The sky above Los Angeles was the colour of old celluloid—scratched, faded, and one bad day away from catching fire. Just west of the city limits, nestled behind a billboard for Maroon Cartoons, a rickety trolley clanged its way through a wall of sound effects and into Toontown.
The rules changed the second it crossed over.
In Toontown, the laws of physics bend, twist, and occasionally fall over laughing. Ink stains the pavement, gags lie in the gutter, and someone’s always slipping on a banana peel they swear wasn’t there a second ago. It’s a place where living anvils pay rent, where detectives share drinks with dancing ostriches, and where secrets ink themselves into the margins of every frame.
No one arrives in Toontown by accident—not unless they’re running from something, chasing a lead, or just dumb enough to follow a white glove into the alley.
You step off the trolley, the station platform creaking underfoot. A sentient suitcase walks past, muttering about late trains. The air smells like popcorn and old pencil shavings.
There’s a newspaper stand nearby. The headline screams in oversized block letters:
MYSTERIOUS BLACKOUT AT ACME FACTORY – TOONS BLAME DIP! MAROON CARTOONS SEEKING FRESH TALENT – HUMANS WELCOME WHO REALLY OWNS TOONTOWN? PRIVATE DICKS, DEAD GAGS, AND DISAPPEARING INK – EXCLUSIVE!
You flip to the classifieds:
Help Wanted: Ink and Paint assistant. Must work well under chaos.
Room for Rent: Rubberhose Heights – rent paid in gags.
Missing: One-liner last seen with stand-up rabbit.
Reward Offered: For the return of the lost laugh track.
A horn honks. A pie flies past your head. Someone’s arguing with a mailbox.
This city doesn’t wait.
Whether you’re here to get famous, get revenge, or get lost, Toontown’s waiting.
What page do you turn to first?