C.B. Auder

Our Thoughts and Prayers are with your Fluffy Little Rebel Butt

 

Bunny could place the exact afternoon–rainy and vacant–that life had started feeling futile. The daily meadow-in, meadow-out. The hairy vetch always tasting like peas, peas, golden peas. Farm Boy squealing like a dying baboon every time he caught sight of Bunny–even though that gap-toothed goon didn’t know her from Adam or Bounder or Old Uncle Stamp. Humans were jerks.

Well, she’d had it up to her harelips trying to nail the quirk in the cosmic logic. “I don’t see the upshot,” Bunny said one dewy morn. “What does a life mean, if I’m just hanging on from day to day, being an obligate nasal breather?”

Mother Onepence assaulted a black-eyed Susan, her mouth a tunnel inhaling a rigor-mortised train. Mother said, “We eat, we sleep, we re-ingest our excretions, and we pop out fresh hoppers. What in the hell is there to understand?”

Bunny knew it sounded crazy, but all those things just weren’t enough. In due time, she hatched a plan of resistance. She would sneak from the burrow nightly and search for her true tribe.

 

It felt good to stretch her buns–and by day twenty-one, she’d found the farmer’s still.

Bunny liked getting tipsy. She’d hop and topple around the meadow. Puff out her poof at all the young bucks. Pop her head upside-down through her haunches and holler, “Think you can blast me? These buns ain’t rigged!”

Mother Onepence blinked her lazy lids. She paused her incessant munching. “Who the fuck is Rigged?”

Bounder froze.

A shadow passed: just a crow.

Mother said, “All I know is, the last thing we need around this place is a godforsaken infiltration of frat rabbits and their sex-hound compadres.”

 

Every week Bunny roamed farther, until one day: bang, baby. She met a garage band of weasels at a nearby jamboree.

Even better than their sick Stratocasters, they had a gun, honey. Bunny learned to blast the living daylights out of any beer can that crossed her path. Finally, she thought, I’m getting a bulls-eye view of all the world’s exhilarations. And boy, did she feel alive. Ready to handle every legit adult risk. Maybe she and the weasels would even go on tour!

She hadn’t planned for the loin-pinch that kept tractor-beaming her furry niblets towards the gorgeous gamble of a rabbit named Rigged.

Head of the Hippety Humpf Gang, Rigged Thumps owned the huge and excellent poker parlor ’round the dustiest western bend. Past the seventh hill of magic beans.

Rigged Thumps…. She couldn’t control her hypnotic obsession with his enormous … Sanskrit tattoos.

Mother almost came to life when she heard the news. She stamped her luckiest foot. “How in tarnation could you hook up with such small-pawed, nest-headed riffraff?”

Bunny spit out her teasel. She thought: How can something be bad, if it feels so right–so full of freedom?

 

Well, after too one-too-many weasel-filled mosh pits in the squash blossoms, after enough of Bunny’s midnight moonshine yodels, Mother’s diplomacy was exhausted. She pulled Uncle Stamp aside.

He understood her complaint and complied, delivering a stack of top-notch porn mags to a scurry of delinquent squirrels. The exchange? One oak’s worth of rodent grins for a second-hand side arm.

In less time than it takes a farm boy to squeal like a baboon at a rabbit, Bunny was put out of Mother’s misery with a deafening blast.

“SOMEBODY HAD TO DO IT,” Mother projected over the ringing while Uncle Stamp pinwheeled gulleyward from the pistol’s kick. “That ruckus-butted dipshit was aiming every last one of us straight for a rabbit stew.”

“Tragic words indeed, Mother!” bawled Crazy Haycocks, “but true. Let us have a moment of silence for this precious lost life.”

The warren gathered ’round to view the lagomorphic spasms. Bunny responded to their display of respect with a rebellious squelch and gifted her crimson goo onto the season’s finest rutabagas.

Mother’s nose twitched. Uncle Stamp popped back into view. “Iron enriches the soil!”

Up a shagbark hickory, a red-eyed bird cocked his baffled head. Tried his darnedest to make sense of the Swedish-turnip tableau. What was the world coming to, when even the prey were packing heat? He had half a mind to pick up and go to Saskatchewan. But he was a single parent. The chicks hadn’t fledged.

Bunny fluttered an eye. She saw a great raptor in the distance, stretching magnificent wings. He’s coming right for us, she thought. He’s gonna embrace us all in his downy daddy-hug….

Crazy Haycocks tells us Mother Onepence nearly had second thoughts before the goshawk gave its piercing cry.

 

C.B. Auder’s weird work has appeared in Cleaver, Jersey Devil Press, Storm Cellar, Defenestration, Queen Mobs Teahouse, and elsewhere. Follow Aud on Twitter at @cb_auder.