Rabbit
I knew from the start that this was a bad idea, but Father would hear none of it. His plans called for a Rabbit to be constructed, according to his own grotesque specifications, no smaller than a football field from head to toe.
The undertaking began in July, and carried on well into the new year. Timothy and I worked feverishly to finish the stuffing before first snow.
Whenever we questioned his motives, Father would respond in a drunken, yet simple manner. His logic (however twisted) seemed potent, “A Rabbit, Dorothy. For now. Forever………”
This was usually followed by a stern lecture on the value of hygiene in the face of immigrant hoards he felt were diluting the water supply.
On the 4th of February, our labors were finished. Timothy and I hadn’t seen our friends in months. Our fingers were calloused and bloody from stitch work. “Finished!” we exclaimed, as we ran excitedly into the kitchen where Mother was tending to a pot of barley and lamb’s meat.
“Mother! We’ve finished the Rabbit! Where’s Father?”
“In his study, children. Be gentle with your news, he is weak and refuses to eat.”
We walked with heavy-footed restraint to the study’s door. Baited breath and 3 knocks later, we finally heard an answer, “Enter.”
The door opened slowly to reveal a gaunt shadow. His once erect shoulders were slovenly and misshapen as he slouched in his arm chair before the fire, it’s weak embers illuminating the sunken features of his celtic face.
“What is it?”
“Father… The Rabbit… We’ve finished.”
He remained silent. I tried once more to rouse him with our news.
“Father? The Rabbit. Timothy and I have finished. He’s ready for your inspection.”
He sat for a moment, digesting what was just imparted.
“Timothy, fetch my cane.”
And so he stood, frail as he was, and hobbled to the mammoth monster he so vehemently demanded that we construct. His reaction, while delayed, was perfunctory.
“What is this?”
Timothy and I exchanged worried glances. Unsure on how to proceed, we held our tongues. His mood grew dark, and he asked once more, “WHAT IS THIS?”
Timothy spoke in a timid tone, “Your Rabbit, Father. This is your Rabbit.”
“MY RABBIT?”, he shot back.
“MY RABBIT!!! WHAT IS THIS MALFORMATION? THIS PAGAN IDOL? YOU ARE INSOLENT CHILDREN, AND HE WILL PUNISH YOUR TREACHERY!!!!”
Timothy became irate and answered Father’s question with another, “But, Father… You forced us to do this. YOU DEMANDED IT! Why do you now deny this Rabbit, for which we have slaved, FOR YOU!! FOR YOUR PLEASURE!!!”
Without warning, Father cracked Timothy across his skull. Stunned and beaten, he fell. A warm pool of blood formed around his head, turning the grass a sticky maroon. His glance, always towards the sky, faded quickly. Father paused. He watched as his only son, his Timothy, drifted into darkness. His sweated brow softened, if only for a second. And then he spoke.
“Dorothy, mark my instructions, and mark them well. Your are to slay this hideous pink beast. He is an affront to GOD and man alike. He must be made into a foul warning. This… this imprecation against decency will not stand. KILL HIM.”
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THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN NATTY LIGHT IS 5.99 A TWELVE PACK AT RITE AID AND I DON’T HAVE A JOB.
