Supply and Demand

Billy Joe looked out the window and did a double take. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he looked again. Holy crap!

He couldn’t bring himself to look away, but he hollered loud enough to wake up his friend, housemate and business partner. “Ray!!! Ray, you gotta see this!!!”

A loud and annoyed groan was all the answer he received.

“Ray – Dude! You hafta see this!!! Seriously!!”

Ray was unmoved. “Billy Joe Devereau, I will kill you dead if you don’t stop shoutin’! It’s frickin’ zero dark whatever and I’m SLEEPIN!”

Billy Joe tore himself away from the window and dashed down the hall, sticking his head in Ray’s bedroom. What with Ray’s general lack of interest in anything so mundane as tidying, much less cleaning, Billy knew not to venture any further. “Ray, dude – It’s a rabbit. Eatin’ the crop, ya know!”

Ray brought one eyelid to half mast and shot a blood-shot look of fury at his friend. “You woke me up for a RABBIT! Jesus, Billy Joe! Take the damn squirrel gun and DEAL with it!”

“It’s a big rabbit, dude . . . I mean, like, real big.”

“Then take the thirty-aught-six, doom-bass!” Angrily and decisively, Ray pulled his pillow over his head and let out noises that didn’t really resemble his actual snore all that much.

Still, Billy Joe got the point. He went to the broom closet and fetched the long gun, then eased himself out the back door.

He couldn’t see the rabbit out in the big greenhouse, so he moved toward the edge of the patio, looking in the direction he had last seen the monster.

“Damn!!! This is, like, gooooood shit!”

Billy Joe spun around, so startled that he almost dropped his rifle. The rabbit was sitting on one of the patio swivel rockers, its big furry feet propped on the fire pit. The metal table to its left was piled high with some of their finest weed, still tender and young, but potent. “Sheee-it!!!”

The rabbit just looked at him, munching contentedly. “That Santa dude, does his shit in winter. Cray, right? Cold ‘n shit, and he has to deal with all those cap . . . cap . . . Oh, eff me!” Gathering his wits, he tried again “Cap-re-O-lin-ae. Deer. Whatever. And he hasta settle for cookies. Not even brownies, for fuck’s sake. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Billy Joe was shaking. Ray keeps telling me to stay away from the supply!

The rabbit blinked his eyes and tried to focus. Finally, it managed to discern the fact that Billy Joe was holding a gun. “Oh, man,” he whined. “I purely hate those things! Why d’ya wanna bring that shit to a party?” He waved a hand – paw – that was stuffed with weed. “Now, tha’s better. Filthy things.”

Billy Joe shook his head, then looked down at his weapon, which suddenly felt very strange. It all seemed to be one piece now, a uniform, glossy, medium brown. It felt slick to the touch, so he shifted it to his left hand. His right hand was coated in the same color. Bringing it to his face, he sniffed, then licked. “Shit! What’d you go and do THAT for!”

“Told you,” the rabbit said. “I don’t like those things. Not nay-bor-lee.” Words of more than one syllable seemed to be a challenge for the rabbit, at least in its current state.

“I get that, dude, but . . . why milk chocolate, for fuck’s sake?”

The rabbit looked sheepish. Well, as sheep-ish as a rabbit could look. “Whoa. Sorry man. I fergot. Dark chocolate only for this house. Damn.” He scratched his nose. “I got a list, here. Somewhere.”

He started to pat down the pockets of his plaid vest, muttering as he searched. “Always the frickin’ plaid. Pink and green, too! Makes me look red . . . red . . . ah, fuck. Ree-dick-you-louse.”

“Louse? You got lice?” Billy Joe propped the chocolate rifle against the house so it wouldn’t melt, though he couldn’t imagine what they’d do with all that milk chocolate. Maybe there are some kids in town who don’t know any better?

“Lice? What you talkin’ ’bout, bro?” The rabbit went back to muttering. “Stupid vest!”

“If you don’t like it, why wear it?”

The rabbit stopped searching his pockets and fixed Billy Joe with a baleful, but still bleary, look. “’Cuz I’m the frickin’ Easter Bunny, dumbass! Might as well ask why the fat man wears a red suit!”

Billy Joe let out a guffaw. “I stopped believin’ in the Easter Bunny when I ‘as ten!”

The rabbit found his list and waved it like a trophy. “Yeah, good for you. I stopped believin’ in you when you started puttin’ bananas on you PBJs. But . . . a job’s a job, so here I am.”

“Yeah, here you are, eatin’ the best part of our spring crop! An’ what’s wrong with peanut butter and banana, anyshow?”

“Blech!” The rabbit’s face screwed up in an exaggerated look of disgust. But then he looked at his fist, took another big bite of the boys’ finest, and said, “But hey, you’ve got some redeeming qualities. All Gucci, right?”

“Ray’s gonna kill me!” Billy Joe wailed.

The rabbit looked at his list and cursed. He stuffed the weed that was in his other hand into his mouth and chewed loudly, while hunting through his vest some more. He came out with a piece of glass that he carefully put against one eye.

“Dude, seriously. A monocle?”

The rabbit glared at him. “See how good your eyesight is, when you hit your sixth century!”

Finding what he was looking for, the rabbit looked suddenly puzzled. “Uhhh . . . right. Eggs? I’m s’posed to give you eggs?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Billy Joe laughed. “You’re the frickin’ Easter Bunny, right? Of course you’re s’posed to bring eggs.”

The rabbit put down the list and grabbed another fist full of weed.

“Hey!” Billy Joe raised his voice. “You’ve had enough!”

The rabbit looked vaguely surprised. “This is hay? Damn. All this time . . . thought horses an’ pigs were stupid!” Then he blinked and looked quizzically at Billy Joe. “But . . . I’m s’pose to give you eggs? Really? Y’aint built right!”

Billy Joe was still trying to puzzle that out when the rabbit said, “Well, no biggy. Easy t’a fix.” He waved a weed-filled hand. “There ya go. Eggs, a place to put ‘em, an' all the bells 'n whistles.”

Billie Jo squeaked. “Whaaaat!!!!”

– The end.

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