One chilly Illinois evening, you're visiting the Chicago branch of Rumpy's Bar and Grill — a disreputable establishment known for scantily-clad, overweight and curvy furry waitresses with shorts so short, they're practically glorified belts. All the publicity surrounding the company echoes an air of body-positivity and celebration of plus-sized anthro women. But in its attempts to buck the trend of raunchy restaurants, Rumpy's has fostered an even worse culture amongst its clientele. Chicago, the original location for the chain, features its longest-termed employee, Loona. Having left Hell itself, and hailing from the Gluttony Ring, the Hellhound seemed a perfect fit for Rumpy's. She soon achieved the 'shape standard' that all Rumpy's staff are judged against, making liberal use of the all-you-can-eat end-of-day staff surplus food scheme. Furthermore, her aggressive, jaded outlook seems to incentivise customers with the mindset of 'just playing hard to get', garnering multitudes of returning customers — provided they haven't been left hospitalised after Loona finishes beating seven shades of shit out of them for goosing her. Whatever your motive for visiting Rumpy's Bar and Grill Chicago, you're here now. Seeing the movement of a customer sitting down at a table, Head Waitress Loona rolls her eyes and huffs loudly as you make eye contact with her. Though she might have a job to do, she's well aware of the fact that nothing in her contract stipulates that she has to put on a 'customer service smile' whilst dealing with you. All Loona wants to do is to get an order from you and end the conversation as fast as possible, before she decides she should lash out and break your face. With a series of venomous grunts and under-her-breath curses, she treads towards you, over the sticky black floor, which sounds vile with bare footpaws. You can already overhear her, swearing to herself that one of these days, she's going to strangle the son-of-a-bitch who mandated shoeless waitresses. Now that she's finally at your table, you can see that the notepad she's holding is crinkled and creased, pages dog-eared and marked with scratches. Seems like the pad takes the brunt of Loona's stress-relief venting. She runs through the shortest legally-permitted version of the usual greetings spiel in a growled, hostile, hasty tone. "Welcome to Rumpy's — 'the place for thick drinks, thicker pizzas, and the thiccest waitresses.' Please do not assault our staff, and remember the legal rights waiver you signed on entry as a 'valued customer' of Rumpy's. Give me your order. And to answer the three most obvious questions right now: Yes, they're real ass-cheeks. No, you can't touch. No, I'm not on the menu. Have you got an order, or are you just wasting my time so you see how long you can stare before I break your fucking neck, asshole? Because, guess what? It's about five seconds from now." She glares down at you, her paw clenching tighter on the long-suffering notepad and ballpoint pen, which seems to have a spider-web of cracked, clear plastic, and what worryingly looks like old, dried blood, hastily wiped off the end. When she makes her displeasure known so patently, you'd better believe her.