel Character 

Portrait

Spencer Godwottery

The scene that greets the anthropomorphic camel, Spencer Godwottery, each morning after he manages to kick his way through the lopsided door to the office of his publication, Well Magazine, never fails to astonish him. The astonishment owes to the fact that somehow, every new day appears to usher in an even deeper degree of disintegration than the previous, as if entropy had made it a personal mission to dismantle the very fabric of his creation. It is a pitiful sight of shambolic squalor and pathetic depravity. Shouldering past the huddled masses of atrophying journalists, columnists, and editors, who shuffle together with beleaguered hunches, thinning hair, and bloodshot thousand-yard stares, Spencer is forced to deny unfounded rumors of payment that circulate through the office every morning, and with it, the staffer's forlorn hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all in vain. There wasn’t really any cash flow problems, because there really wasn’t any cash. Sales were always dwindling. Dwindling from last week's dwindle. Dwindle to dwindle. "Spare the yarn-spindle and tell me about the dwindle," was Spencer's usual response to any question.

In the early days, Well Magazine stood as a beacon of hope, a journalistic titan, promising the residents of Anthroxville a refined blend of prose, commentary, satire, and even poetry (courtesy of the illustrious Herbert Whiffpop). Envisioned as a utopia of thoughts, it promised to challenge, inspire, and enlighten. Now, the once glittering dream had devolved into a stark reality of staplers chained to desks and sobbing employees seeking solace in the nooks and crannies of a dying enterprise. Such is the state of morale at Well Magazine, that Spencer has been forced to install safety netting outside the office, in order to catch the workers who made the sensible decision to jump.

It wasn’t that Spencer lacked the initial funds. He did, in a manner most tragically comedic. The inheritance from his father's untimely demise (the unfortunate event that occurred at the very dining table where Spencer had elaborated on his magazine dream) had been quite substantial. With his newfound wealth, Spencer sought to mold a monument to free thought and expression for the good folk of Anthroxville.

Even the name "Well" dripped with an ironic eloquence, wholly befitting the haute couture of print. In uttering it, one was serenading to a linguistic tetra-twist: "Well, things certainly seem to be going well at that well-made well of knowledge, Well Magazine.” The literati, sipping on their whisky sours and Negronis, would undoubtedly give a sardonic nod to such a sophisticated jeu de mots. Riding high on this tidal wave of enthusiasm and pizzazz, Spencer, that audacious wordsmith, conjured a slogan—'Nothing's sacred but the truth.' It was as if he'd taken a vial of his own blood, transformed it into ink, and boldly daubed it across the magazine's façade, so read as:

Well

Nothing’s sacred but the truth.

With everything in place, Spencer was particularly proud to announce a roster of Anthroxville's brightest and most promising journalists, cherry-picked by him personally. Committed to the cause, they were all in agreement that this was the exact sort of establishment that Anthroxville was crying out for. To consummate the publication’s long-awaited inception a gala had been thrown, the air heavy with anticipation and the scent of ambition. However, to Spencer’s horror, the turnout was a spectacular flop. In fact, the only attendees were uninvited gatecrashers. Among them were the disreputable trio of Calvin Donnybrook, Mungo Mugwort, and Marty Shuffle, marauding through the free canapés and sending the shrieking female service staff into fits of panic. To add insult to injury, when Spencer made a valiant attempt to tackle Mungo as he scampered by, he missed spectacularly, somersaulting headfirst into the chocolate fountain, emerging like a bedraggled, cocoa-drenched hero from a slapstick nightmare.

From that point on, it was a downward spiral. Financially, Well Magazine was a black hole, seemingly possessing an insatiable appetite for Spencer's funds. No matter how much he poured into it, the chasm yawned wider. Apparently, the magazine had an almost biblical thirst for money. Spencer's money. "Explain that one, you tit," he implored his accountant while standing on the window ledge, looking down and cursing his decision to affix the netting. That the magazine was hemorrhaging money might have been forgivable, even laughable, had there been eager readers snapping up copies. But alas, the magazine was less readable than a blurry optician’s chart. The act of merely leafing through a page was akin to stepping onto a malfunctioning merry-go-round — dizzying, nauseating, and wholly regrettable. Its contents? A merry melee of nonsensical meanderings, the sort of twaddle one might hear from a village drunk. He'd had well-curried bowel movements with more insight than the presented as 'content' in this misadventure of a magazine, and undoubtedly more wit. 

Weren’t the clowns putting out this guff meant to be the most accomplished journalists and writers in Anthroxville? The best in the business they said. How had they managed to keep a straight face when saying that? Somebody must have put them up to it. A conspiracy, but who? Donnybrook? Or perhaps victims of some mass hallucinogenic episode? A cosmic prank played on poor Spencer? If it was humor, it was the driest kind, where the only moisture came from Spencer's despairing tears. The slogan was changed to a desperate plea of:

Well

Is nothing sacred?!!

"...Uh-huh, I had no idea, that's given me plenty to think about, thanks once again for your time,” Spencer concluded the phone call from the hospital bed. It was John, calling to check if Spencer had any idea just how much he fuckin' hated journos? Spencer assured him that he was pretty sure he now did, yes. John was then curious as to whether the anthro camel was entertaining any ludicrous fantasies of sidesteppin' his financial obligations? "I value life too much," he had replied. The Knuckle was also particularly eager to see if Spencer knew of how many different ways there are to skin a journo with a scythe. Spencer did not, as it so happened. As if he didn't already have enough on his plate, this was quite literally the last thing he needed.

Back at the office, deadlines were no longer estimated in units of time – as would be the case in any normal publication – rather, they were given in units of alcohol. "Going to take at least four inches of absinthe, Fuckface.” That also - staff no longer referred to each other by name, but by slur. "Listen, Handjob, I need it done in three." Melvin Crinkle, erstwhile Assistant Editor and self-styled guardian of literature, achieved the spectacular – a nervous breakdown in an environment where collective sanity was but a mirage. Wailing with sodden heaves, he cried out that he was “Betraying his art by writing for money.” In a frenzied charge spearheaded by the crutched-up and bandaged Spencer Godwottery himself, the whole office descended upon him. “You mean to say Pissmouth here's getting money? What money? Empty your pockets and tell us where the coin is coming from!” Melvin’s response was to crumple to the floor, murmuring a hypnotic chant: "Money…Money…Money..." until one nondescript afternoon, demonstrating a flair for the dramatic, he propelled himself out using only the fervent arch of his brows, vanishing into the inky maw of obscurity.

In what was likely the zenith of his decision-making prowess, he vacated just before the incipient pandemonium took root. What unfurled was a tableau of bedlam; those staff members, not yet entirely robbed of their spirit, found themselves in a brutal melee, an unsanctioned gladiatorial contest. Their coveted prize? The dwindling stock of Skedaddle Sodas and Flitter Fleisch Jerky from the office's vending machine. Spencer? He oscillated, with the weight of existential dread, between his window's view and a perpetually ringing phone - the latter, a grim reminder of his day of reckoning with John and his scythe. 800 daily calls, each ignored, were surely only fermenting John's wrath and postponing the inevitable. Still, in the silence of his trepidation, Spencer pondered – what on earth was keeping him so long?

Based on the observations of his staff chimping around the office, it was during this time that Spencer first postulated what would later be known as The Infinite Moron Theorem, which states that even an unlimited number of these cumsacks hitting random keys of a typewriter would not be able to string together a single readable sentence—let alone a magazine's worth.

In the face of such apparently insurmountable odds against selling even a solitary copy, Spencer, ever the unconventional thinker, made a desperate play. The anthro camel's last-ditch effort involved dementedly cold-calling random numbers to sell ad space. A fateful call nearly put an unsuspecting soul six feet under. Spasmodic-Asphyxiation – A peril of hysterical laughter – who knew? This sobering mishap brought Spencer under the sharp scrutiny of Dr. Ralph Whiplash who warned him not to repeat such psychotic pursuits. "A far more serious a matter than death by The Knuckle, I take it?" Spencer posited in remonstration, but to no effect. "Nothing's sacred but the truth, and the truth is, you're fucked," came the response. Out of all options, out of all money, he awaits his fated showdown. Meanwhile, the slogan dwindled again to a pathetic yet fitting:

Well

Nothing.