The rabbit sets the trap.
It’s a pit with a tiger in it, covered over with leaves, and on top there’s a pile of delicious crack cocaine.
“Kids can’t resist delicious crack cocaine!” the rabbit says.
“But just in case . . .”
The rabbit adds some sleazy porn to the pile. It flutters there, on the top of the cocaine, one magazine falling sluttily open to an article on international trends in computational linguistics.
Then the rabbit dives behind a rock and hides.
The kids stroll along. You know. The bad kids. The kids that don’t let the rabbit have cereal.
The kids look at the pile of cocaine and pornography.
The leaves stir in the wind.
A tumbleweed blows by.
“Mom!” cries the female kid.
“Agh!” shrieks the male kid.
They’re terrified. Random piles of sex and drugs on top of tiger pits in their backyard are not a part of their reality.
The kids run off and cower.
“Bloody hell,” says the rabbit.
It wanders out. It kicks the cocaine. It loses its balance. It falls into the pit with the tiger, the porn, and a large quantity of drugs.
“Silly rabbit,” the narrator sighs. “Just because the kids oppose you at every turn doesn’t mean they’re degenerate crack addicts!”
The rabbit’s ears make a sad drooping noise.
“I know,” it says.
There’s no way to see into the pit. So there’s no real way to tell what’s happening down there, with the rabbit and the tiger. There’s just some ambiguous noises.
Terrible, ambiguous noises, followed by a stretching silence.
“They’re grrreat!” the tiger says.
. . .
. . . but that was the wrong rabbit, wasn’t it?
realizes Mrs. Schiff.
I mean, this entry is about the Qwik Club, who are eagerly waiting to find out what Sunday’s bonus entry’s going to be about, and your humble narrator is pretty sure that their magical rabbit is the cocoa-licious one and not the cereal-loving rabbit at all.
A rabbit who can change water into wine, or milk into a delicious chocolate beverage.
A rabbit once scourged by thistles in the wind.