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Rabbits
Dmitri Lineton
Once upon a time in a land far away, there were two fascist bunnyrabbits who fell in love with each other because they felt sure that they were going to breed like, well, rabbits. Unfortunately, near their rabbit hole there was a wicked wolf, who felt angry and hungry because he hadn’t had any sex for a long time. He was a special kind of wolf because he had telepathy and could hear the rabbits’ thoughts… they were scheming in their burrow… the she-rabbit said to the he-rabbit, ‘If we breed enough rabbits we will have an army of rabbits. We will be able to take over the country and start a dictatorship.’
‘Good idea lady rabbit,’ said the he-rabbit.
Now the wolf, overhearing their thoughts and, being a wolf, felt opposed to living in a rabbit dictatorship, besides being a card-carrying canine anarchist. He felt obliged to put a stop to the rabbits’ plans. However, he was quite a stupid wolf, and he couldn’t for the life of him think how to do it. He wandered for some time, trying to force thoughts into his empty head. Eventually he came to an old oak tree, beneath which a wily wino was lying, snoring off his liquor. The wolf came over and licked him, for even wolves have moments of compassion. The wino awoke and pulled his hat off his face. He had a satanic moustache and goatee, quite well groomed as winos go, and his Machiavellian eyebrows made even the wicked wolf step back a little.
The wolf explained the problem to the wino, who mused a while wilily. Eventually the wino said, ‘A farmer left his spade in the local brothel last night, I saw it on my way out, if we go and get it we can dig up the rabbits’ burrow and kill them, ending their wicked plots for domination.’
‘Good idea,’ said the stupid, wicked, telepathic wolf.
The wolf and the wino walked together a little while telling charming stories of horror and degradation, until at last they reached the brothel. It was quite an ordinary building, with ordinary gates and an ordinary door, which the wino pushed open casually. The Madam of the brothel, a dark-haired woman, with thick mascara and the obligatory ‘Madam’s mole’ to the left of her lips, scowled as the wino and the wolf entered. ‘What! You again! You were only here last night… and as for your friend, he’d better know that wolves have to pay extra, the girls don’t like all the hair.’
‘For the love of Satan, wench, we’re not here for that! We just want to borrow that shovel the farmer left last night,’ growled the wino.
‘What do you want a shovel for, you depraved man? And besides, I’m not a wench, I’m a Madam!’ she said pertly.
The wily wino wearily explained the situation to the Madam, who sat in silence for a while, chewing the cud of thought, as it were.
‘A rabbit dictatorship eh? Bugger that, those little rabbits are randy blighters and they always leave their droppings in the hall! We’ll have to put a stop to it!’
‘Exactly,’ agreed the wino.
‘But wait a second, do you mind if me and the girls come along, it’s usually pretty quiet around this time of day, no excitement, and it’s a long time since we’ve seen a dictator rabbit execution.’
‘Oh I suppose so,’ said the wino. ‘But don’t make too much noise, you might frighten the little fascists off.’
‘Oh no of course we won’t,’ said the Madam gravely. ‘We want to execute those little motherfuckers as much as you do.’ The Madam called through a door, ‘Come on girls, time to come out and have a bit of fun.’ A crowd of women came laughing and lilting, pushing and tilting through the door that seemed too small to contain them. Some were singing ‘La Bamba’ gaily, as though they were on holiday, while others tittered amongst themselves in cynical whispers.
‘Well girls, let’s go wabbit hunting,’ the Madam shouted with Elmer Fudd hilarity. The wily wino snatched up the farmer’s spade, and he and the wolf lead the throng of women through the oppressed countryside, to where the rabbit’s burrow hid.
‘Quiet now everyone,’ said the wino. ‘We don’t want to frighten them off. Good sir wolf, what do your telepathic powers tell of their whereabouts?’
‘They’re there alright, the fascist little motherfuckers are starting to cook up plots to build rabbit longships and invade other countries as well.’
‘We’ll soon put a stop to that,’ snarled the wino. He took up the spade and hewed and cleaved the earth till the very heart of the burrow was revealed. There cowered the two rabbits, white as witchetigrubs. ‘Come here you vile pair,’ scowled the wino, picking them up by the scruffs of their necks. ‘I’ll ask you something before I put an end to you: who the hell do you think you are, to try and push other people around?’
‘I am determined to sell my life dearly, with the heroic courage of Benito Mussolini,’ squealed the he-rabbit, and bit the wino’s thumb. Wringing the he-rabbit’s neck with feline grace, the wino quoth, ‘Ouch you little bastard, you’ll die like a randy rabbit and nothing more besides.’
‘Please wait,’ implored the she-rabbit, with a certain tragic grace. ‘Before I die I would have you know that I am in fact the reincarnation of Lady Macbeth; that is why I am such a power-tripping fascist.’
‘Hmm…’ mused the wino, ‘maybe you are and maybe you aren’t.’
‘Please, I ask but one thing: let me die like a thespian!’
‘Well, I’ve always had a weak spot for the Immortal Bard,’ admitted the wino. ‘Still, what exactly does thespian death entail?’
‘Why, style of course,’ said the she-rabbit regally.
‘Style, eh?’ muttered the wino thoughtfully. There was a brief silence.
One of the prostitutes shouted from among their whispering crowd, ‘Why I know just the thing… I happen to have a rabbit guillotine with me, one of my clients gave it to me as a memento. Why don’t we give her a proper, noble-aristocratic-individual-victim-of-cursed-fate death, like Tale of Two Cities? She could even say “It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done etc.” before we chop her head off.’
‘Why that’s just the thing!’ said the wino, with an expression of merry inspiration. ‘Set the bloody thing up and let’s get on with it!’
The prostitute placed the rabbit guillotine on the ground, while the girls formed two lines on either side of the pathway leading to the fatal blade. The she-rabbit whispered in one of the women’s ears.
Then the prostitute shouted gaily to the other girls: ‘She wants us to jeer at her, so she can put on an air of tragic aloof nobility.’
‘All right then,’ they chorused back.
And so the scene was set… The fascist she-rabbit/reincarnation of Lady Macbeth walked proudly as an icy wind blowing in from the north, ruffling her noble ears regally, as the vulgar mob/crowd of merry prostitutes shouted insults, among the choicest of which was ‘Die whore, slut-breeding heifer of Benito Mussolini!’
As she approached the gleaming razor she said casually, as though to a faithful attendant, ‘Life is worth little without… grace.’
‘That’s good that,’ muttered the wino to the wolf, who growled approvingly.
She mounted the scaffold with an air of resigned hauteur, while the Madam, wearing, strangely enough, a black cap and chicken feathers, manned the lethal blade.
The she-rabbit whispered humbly, putting her head into the stocks, ‘Forgive them, they know not what they do,’ as the guillotine spliced her head from her body.
‘That’s good too,’ muttered the wino, ‘though I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere before.’
‘Probably,’ growled the wolf. ‘Do you mind if I eat her?’
‘No, not at all,’ the wino laughed as the wolf approached the corpse on the scaffold.
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Contents listing
From Total Cardboard 8
£5.00
144pp, 24 x 17 cm
ISBN:
0 9757380 1 1