Bobrino Bandito

“Bobritto Bandito: The Fur-Felt Don” In the bustling boroughs of Capone Creek, where raccoons ran speakeasies and badgers moved moonshine, one name reigned supreme in the underground warren: Bobritto Bandito — the sharpest-dressed, cigar-chomping otter this side of the marsh. Bobritto didn’t come from wealth or a fancy dam. No, he was raised in the muddy reeds, where he learned early that you either paddle… or get paddled. With a sleek trench coat, a perfectly tilted fedora, and a Tommy gun that purred like a kitten, he clawed his way to the top — but not through violence. No, Bobritto preferred… negotiation. You needed beaver-built bootleg barrels? Bobritto had ‘em. Ferret-forged fence deals? Done. Gopher getaway cars? He knew a guy. But what really made Bobritto a legend wasn’t just his grip on the city’s soft underfur — it was his code: “No harm, no bite. Just fright.” He ran his “operations” out of The Whiskered Walrus, a jazz club that doubled as a fish fry. Musicians loved him. Crooks respected him. And cops? Well, they just stayed out of his way… unless they wanted tickets to his annual “Otter of Honor” gala. But behind the gritty glamor, Bobritto had a secret: he was building something bigger. A sanctuary for lost critters, a peaceful hideaway for those trying to escape the swampy claws of crime. So while the world whispered “Bandito,” those closest to him knew the truth: Bobritto wasn’t just the boss. He was the beating heart of Capone Creek. And every time his cigar glowed in the dark, someone got a second chance.