Anthropomorphic 

Bulldog Character 

Portrait

Victor Wallop 

Did Victor Wallop choose the life of crime, or did the life of crime, in fact, choose Victor? The age-old question has troubled Anthroxville’s philosophers, psychologists, and sociologists since the day the anthropomorphic bulldog first burst into the public consciousness with his inspired crime-binging debut. Serving as a taster of what was to become a daily occurrence, the lawbreaking lout showed himself to be something of a prodigy, singlehandedly wreaking havoc throughout each and every neighborhood with instinctive savoir-faire. He just made it look so easy, too easy in fact. Surely the little toerag must have had an accomplice? Surely some fellow guttersnipe had offered a hand in bringing the city to its knees? Surely? But alas, after much investigation, puzzled postulation, and bewildered head-scratching, it was eventually confirmed that Victor had done the impossible and acted alone. Still to this day, that infamous night is remembered each year with a somber vigil, for never before was so much taken from so many by so few—or one to be exact.

So it would come as a schismatic shock to many—not least the grunting lumps of employees of his loan shark, security, and debt collection business, Wallop Solutions, to discover that Victor had done the unimaginable, and sought out the services of the famed psychotherapist, Earnest Wafflemonger, to help him change his ways.

“So here’s the thing chief, here’s the reason why I’m gonna be blabbin' to a shrink such as yerself for the foreseeable," Victor began, in what would be first of many sessions, grimacing as he so often does, while sprawled out on the swooning couch of Earnest's practice. "Believe it or not, I’m tryin’ to leave the life of crime behind. Yeah, you heard right, the Gaffer of GBH callin’ it quits on the whole enterprise. The muggin’s, the sluggin’s, the druggin’s—the griftin’, the liftin’, the shiftin’—the smash n’ grabs, the thrash n’ stabs, and even, the bash n’ nabs.” “The bash and nabs?” asked Earnest, looking up from his notebook with an inquisitive frown. “Yeah, a personal fave of yours truly,” responded the anthro bulldog, "One simply donates a couple of blows from a blunt instrument of yer choosin’ — forehead included — and then, once the muppet on the receivin’ end is all duffed out, yous make off with their handbag, wallet, briefcase — whatever swag they got. ‘Nuff said,” he concluded, taking a snarled puff of his cigar. “Gotcha,” replied Earnest, scribbling on, “‘nuff said.”

Victor paused to examine the collection of framed portraits adorning the wall, presumably depicting Earnest's past and present clientele (a practice he suspected might breach confidentiality). His eyes darted from one face to another, recognizing notable figures such as Humphrey Skedaddle, Grissel Putz, Ivan Spaffovovich, Margot Popplewell, and Clém de la Crème. He scrutinized each image, ensuring none of his friends or associates were among them.

Earnest had sworn on all that was holy, including Charles Moneyshot himself, that Victor's portrait would never grace that wall. As Victor's gaze swept across the frames, it briefly lingered on an empty one with the enigmatic initials "C.D." in the placeholder. Though intriguing, no name immediately sprang to mind, so he dismissed it without inquiry. Satisfied with his inspection, Victor resumed his rambling soliloquy, the momentary distraction fading as quickly as it had arisen.

“Now where was I? Oh yes, so as I was sayin', I’m lookin’ for an out; abdication if you will – the crown is simply too heavy to bear, it’s weighin' down on me soul. I need yous to work yer magic and help teach this old dog some new tricks pronto, ‘cos right now, it’s gettin' completely out of control—downright chicken jalfrezi I'm tellin' yous. So bad right, that just the other day, I even held up me own nana with a cleaver. Can you imagine? Me own nan. She’d only popped over for a cuppa. So, there she is, fartin' about in her chair as she does, treatin’ me to a right earful about her wonky hip and all the grief it’s been givin’ her. Meanwhile, there I am, plonked down on the sofa across the room, tryin’ me very best to look as if I haven’t heard it all before. I’m tellin’ you mush, like a broken record is that old crone when it comes to matters of the hip. Anyways, such are me strained efforts, that they send me deep into what can only be described as a transcendental state of the metaphysical. Felt like me whole brainbox was passin' through a meat blender. Real trippy stuff all this mind over matter business, for a moment I thinks I'm Jackson Jiffy or somethin'. Then I'm back as Victor Wallop again, and before I know it, I start hearin’ these cosmic voices in me bonce. ‘Go on son,’ the voice says, ‘why don’t yous have a cheeky pop? Quick stick-up and Bob's yer uncle. Out with the old and in with the bold, innit.’ Unbelievable. I traverse the bounds of reality to a state of enlightenment and this is what I find? This is what lays within the gates of inner consciousness? A celestial yob. I mean for fuck's sake. The intramural puppetmaster in the dome of the high tower is a seasoned hoodlum. Who'da thought? I open up me third eye only for it start swivellin' around, scopin' out a hit on me nearest and dearest.”

Clearly agitated, the anthropomorphic bulldog cracked open a can of his favorite beer, Face-Pegger, to help cool his temper – an interesting choice, considering it invarably did the opposite. “Nonetheless, under the influence of this trancelike state, these few divine words of gospel proved to cut the mustard as far as I was concerned, and I willfully oblige, quickly whippin' out the chopper and pouncin' upon me unsuspectin' nana, who was still cluelessly prattlin' away. ‘Gran, don't be gettin' yer knicker's in a twist—just hand over the purse and that lovely pearl necklace and nobody needs to get hurt,’ I say. ‘Vic, you little cunt,’ she responds, spittin’ out a gobful of tea all over me favorite rug. I swing the blade half an inch away, tellin' her, in no uncertain terms, not to be gettin' lippy with me, or I'll take her noggin’ clean off—perm n’ all. ‘You ain’t got the minerals,’ she snarls defiantly. ‘Don’t go testin' me, you old munter,’ I retort, physically shakin' by this point. This exchange goes back and forth for a little while—she’s a tough nut after all and I expect no less. That said, after much shoutin' and raisin' all sorts of hell, she does eventually back down and bitterly hands over the plunder. ‘Now that weren’t so hard, was it?’ I declare in triumph, wavin' me ill-gotten gains up in the air and dancin' a jig like a right propa knobhead."

“Moments later I snap out of this maniacal trance, like some ugly spell had been lifted. Comin' to me senses, it dawns on me what I've done. To me nan of all people. I'm completely devastated, and seein' her all shaken up like...I can't even begin to...how could I...I mean to me...to me own flesh and blood! So blubbin’ like a pansy and on me knees, I beg her to forgive me somehow, for I have a serious problem—hence why I’m flappin' me trap to you right now, guv. ‘Non compos mentis,’ I plead, ‘non compos mentis.’ She says 'that's a fuckin’ understatement,' but she loves me does me nana, and after many tears shed, she decides to put it behind her — water under the bridge and all that. In fact, it reminds her of Gramps when he was about me age, pulled the exact same stunt apparently. We have a good laugh about this, followed by more hugs and tears. She's too old for this shit. ‘You and me both Nana,’ I think, ‘you and me both.’

"So, she nips off to put the kettle on to commemorate the ceasefire. Gotta love that women, I mean seriously, I’m about to go from mea culpa to mea cuppa in no time. Then, just as she’s found it in her heart to forgive me, I've only gone and done her again, this time with a sink-plunger I keep in the cupboard. Don't know what got into me. Would be too easy to simply blame the homunculus twonk squattin' in the cockpit of me conk, commandeerin' control of the cerebellum. Nah, somethin' fundamental gotta be wrong. Takes two to tango after all. I got $1.43 on me second shakedown and she flat-out refuses to see me since. The crime giveth and the crime taketh away. Absolutely fumin’ apparently. Personally, I can't blame her; nor can me uncle, who storms over and starts kickin' off about how I'm bang out of order and that I gotta hand over the loot, for otherwise there’s goin’ to be some serious consequences. Now if me memory serves me correctly, "Cruisin' for a bruisin'" were his choice of words—or somethin' to that effect. I try to reason that I nicked it fair n’ square and that he should stop stickin' his oar in and piss off back to the hole from whence he came.”

“Did he take this well? Did he fuck. In response, that arsebandit challenged me to a bear-knuckle brawl to the death; no weapons, no ref, no rules, no nuthin'. Talk about overreactin'. Fight's next Tuesday, whole family's invited, all rootin' for him, naturally, so we'll see how that goes down. No doubt me dear babushka will be cheerin' loudest of all, enjoyin' the view from her ringside seat as the slugfest commences."

"If there's one thing I know about this side of the Wallop clan, then it’s that they’re not to be trusted under any circumstances—a devious bunch of reprobates, and this uncle is the nastiest fucker of the lot, which you can believe me, is some accomplishment. He'll no doubt try and catch me off guard: sneak in a crowbar down a trouser leg or smuggle a screwdriver up the jacksie—that sort of thing. Always lookin' for an edge, somethin’ to tip the balance in his favor you see." 

“So you know what I've done? I've gone and called up me old mucker John Knuckle, and we've devised a covert plan of sorts. Without goin' into details, we're goin' to kidnap the miserable pissflap from his gaff on the eve of the scrap. Me henchos, Franz Nuzzle and Aye Genteightonesix will also lend a hand to make sure everythin' goes ticketyboo. Safety in numbers and all that. And when, to the surprise of all, he fails to show up to duke it out at our date with destiny the followin' mornin', victory shall be mine by default, puttin' an end to all this nonsense. Simple as. Seriously cannot wait to see the look on his ugly mug when we bundle him into the back of the van in his Y-fronts. Gonna be priceless. That reminds me, mustn't forget to bring a camera along for the occasion."

Judging by Victor's continued attendance at the therapy sessions, the kidnapping was a marked success. In fact, the anthro bulldog has even taken to kidnapping Earnest on occasion, sometimes for multiple weeks at a time. Despite his best efforts, it appears that he continues to choose the life of crime—or rather, it continues to choose him.