This is the tale which began it all for me, in 1978. It earned me trips to the Guidance Counselor's office and the principal's office; it was referred to by my Creative Writing teacher as "completely sickening and disgusting," (hey, the assignment was to write a damn children's story, and that's what I gave the uptight bitch) and asked me what my mother would think about this horrible product of my sick mind. (Mom just laughed, which may explain a little something about me. Dad was appalled, though.) The title character (including stories about, references to, and images thereof) has been banned from over a dozen classrooms, rejected by high school and college literary magazines, been the subject of discussion by at least three licensed clinical psychologists, and been described as "the last bastion of 'Absolute & Un-Forgiving Moral America'."
I hope you like it.
Mr. Bunny Helps Out: A Children's Story
One fine morning, Mr. Bunny woke up and rubbed his eyes. The sun was shining brightly through his bedroom window as he hopped out of bed and stretched. "Oh, my!" thought Mr. Bunny as he combed his hair. "What a fine day this is! It's a perfect day to go to the market and get some nice, fresh, carrots." He made some toast with butter and jam for his breakfast, and drank a cup of tea. Then he brushed his teeth, put on his favorite red jacket and trousers, and hopped to the door. In the hallway, he picked up a wicker basket covered with a white cloth. Then he opened the door and hopped down the road towards Happytown.
Mr. Bunny was enjoying his journey. The sun was warm, and he could hear the birds singing. "Hello, Mr. Bunny!" the chirped. "Hello, birds!" Mr. Bunny called back. He smiled and laughed as he watched the birds flying and having fun. Suddenly, he heard angry voices! "Dear me," thought Mr. Bunny. "Who could be arguing on a lovely morning like this?"
He looked across the road to his right, and saw the two Raccoon brothers, Ricky and Rocky, standing beneath Old Apple Tree. The brothers had a large pile of apples between them, and they were shouting angrily. Old Apple Tree had a sad expression on his wise old face. He saw Mr. Bunny and called out, "Mr. Bunny, please come and help!" Mr. Bunny hopped over to the Raccoon brothers and said, "Boys! Boys! What is the matter?"
Ricky said, "Mr. Bunny, Rocky is trying to take all the apples for himself! He won't let me have my fair share!" "But I should have more," Rocky replied, "because it was my idea to go apple-picking this morning." And they began to argue again. Old Apple Tree said, "Mr. Bunny, the boys can't decide how to divide the apples fairly. They have been arguing all morning, and it's giving me a headache. Can you help them?"
Mr. Bunny's nostrils flared imperceptibly, and his upper lip twitched once or twice. "Certainly, I'll help, Old Apple Tree." And he got in between the two boys. "Now, boys," he said, somewhat sternly, "is it right that you two should be arguing on such a nice day, and giv- ing Old Apple Tree a headache, and being mean to each other?" "No, Mr. Bunny," replied Ricky and Rocky. "Well, then," said Mr. Bunny, "how can we solve the problem? Let's put our thinking caps on."
So the boys thought and thought. Mr. Bunny's facial muscles began to spasm at a slightly faster rate. Then Ricky said, "I know! We can co-operate! Rocky, you take one apple, then I'll take one apple, and we'll keep doing it until we both have equal amounts. It will be such a nice and friendly way to get along!" And a smile came to Old Apple Tree's face.
Mr. Bunny shook his head and said, "No, Ricky, that is not a good way. The best way is to use these!" And from his wicker basket he took out a pair of Smith & Wesson Model 27 revolvers, each carefully loaded with six shiny brass jacketed-hollowpoint .357 Magnum cart- ridges. He handed one to each of the boys, and made them stand back to back. "Now, when I say GO!" said Mr. Bunny, "each of you will take five steps, turn around, and fire your guns at each other, all right?"
The boys smiled and nodded. They still hadn't noticed the twitching which had now spread to the whole left side of Mr. Bunny's face. Old Apple Tree, with a puzzled look, said, Mr. Bunny, don't you think that...." He fell fearfully silent as the Rabbit fixed a steely gaze on him and made a barely perceptible guttural sound from his throat. Then Mr. Bunny turned back to Ricky and Rocky with a happy smile and said, "GO!"
So each of the boys took five steps, then turned around to fire. Rocky was a little faster than his brother, and had a good aim; his pistol boomed and Ricky staggered backwards, dropping his own gun. The slug entered Ricky's chest at the middle of the sternum, expanding beau- tifully into a deadly flesh-tearing mushroom shape. It grazed Ricky's left lung, which instantly began to collapse; then it went on to rup- ture the aorta, through which his heart began to frantically pump blood into his thoracic cavity. A fraction of a second later the bullet erupted from Ricky's back, the exit wound spraying gouts of blood and tissue onto the bright green grass. Ricky flopped to the ground on his back; he lay there gasping and twitching, straining to reach his revolver which lay just beyond the grasp of his little paw. Then, with a final gurgle as he drowned in his own arterial blood, Ricky lay still. Old Apple Tree gasped in horror, and began to stammer, but was again silenced by Mr. Bunny's twitching, murderous stare.
"Oh, Mr. Bunny!" cried Rocky. "What have I done? I hurt Ricky!" And he threw his pistol away. "Boo-hoo-hoo! Why was I so selfish? I won't ever, ever, ever, ever, ever be selfish again!" And he stood there blubbering.
With an odd look on his face from all the twitching, Mr. Bunny said, "Yes, I know you won't!" He snatched Ricky's gun from where it lay near the little raccoon's lifeless paw and fired at Rocky again and again. Rocky screamed in pain as the bullets thudded home, for, in the savagery of his attack, Mr. Bunny had shot only to wound, not to kill. Both Rocky's kneecaps were shattered by well-placed .357 slugs. Rocky began to stumble backwards as Mr. Bunny shot him again, once in each thigh, destroying his femoral arteries and transforming Rocky's legs into drum- sticks of gore. Mr. Bunny followed up with a quick surgically-placed shot that perforated Rocky's lower descending colon, creating horrible sepsis as fecal material was sprayed into his abdominal cavity. Mr. Bunny began to laugh, a deep, evil, droning sound as he humorously con- templated the fact that septic infection was now the least of Rocky's problems. He walked up to the gasping raccoon who, despite his wounds, was vainly attempting to rise and crawl away; slowly the Rabbit thumbed back the hammer on the Smith.
Old Apple Tree, who had been struck dumb with fright, shouted "Mr. Bunny, NO!" But the Hare paid him no more attention than he would a common dogwood as he leaned down and put the muzzle to Rocky's temple. He whispered hoarsely, "See you in Hell, you selfish little unsharing bas- tard!" Mr. Bunny pulled the trigger, blowing away a huge chunk of the raccoon's head; cerebrum and cerebellum were splashed about like gelatin in a high-speed blender, and skull fragments whizzed through the air like the shrapnel Mr. Bunny remembered so well. Mr. Bunny gave a shrieking war-cry of delight as he jumped up and down on Rocky's chest, causing frothy blood to bubble out of the raccoon's wounds. Then he turned towards Old Apple Tree, who stood weeping like a willow at a romantic movie.
Mr. Bunny ran over to his wicker basket and took out a large plastic bottle of Zippo lighter fluid. He began to splash it all over Old Apple Tree, who regained his senses and began to beg the Rabbit for mercy. "Please, please, Mr. Bunny, don't do this! I didn't mean to interfere!" he howled. But Mr. Bunny would have none of it. Having liberally doused Old Apple Tree with the fluid, he stepped back a few paces, tossed aside the empty Zippo bottle, and lit a Chesterfield. He cackled with glee for a few moments as he savored the cigarette, and the sight of Old Apple Tree vainly attempting to tear himself up by the roots to escape enhanced his nicotine rush no end. After a final drag on the Chesterfield, Mr. Bunny flicked the butt, glowing cherry-red with its heat, onto the base of Old Apple Tree's trunk.
At first, there was no visible reaction. Then small rivulets of smoke began to rup up the side of the tree. Old Apple Tree let out a trembling, high-pitched squeal of pain, and began to yell, "Water, water!" Mr. Bunny unzipped his trousers, yanked his penis through the open fly, and began to urinate while spinning around and around like a top, mocking Old Apple Tree with a sneering shout of "Water, water!" As Mr. Bunny sprinkled the raccoon corpses and the apple pile with his bodily waste, the smoke rising from Old Apple Tree got thicker and blacker. Suddenly, large flames began to appear amid the smoke; owing to the recent spell of dry weather, Old Apple Tree went up like a torch, screaming and thrashing wildly as if caught in a gale, his branches transformed into hideous arms of flame. Seeing that his work of vengeance was completed, Mr. Bunny launched himself onto the pile of apples and began to tear out chunks of the sweet, nourishing fruit with his teeth, ramming the half-chewed pieces of tasty fruit down his throat, snarling and grunting as he force-fed himself. The horrible wails of arboreal anguish, the greedy roaring of the fire, and Mr. Bunny's growling, savage feeding noises combined to create an unearthly din. When he vomited from overloading his stomach, Mr. Bunny did not pause but continued to gorge and glut like the Romans of old, even re-swallowing the regurgitated fruit as he crammed himself full again. At last, after falling into a series of uncontrollable bodily spams while he bellowed incoherently, Mr. Bunny passed out in a pool of vomit, drool, urine, and half-chewed apples.
When Mr. Bunny awoke several hours later, he stood up, rubbed his eyes and stretched. He seemed not to notice the buzzing and thrumming clouds of black flies and mosquitoes as they fed on the raccoon corpses and rot- ting fruit, nor the thick, coppery smell of blood and putrefying flesh, nor the pile of hot, smoking ashes that lay just a few yards away, nor his exposed phallus, nor even the sodden state of his favorite red jacket and trousers. "Now what could have happened to those two nice Raccoon brothers?" Mr. Bunny asked himself as he picked up his wicker basket. "I guess it was time for them to go." And with that, Mr. Bunny began to hum a merry tune as he hopped happily back down the road to his little home.