Collected Essays of Simon Miller

Vol. 2

"The Visible Hand"

They gave me a week. Seven days to confront and accept the inevitable. A death sentence, of the worst kind: slow, ugly, and painful. It was the kind of death I'd only envisioned in nightmares, and these days, with my luck, it was becoming increasingly difficult to separate dreams from reality.

"Chapter Ten"

I'm doing this for you. I hope you understand that. It's the only reason I'm still here, the only reason I'd bother finishing what I started. Something had to be done about this mess, something concrete, something real. I figured I was the only one detached enough to pull it off.

That's how I got here—in case you've already forgotten—that's why everything's so damn complicated. I tend to do that to people. I tend to do that to everything I touch. I complicate it, I bring out the worst in it; I aggravate it and tear at it and abuse it until it bleeds, until it rears back and hurts me itself.

I'm a cancer. I'm a parasite. People hate me. My friends hate me. You hate me.

But I love the attention. I love the notoriety. That's why I do it. That's why I'll continue to do it. That's why I'll always be here: for you.

The rabbit knew I'd make it out alive. He knew I'd arm myself. He knew everything. As usual, he was the overseer of all, the one in-control, the puppet master, the only chess piece that really mattered. His position of power didn't rattle me. Even if I was destined to fail, destined to perish, destined to remain that simple daffy duck who never did anything right, I had to try. I had to prove, if nothing else, that it couldn't be done. That way, at least I'd die as stubbornly as I had lived.

After ascending a long, angular stairwell adorned with huge grayscale murals of rising floodwaters and sorrowful, unsympathetic faces, I arrived at a simple, unnervingly plain door, one which appeared so stunningly out-of-place amidst its surroundings that it even succeeded in drawing attention away from the grizzly paintings. Though I couldn't be certain, on the other side, I expected to find only more concrete, more steel, more arrows, more diversions, perhaps an unsympathetic drone or two, stationed in the shadows or off in an alcove. There were no surprises left to be had—none whatever. I had seen them all more times than I could count, confronted them, failed to dismantle them, failed to stem the tide, failed at everything, as always.

I laid my fingertips against the surface of the door and listened closely for any sly, telltale signs of movement. The steel was surprisingly cold. My feathers stood on end, to attention. My skin puckered and folded, retreating from the frigid metal, culminating in a crop of tingling goose bumps on the back of my neck.

There was nothing on the other side—no voices, no movement, no signs of life of any kind. I took hold of the doorknob and turned it slowly, careful not to make too much noise lest I was mistaken. The door gave way with surprising ease and I slipped through soundlessly, remaining close to the ground, dashing behind the nearest source of cover, resting my tired legs for the first time all night.

I glanced around, nervously surveying my surroundings. Hundreds of vehicles of various makes, breeds, colors, creeds, and sizes stood lined up from one end of the parking garage to the other, like a gigantic, unmoving army of dignified soldiers. Light was scarce and scattered, flickering in and out just above my head. Pillars shot out encroachingly from the floor below, marked off with a yellow stripe, adorned with the letter A.

Leaning up against the side of a large black Cadillac, I cautiously set my gun down on the ground beside me and reached into my bag for an attachable suppressor. How had it come to this? Bugs and I were so different from each other now, so warped and weird and twisted and confused, that even our respective names and backgrounds seemed to mean little, if anything, anymore. We were both lost forever, like two impetuous birds gone astray during the migratory season, flying north instead of south for the winter, straight into a blizzard.

Never in my life had I envisioned a moment such as this, and never in a million years would I have had the audacity to predict it. Bugs, a traitor; myself, a killer; Sylvester, Fudd, and Foghorn Leghorn, all despicable casualties; and Lola Bunny, an unexpected ally whose life I'd riskily saved only to have the favor returned almost immediately in kind. The blood began to pound harder in my veins. I was sick of it, sick of it all, and now the time had come for me to end it. The future was at long last under my control. The outcomes of a half-dozen lives now lay within my hands.

I shook off my thoughts. None of that mattered to me now, and I imagined that none of it would ever matter to me again. My life was all but over, and once this final task had been completed, there would indeed be nothing left for me to live for, all reason and purpose drained feebly from my meager existence. Fortunately, in keeping with the narrow boundaries of my self-preservative personality, suicide was inherently out of the question. In the eyes of God, I pledged, I would be no coward, I would be no chicken; only a duck with ruffled feathers and one eye missing, black plumage and skin as orange as the sun, a once radiant soul bruised and battered by the hideous sacrifices of war, darkened by the sin of so many grateful murders.

With one hand, I firmly screwed the long, cylindrical suppressor to the barrel of the gun and held it out in front of me to practice my aim. With only one eye functional I'd need to get in as closely as possible before taking potshots at anybody. My entire world had been halved straight down the middle. Everything appeared smaller, more compact, less defined, blending together like a palette of oversaturated watercolors, slightly out of focus. Thankfully, I hadn't yet noticed any

tremendous difference in either of my senses of balance or equilibrium. Perhaps only my direct line of sight had been affected—for now.

Shouldering my bag, I gently lowered myself closer to the pavement, pressing my palms firmly against the surface of the ground and carefully peering underneath the hull of the great SUV beside me in search of any movement. Nothing to see. Nothing yet.

My ears perked up. Outside, the rain hissed like salt pouring through a strainer, distant and white, like a waterfall of TV snow, echoing off the walls and reverberating in circles all around me. Lightning and thunder flashed in tandem, sending swirling chills of aggression spiraling down the base of my spine, enhancing my senses, improving my posture, my drive, pulling me abruptly to my feet. My fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the gun. I exhaled slowly.

I wouldn't fail. Not this time. I couldn't.

Planting one foot, I gracefully turned and swiveled, swinging the rest of my body around the back end of the Cadillac, holding the gun out in front of me with both hands, eye scanning surreptitiously back and forth for any stray signs of movement. There were none.

My legs carried me further, dragging me along like a disobedient dog down the long, narrow line of inanimate vehicles as I approached, on tiptoe, the elevator shaft at the far end of the garage. But I wasn't in the clear just yet. A sudden outcry of voices sent me dashing soundlessly for cover behind a nearby silver sport sedan.

I pressed my back against the car's smooth metallic surface and gingerly lowered myself once more to the tarmac, never allowing my trigger finger to wander. Off in the distance, the voices continued to chatter uninterrupted, their words repeatedly drowned out by the incessant thunder and rainfall. They were coming from up ahead, and they hadn't noticed me yet. There was still an undeniable air of flippancy about them, a certain uncaring wobble.

Remaining close to the ground, I silently crept around the back end of the car and pointed myself in the direction of their voices, picking up a few brief, errant words between each explosive crash of lightning: "guns," "kill," "fire at will," like a description of my own thoughts.

They were soldiers—mercenaries, just like the ones downstairs—hired and handpicked by Bugs Bunny himself: the cream of the crop if there ever was such a thing. I tightened my grip on the gun for what seemed like the thousandth time and anxiously gulped down what little saliva was left in my mouth. Aim wide and to the right. Don't hesitate—two in the sternum, one in the head, finish the job, get it done right, and get out.

I was closing in on them now, edging constantly nearer. With each step I could hear their voices harking back soundly, gaining slowly in volume as I approached with bitter fury pulsing through my veins.

"Kill," again the word repeated itself. They were talking about me, talking about killing me, actually discussing it like gentlemen—as if they had the right.

Suddenly I was right on top of them, only a few yards away, crouched behind an oversized pickup truck, my mind running laps around the building, my arms and legs coiled up like an agitated snake waiting to strike. Not another word.

One of their two-way radios chirped like an injured chicken and an unfamiliar voice came crackling noisily through the receiver: "Any sign of him yet?"

"Nope," one of the men replied, slowly loosening his radio. "Don't worry. We'll check in with you as soon as we spot anything."

"Sorry," countered the anonymous dispatcher, slightly annoyed with his own request, "but the rabbit says that isn't good enough."

"Not good enough? What's he want now?"

"Status reports every twenty minutes, no exceptions."

"Oh, God," a predictable snort. "For what?"

"I don't know. It's getting late. I guess he doesn't want people falling asleep out there."

"With all due respect," a brief pause, riddled with irritation and sarcasm, "we're trying to do our jobs down here. It's a little difficult to concentrate when he's got us glancing at the clock every five seconds. I mean, let's not get ahead of ourselves here. They don't call him Daffy for nothing."

The words had barely left his mouth before a bullet ripped wildly past his ear and torched the wall behind him. He flinched, but only for a second. My aim was off. I readjusted. Three more cracks sounded, like a whip striking violently against the back of a horse, sending a barrage of lead burrowing hard into his chest like a pack of hungry wolves. The Kevlar vest he wore over his midsection brought each bullet to a screeching halt, but not in time to quell the force of each crippling impact. He staggered backwards and collapsed against the wall, unconscious.

His partner barely had the chance to react. Only now were his hands beginning to reach for the gun at his waist. I moved in closer, each step discouraging him until eventually he froze, like a deer in the headlights. He didn't have the guts to pull anything looney.

"Put the gun on the ground and kick it towards me," I demanded unblinkingly.

He did as he was told, never quite breaking my fragmented gaze, his eyes staring deeply past the gun in my hand and the feathers on my face, peering vehemently into my soul. I knelt down slowly and carefully tossed the gun into the bag at my waist, quickly replacing a hand on the butt of my own weapon, holding it steady.

"Good," I muttered hastily. "Now turn around and face the wall."

Again, he did as he was told.

"Interlock your fingers behind your head."

And again.

"Just keep an eye out, alright?" the radio dispatcher carried on obliviously.

("Not a word," I warned my captive.)

"I'll take care of the boss. Until then, you just stay alert and concentrate on catching this son of a bitch. Out."

Then, as though it had been riddled with bullets itself, the radio fizzled and went silent.

Wasting no time, I swiftly curled my arm around my hostage's neck and squeezed his trachea shut beneath my forearm. He struggled for a moment. I applied more pressure, smothering him like a boa constrictor until his entire body had gone limp and he, too, slipped into unconsciousness.

I didn't need to kill anybody. Not yet. I'd resolved that, among other things, a long time ago. Besides, it wasn't as if any of these soldiers, any of these nameless, anonymous, unsuspecting hired guns, were of any real threat to me at the moment. For now, at least, I had the element of surprise on my side.

Or not.

The surveillance camera in the corner lit up red, as if to smile broadly at me, knowingly. I hadn't noticed it up until that moment. Whether or not I'd be rushed by security, however, was a non-issue. Bugs didn't want me dead just yet. He'd already proved that more than once tonight, quite adequately enough.

My finger stamped the 'up' button to the right of the elevator. Whatever the case, I didn't have time to scrutinize it just yet, not as long as he was still out there, still breathing.

"Call up to my office." The hare's last words came floating back to me—up to his office.

I sent the elevator to the topmost floor of the building, to the penthouse. I wasn't absolutely certain I'd find him there, but at this point it was the only lead I had.

The motor whirred to life above my head and my organs lagged behind, a familiar sinking feeling in my stomach, as the elevator shot up at a startling pace. In front of me, an enormous Plexiglas window looked out upon the horizon, upon the crowded city streets drenched with rainwater, the millions of tiny artificial lights dotting the expansive visages of each monstrous skyscraper, minute signs of life in a sprawling, conglomerate shadow. Precipitation streamed in

great torrential sheets down the exterior of the window, blurring the image and stretching it to unreal proportions like a long string of melted taffy.

I lowered my head drearily, sniffing back blood. My eye—at least, the empty socket where it should've been—still hurt.

I reached up to rub it, but never quite got there.

As though hit by a train, the elevator came screeching to a halt, hurling my body violently against the sealed double-doors behind me and sending a shock wave of terror surging through my veins. I dropped my bag, watching helplessly as its contents spilled out across the floor. Above my head, the piercing shriek of metal grinding against metal sent cold chills running down my spine, causing me to clutch my head with both hands in protest.

The lights flickered on and off, and then everything fell silent.

Slowly, I reopened my good eye. Everything was still and dark, accompanied by the soft patter of rain against the window. A few precious shafts of light filtered in through the moisture, refracting eerily against the walls in all manner of indescribable patterns. My hands groped for the wall behind me and flattened firmly upon contact as though it were the only thing holding me in place. My heart winced uneasily. What next?

That's when I noticed the red.

At first, it was just a small translucent blob glazing sporadically over the window in front of me, a light from a nearby passing helicopter, perhaps. But then, just seconds after it had vanished, it reappeared, tracking hesitantly over my abdomen, far too small and erratic to be a headlight. Moments later, a second identical red dot appeared beside it, and a third, and a fourth. Before long, there seemed to be at least a dozen of them, and then two dozen, and then three, all situated carefully over my chest.

My body froze, terrified.

And then there was nothing.

Nothing but light.

"Inescapable"

"Professional philosopher—what a way to make a living." I held her hand in mine, the warmth of her soft yellow fur gradually spreading over my palm. "Spend all day thinking, telling people how to live their lives—"

Our heads turned; our eyes met.

"Deriving meaning from meaningless things," I finished with a grin.

She gave me a playful knock on the shoulder. My smile was contagious.

"Believe me, sometimes I wish it were that simple," she retorted with a smirk, pulling the bed sheets up to her chin. "There's actually a lot more to it than that."

"Right," I droned, tongue in cheek. "All those book deals—I forgot."

This time she rolled her eyes, tearing her hand away from mine. I'd gone too far.

"It's not the writing that gets under my skin," she murmured, "it's the—" Her voice broke off, mouth still gaping, eyes quietly wandering. "Nevermind."

"What? What is it?"

She licked her lips, slowly. "The truth is that scholars only write textbooks to impress other scholars. That's the easy part. It's the book signings, the presentations, the speeches—none of that comes easily to me. This last book in particular was a real thorn in my side."

"Too radical?"

"Maybe," she replied doubtingly. "Either that or people genuinely dislike my ideas."

"Now that's impossible." Compliments were like candy to her: she devoured them. "What was your thesis again? Something about the grace of sexuality?"

"The Best of Al Green"

I owed Bugs Bunny a favor, and on that I intended to deliver.

It was the morning of my obligation; I hopped out of bed energetically, limbs loose and amazingly spry, filled with a mysterious, insuppressible excitement. It was confounding: if history were any indicator, I should've been anxious, overly exasperated, wringing my hands, nervous out of my mind. Fortunately, my nerves were calm, composed, brimming with poise. I envisioned the afternoon panning out with a particular ease, a grace which no amount of bad luck could repress. There was entirely no fear in me.

Optimistic or not, my morning activities were as painful and unforgiving as ever.

I slipped in the shower, bashing my head against the slick Lucite wall, leaving a bright red streak imprinted on the beige-colored tile—but it didn't bother me. It was spilled milk, a dropped fork,

an inconsequential mishap. A simple bandage covered the wound; a simple pass with a sheet of wet paper towel expunged any traces of blood, and all was well again.

For breakfast, I devoured a soft, mushy, irregular-tasting apple, enjoying it thoroughly.

Melissa was awake when I went to see her. She winked and waggled her fingers at me. As I moved about the room, however, her eyelids fluttered and she gradually drifted off to sleep. With all the collectedness of a trained professional, I quickly pulled back her blankets, cleaned out the bedpan, scrubbed her feathers with a soft, soap-laden towel, replaced the empty IV drip, and administered her first inoculation of the new day: a long, painful, sustained shot directly into the abdomen. She didn't feel a thing.

I finished as quickly as possible, ducked out of the house, and jumped in the car, checking my French wristwatch as all four American tires hit the pavement: more than satisfactory. I was even slightly ahead of schedule. Unsurprisingly, the vicious L.A. morning commute—compounded by a large accident which had seemingly occurred right in the middle of town—made haste to humble and infuriate me.

"Fuck!" I cursed when traffic had slowed to a standstill. Conspicuous glances from the cars beside me, including a pair of young children in a red SUV, beckoned me to roll up the window, embarrassed and slightly disappointed in myself. The steady passage of time, however, which seemed to accelerate as I sat lost in a motionless sea of vehicles, occupied the majority of my thoughts. I was going to be late. The very outcome I had dreaded was careening straight towards me, unimpeded. What would Bugs' wife think of me? Better yet, what would Bugs himself think of me, unable to remain on schedule for so much as a single, solitary day? He would never rely upon me again; he would never forgive me for it.

Just when all the worst possible scenarios had begun to play out in the back of my mind, traffic, as it always did, started moving again. It was 7:20, and I had until 7:30, at the latest, to reach Bugs' house, which was still several winding, snaking, meandering miles away. I decided to get off at the nearest exit, take my chances with the back roads, and put the pedal to the metal, my eyes scanning dutifully back and forth at every intersection for lone police cruisers waiting to rain on my already dreary, pessimistic parade.

At 7:40, I pulled into the Bunnys' driveway feeling small, vulnerable, and unwanted, like a child about to be caught and chastised over some silly mistake. Not helping was the fact that Honey Bunny, my soon-to-be companion, stood looking bored and perturbed beside the front door, her arms crossed, her half-lidded eyes following the wheels of my car as they ground to a halt near the sidewalk. Pausing just long enough to worry me—was I supposed to get out and help her?—she began sauntering around the front of the vehicle, her dark leather sandals smacking loudly at her heels as she approached the passenger-side door with a sullen frown, yanked it open, and sourly plunked herself down beside me.

"You're late," she grunted, without so much as a glance of acknowledgment.

"I know," I replied. "Traffic was terrible." My voice ascended to an insincere, almost ridiculously cheerful tone. "Don't worry, we'll make it to the hospital in plenty of time."

"I hope so." She didn't sound optimistic, and her face appeared even less convinced. "What happened to your head?"

"Nothing. Just a little fall."

"The Visible Hand"

Drip…

Drip…

Drip…

I don't belong here. This place makes my skin crawl.

My eyelids creep open. I shift my head slightly, glancing upwards, squinting into the soft, fragmented light: wrought-iron bars, high above me, silhouetted against the diffuse bluish-green rays, caging me in. The ground is slick beneath me. I'm surrounded on all sides by a cramped circle of towering cement walls, glimmering faintly, as if wet with perspiration.

My heart rate quickens. Numbing pain. I clutch my chest, fingers trembling. No luck—it's still inside of me.

Thin jets of water come streaming down the walls, collecting in small icy pools on the hard stone floor. Heart throbbing, head spinning, I slowly drag myself to my feet.

My hands grope for the walls. Bitter cold rakes the skin. A frightened shiver rattles up my spine.

My eyes search frantically for an escape route: an extendable ladder, some rope, an open pipeline wide enough to squeeze through.

My prayers are answered.

Light refracts against the water and dances past a large octagon-shaped pipe near the floor. I stumble over to it and drop to my knees, shoving my fingertips between the wiry metal slats in the cover.

It's loose, just slightly.

I tug as hard as I can, but the hatch won't budge.

The water is up to my ankles now. I can feel my bare feet going numb. I can't be down here much longer.

My fingers claw at the walls, shivering, scanning for cracks in the cement, but the odds are stacked against me. They're flawless; totally smooth.

My knees sink below the surface as a torrent of icy water splashes over my shoulders.

Pretty soon I'll catch hypothermia and drown.

Until then, concede defeat. There is no escape.

And I thought seven days was pushing it.

"Chapter Ten"

White clouds gave way to blue sky, blue sky to sunshine, and the rich, fulfilling scent of a thousand wildflowers abruptly filled the air. Everything was still, everything was peaceful. Even the birds seemed somewhat contented with the tranquility.

I opened my eyes—both of them—the heat of the sun gently warming my face.

My body lay comfortably atop a small patch of soft, fertile soil, my bill pointed straight up towards the sky, my arms and legs spread slightly apart as though I'd been placed there purposefully. Unsure of what I'd see, I slowly raised one hand off the ground and held it curiously in the air above my head. Four fingers, just like always, covered in inky black feathers; my sleeves, however, were white. Nervously pulling myself into a tremulous sitting position, I silently looked over the rest of my body. Perhaps most glaringly, my clothes had changed color from black to white, and my right eye, the one I'd watched Bugs take out himself not two hours before, had miraculously returned.

I wasn't able to remember exactly what had happened, only standing in that elevator and flinching as crisp, blinding light filled the air all around me. So how did I end up . . . here?

My head turned slowly from right to left, then from left to right, anxiously surveying my surroundings, hoping to pick up a clue as to where I was and to what, exactly, was going on. Luscious flowers surrounded me on all sides, like a river of watercolors, spanning out for several expansive acres in all directions. Squared off by a perfect rectangle of majestic oak trees, the quiet, multihued field of sunflowers and lilacs seemed somewhat surreal, somewhat out-of-place, like an oasis in the desert. I even felt that perhaps I may've been the first inquisitive creature to have ever set foot in such a place.

The sound of rustling grass, however, quickly forced me to rethink my conclusion. My head jerked suddenly to the left, my eyes wild and shot with blood. A familiar face, one I most certainly hadn't anticipated running into ever again, appeared before me.

I cringed.

There, standing not ten feet away, partially submerged in flowers, stood Sylvester, the crass, black-and-white tuxedo cat who'd taken a bullet to the head during the first leg of my adventure: retaliation for his definite, albeit minimal, involvement in Bugs' scheme.

My limbs froze.

Sylvester was dead; that I knew well enough to be certain of. Yet there he stood, in spite of it all, ears lifted, attentive, draped in white just as I was, definitely alive—or, at least, living.

He pursed his lips. "Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as always, eh, Daffy?"

I didn't respond, or even attempt to acknowledge his awesomely vague observation.

He furrowed his brow. "Don't you recognize me?"

My eyes widened, a sudden groundswell of fear rising in my throat.

"I . . . " My voice broke off uselessly. Regardless of the undeniable lucidity of the image before me, my mind refused to accept it.

Sylvester . . . was dead. There were no two ways about it, and I was unable to reach back far enough to form the words necessary to inquire as to how, and in what capacity, he had managed to survive.

"I know," he droned on tiredly, unconcerned, as though patiently mulling over my thoughts, "some things aren't so easy to explain."

He offered me his hand, beckoning me to take it, a cool astuteness simmering between his eyes.

Having, apparently, no alternative, I carefully shifted my weight over my knees, loosely took hold of his palm, and rose, somewhat unsteadily, onto my bare feet. Once I'd straightened to full height and we again stood eye-to-eye, he took a solemn step forward, leisurely closing the gap between us, surveying every inch of me with careful precision, as though I were some estranged cousin he hadn't seen in ages. After a long, spiritless moment of heart-wrenching silence, he at last smiled politely and observed with a kind lateral-lisp:

"I'm a lot taller than you, aren't I?"

He raised one hand to his forehead and stuck it out in an unceremonious salute, measuring my height in comparison to his own. His hand stopped short about three inches above the last tuft of feathers on the top of my head and he grinned with an odd sort of satisfaction.

Shaken, confused, and thoroughly uncertain how to respond, I tensely smiled back.

"Funny," he went on coldly, his voice dropping to a distinctively lower tone, "I was under the impression that we had at least some semblance of an agreement."

My thoughts were cluttered, unorganized; somehow I couldn't seem to make sense of them.

"An—an agreement?" I repeated dumbly. "What kind of agreement?"

Fiendishly, he pulled back his lips in a peculiar half-frown. "Why, only the most important kind," he answered grimly.

My eyelids fluttered with quiet bemusement. I shuffled my feet. This was a dream, I told myself, nothing more—just a silly, harmless dream.

Sylvester's fist struck my abdomen like a jackhammer pounding through concrete. My knees buckled instantaneously. I choked on phlegm, gasping for breath as he reared back and drove his knee directly into my chest. Clutching my ribcage in agony, silently assuming that something must've broken, I fell to the ground wheezing sharply, the flowers repelling me, forcing me away, assuring that I remained within range of at least one, if not all, of his limbs at any given moment.

Luckily, for the time being, it seemed he was finished.

"Did you really think I'd just forget, Daffy?" he inquired liltingly, as though it were the most common question in the world. "Did you really think I'd just let it go, just like that?"

Still clutching my chest, breathing raggedly, I slid laboriously to my knees. "Let . . . what go?"

Sneering, he bared his teeth and snarled: "Don't play daffy with me, duck! You know exactly what I'm talking about!"

I shook my head, protesting sloppily. "No—no, I don't even—I don't even know what's—what's going on—"

"Shut up!" he barked, leaning precariously over my shoulder. "You reneged on your promise. You let Bugs get the best of you. You didn't adapt to the circumstances, didn't roll with the punches; you took 'em like aspirin, let him corner you like a fucking amateur!"

"Promise? What promise? I—I didn't make any promises—"

My ignorance alone appeared to ignite him more than anything.

"Of course you did!" he exploded. "Maybe not in so many words, maybe not out loud, but that doesn't change the fact that you did make it!" His tone was rough and accusatory, yet his eyes remained placid and unreadable. "The second that bullet found its way to my brain, I could hear everything, even the words you didn't speak. You swore to me you'd kill him. You swore to me! You made that promise, whether you intended to or not, to me and to everyone else whose lives you've ruined in the process!"

My breathing grew rapid and uneven. My chest tightened around my lungs. Great beads of sweat began rolling in shiny streaks down the front of my forehead. My stomach stirred apprehensively.

"What—what do you mean?" I stammered weakly, holding my head, truthfully fearful of the answer.

"Guess you just weren't built for the big leagues, brother," he replied unfortunately. "Such a promising start, too, but at the end of the big game, who really gives a fuck about the loser?"

The loser? The loser?

My body shrunk like a turtle slowly receding into its shell. I fell desperately onto all-fours. The glass, the rain, the blood, the pain—everything suddenly began to play in reverse. I could see it all looping over and over again like a broken phonograph inside my head:

Standing tremulously in the elevator, great laser beams of red all around me, suddenly . . .

The window shattered like a set of fine China as thirty-six forty-five millimeter bullets, each like a separate, unstoppable Mack truck, burst through the enormous pane of glass, forcing me powerlessly into the wall. Every last one of them hit their mark. Every last one of them broke the skin.

And just like that, all was quiet. Nothing else moved.

My brain took a moment to fully comprehend everything that had transpired. Unfortunately, a moment was all the time it had.

Long bloody streaks stained the cold metal doors behind me as my body crumpled like a clay pigeon in a thunderstorm. My legs gave way. My beak lolled open. My stomach churned. My lungs collapsed. My heart . . .

. . . stopped.

"And now you're here," Sylvester went on obliviously, pulling me screeching back to whatever reality I had slipped into. "Although, I must admit, I'm still not exactly certain just where 'here' is, even after all this time."

Painstakingly, I raised my head, my mind still racing, barely able to wrap itself my own scattered memories, let alone his words.

"Sometimes I like to think of it as a Heaven for those of us who never prayed, a Heaven for those of us whose lives ended ahead of schedule, a Heaven for those of us who've still got a chip on our shoulders, a loose end to tie up, some unfinished business . . .

"Purgatory."

As he spoke, he appeared to be glaring at me with a distinct air of resentment, as though he were truly disgusted by my presence, truly repulsed by my inability to satisfy his hopes. I turned away, still desperately seeking a more poignant explanation.

With little hesitation, he quietly offered a suggestion of his own.

"Don't fight it, Daffy," he murmured flatly, without expression. "Face it."

The tips of my bill parted just enough to form the words I dreaded to think. They slid out with raspy ambiguity, with the kind of coldness that could only exist in one's deepest, darkest admittances.

"I'm dead."

Dead. The word alone stunk like rotten eggs, wafting insidiously past my nostrils, burning my eyes, drawing forth an acerbic, uninvited well of sticky, crystalline tears, hollowing out the innards of my brain cells, planting, producing, replanting, reproducing all over again, an unstoppable cancer spreading easily from feather to feather, damning me more and more permanently with each passing second.

Yet as quickly as I'd observed it, as quickly as I'd glimpsed truth in the most repugnant of lies, I turned away from it, I denied it.

I couldn't be dead, I scolded myself with utter incredulity. I couldn't be. It wasn't possible—not that quickly, not that easily. Not after everything I'd been through. Or was that simply the way it worked nowadays? Was this all a coincidence, or was it, rather, the universe pulling out all the stops again? It wasn't as if I truly deserved to live—that, among other things, I'd come to terms with some time ago—but it seemed resoundingly inappropriate that Bugs should skate off once more with a fresh Coke and another free pass.

Why, for the love of God, I asked myself for the billionth time, did the whole world favor him so disproportionately? Why, after all my sorrow and grief and physical torture, had I again been denied my hard-earned retribution?

I only hoped my newfound "friend" would have the answers.

"I suppose," Sylvester continued drearily, "if anybody deserves to spend an eternity isolated in a cold, lonesome place like this, it's the two of us." He almost chuckled. "But that certainly doesn't mean that we should have to."

As he said this, there emerged a slight chill in the air, as though his demeanor were gradually affecting the temperature of the entire clearing.

"I don't belong here, Daffy," he remarked heatedly, with an edge, a definite tinge of desperation in his voice. "This isn't where I want to be. This isn't where I'm supposed to be. But now that you're here with me," he stumbled, quickly correcting himself, "now that you're as dead as I am," (he seemed to enjoy the prospect,) "I can't make it to where I need to go. Does that make sense to you?"

Unresponsive, I sat with my legs bent sharply at the knees, curling awkwardly around either side of my body, my back bent passively, my hands fidgeting absentmindedly in my lap.

He tried again, rephrasing the question, a little louder this time. "Do you understand . . . what I'm trying to say to you?"

Finally, after a long, emboldened silence which seemed to drag on for centuries, I tenderly shook my head, gazing unblinkingly at the fertile soil beneath his uncovered paws.

"No," I mumbled softly, somehow very distinct, slightly forbearing. "I don't know what you're talking about."

My eyes roamed steadily upwards, past his knees, his waist, his stomach, his chest, finally coming to rest disbelievingly within the cold, icy space between his nose and stately forehead, fearlessly tracking his malevolent gaze. My breath came heavier, its intensity multiplying tenfold.

His head cocked slowly to one side like a curious dog perplexed by some unusual sound in the corner. Patiently, he cleared his throat.

"I suppose I should explain then," he continued softly, glancing away from me.

Stubbornly, I shook my head. "I don't believe it."

His lips sunk into an obstinate frown. "Don't believe what?" The bitterness of his tone deeply irritated me, slowly degrading my already-disestablished train of thought.

"What don't you believe?" he repeated scornfully. "What isn't there to believe?"

This time, I didn't answer. My face, stingy and angular, silently related the entire story.

"You're delusional," Sylvester remarked grievously, widening his eyes. "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking . . . "

My heart felt as though it had mysteriously resurged into my throat and all of my words seemed to tumble out sloppily and disjointedly.

"How do you know?" I sputtered. "H—how can you be so sure that I'm—that I'm . . . " My voice crumbled and faded. I couldn't finish. I couldn't repeat that sick, uninvited word.

Sylvester shrugged his shoulders. "You're here, aren't you?" he observed disconcertingly.

Embracing my knees, I quickly shut my eyes and began tensely rocking back and forth to the rhythm of my own heartbeat. Bracing myself, I bit down harshly on my defenseless tongue, hopeful, perhaps, that I might somehow force myself awake again; hopeful, perhaps, that this was all little more than a harmless yet badly misconstrued nightmare.

"Stop," I mumbled weakly.

"You wake up in a meadow of beautiful wildflowers," he went on conspicuously, his voice swiftly elevating to a brief, condescending level of unusually educated diction, "with entirely no knowledge of how or why or who put you there in the first place. For a moment or two, you're a little worried, maybe even a little scared, but everything smells so nice, everything looks so pure and pristine that eventually it doesn't bother you anymore, and you sit up, look yourself over, suddenly realize you're wearing completely different clothes than you were before . . . and somehow they fit just right."

"Stop," again, I protested, swallowing hard. He paid me no mind.

"Then, for a split second," a wicked grin stole across his sunken, pessimistic features, "you wonder if you're the first intelligent creature who's ever set foot in a place like this."

"Stop!" I snarled rigorously, raising my voice an entire octave. Again, he ignored me.

"But you're not the first; you're just new meat, taking the place of some old fool who's finally got the credentials to move on—somebody's cleaned up his mess, put in a good word for him upstairs. But in your case, who knows? You might never graduate! You might be stuck here for the rest of eternity with nothing but the clothes on your back, and all these fucking weeds whispering to you in your sleep!"

"Stop it!" I bellowed, squeezing my eyes shut tightly, clutching my head violently in both hands. This time he heard me.

"Stop it? Stop it?" he laughed. "That's real funny coming from you, buster—real funny." He was pacing back and forth now, wringing his hands inattentively, sniggering spryly between muted breaths. "Daffy Duck, bullheaded, bigmouthed master of excess, asking—no, commanding—me to stop it! Sufferin' succotash, that's a real hoot!"

My spine tingled with abhorrence. All my frustrations, all my pent-up, vaguely physical sentiments begrudgingly spawned from seventy years' bad luck, burst forth and boiled over like an pot of uranium at that exact moment.

Without warning, as he stood there giggling boyishly, my body reared forward like an aggravated bull and drove head-on into his unprotected chest, sending us both sprawling wildly to the ground in a chaotic, pollen-laced heap of failed existence. He never stopped laughing. Even as I rammed fist after fist into his strangely unguarded face, seemingly bashing his head into a thick, pulpy soup, spread with long spongy strings of grayish brain matter and tiny chunks of bone, he never stopped laughing.

In actuality, I hadn't hurt him at all. It was as if I'd never touched him, as if I'd simply been raining harmless blows upon an expectant rubber dummy whose face always bounced back to normal, unaffected. I took hold of his throat, squeezing hatefully with both hands, just trying to shut him up, just trying to stop him from laughing. Nothing worked. He kept on cackling stupidly to his own assumptive conjectures, like a child play-fighting with his friend in the park.

"And he tells me to stop it!" he gaffed haltingly between chuckles, forcibly pushing me away.

He pressed his hands against the side of my face, awkwardly bending my head back as I struggled to maintain a solid grip on his wriggling throat. He was stronger than me, much stronger, even in death.

Still in stitches, he quickly freed himself from my grasp and shoved my body clumsily to one side, pounding the dirt with both fists in an unusually animated fit of hilarity. My momentum sent me spiraling into a barrel roll, kicking up dust and dirt like a tire stuck in the mud. Undeterred, I immediately counteracted my weight and gathered myself for another attack. This time, however, as I dove heedlessly into his awaiting limbs, I found myself slung directly onto my back with an earsplitting thud, instantly ripping the breath from my lungs.

The two-tone feline's incessant giggles were finally beginning to subside as he exhaustedly pulled himself onto all-fours. Still shaking, he lazily wiped at the cold stream of ironic tears pouring from his crimson-tinged eyes and choked out a few last-minute chortles, slowly regaining his composure.

Still out of breath, I frantically craned my neck to face him and flipped myself over like a frenetic, duck-shaped pancake, reaching out with one bony, four-fingered hand to grab hold of his momentarily unguarded thigh, my eyes feral, inhuman, hungry for blood. With all my might, I ripped his knees out from under him and watched gleefully as he collapsed face-down in the dirt, his unwarranted laughter quickly cut off altogether this time. My satisfaction went short-lived, however, for seconds later, he reared back recklessly with his other leg, kicking wildly at my face from point blank range. I could feel my bill loosening around the edges as he freed himself from my grasp, forcing me back, his bare paws knocking me senseless.

As though frightened, he quickly scrambled away from me, standing shakily to his feet. Meanwhile, on the ground, I could do little but roll over pathetically, holding my head and squinting out the light, my ears ringing.

"I told you not to fight it!" His tone was unclear, an awkward cross between anger and dismay. "You've got to keep yourself together! You've got to stay calm, you've got to accept it!"

Through my fingers, I watched his face gradually contort into a look of desperation, all humor shedding from his widened eyes. The lines of his cheeks and eyebrows rose simultaneously as though someone had pulled on them with invisible wire. He approached me with a much softer, sympathetic gait.

"If I was too forward earlier, if I gave you the wrong impression, then I apologize." For once, his tone was sincere. "The truth is, I need your help."

My help? Had he lost his mind?

"Like I said before," he explained, "I'm not supposed to be here. I died for a reason, Daffy. I died so that you could get to Bugs, so that you could kill him—and until that shakes out, I can't leave this place, I can't move on. With every life you ended I could feel myself getting closer, getting stronger, but without the big one, without the one that really matters, I'm stuck here, and I'll never get any further."

My hands fell to my sides in surrender. He was telling the truth. I could hear it in his voice.

My beak edged open, my eyes tense and confused. "I can't help you," I said.

He shook his head. "Yes you can." His face abandoned the appearance of desperation, replacing it with a hollow look of twisted gratification, like an addict satisfying a long overdue craving. "You want him dead just as much as I do," he went on. "You want him to pay for what he did to you—so do I."

"But I'm here." I still laid on my back, my gaze pointed blankly towards the sky.

"I can fix that," he assured me, an inflection of pride in his speech.

My head rose slightly so as to acknowledge my curiosity, yet the rest of my body remained motionless.

"I can give you anything you want," he reiterated, "anything you need to make sure the job gets done."

My strength gradually returning, a fleeting sensation of hope suddenly overwhelming my better judgment, I forced myself to my knees, then to my feet.

"You know there's only one thing I want." My resolve had strengthened. My words no longer attempted to humor him.

He nodded, a calculating glimmer in his yellow-tinged eyes. "Same here." He lowered his voice to a shallow, undercutting whisper, as if to avoid being overheard by any eavesdroppers: "Assurance."

My eyes remained fastened to him, unwavering and judgmental.

"I need assurance," he repeated, "assurance that I won't regret it after it's done, assurance that you won't go back on what you swear to me. I need your word. Give me your word."

With a certain spitefulness, I shook my head. "You don't deserve it."

The shadows below his cheek bones hardened and his face became difficult to read once more. He did not appear to be angered by my defiance; rather, he seemed almost relieved by it, as if my refusal to play along with his egoistic game was, in effect, all the assurance he really needed.

Suddenly, his gaze dropped from my line of sight.

"Then I guess you're on your own," he said.

"The Visible Hand"

Honey Bunny was, certifiably, the proudest native Tennessean Nashville had ever produced, and, rather than field relentless inquiries concerning the origin of her accent, chose to constantly identify herself as such.

At eighteen, somewhat contradictorily, she had fled the peaks and valleys of urban Tennessee to pursue a life of love and laughter in the arms of her soon-to-be fiancée, whose exploits in law enforcement had led him to an underpaid detective's salary in the mundane rural community Honey now despised:

Miracle City, Nevada—three miles in diameter, home to barely 600 uncultured residents, an abandoned suburban wasteland of conservative patriotism, dewy lawns, and empty streets. As if the name weren't misleading enough.

Like her hometown, Honey had abandoned college life midway through her first semester, scraping out an unrewarding fulltime job as barmaid in Miracle City's most frequented—and only—dive: Acie's Tavern. Within days she had unwittingly assumed the role of most-hit-upon staff member, a trend she often found mildly amusing during daylight hours if somewhat unsettling past dark.

Now age twenty-three, Honey was rife with remorseful daydreams. Nearly every waking

moment that her petty job, or even pettier relationship, did not greedily expend, she allowed her mind to wander unreservedly, reminiscing of the life she'd left behind, of the life she should have explored more thoroughly while she'd had the chance.

This was another of those moments.

"'Ey, Hon, you just gonna sit there witcha' head in the clouds or're you gonna geddup and take the trash out like I asked you to?"

Acie Redding hailed all the way from windswept Boston, Massachusetts where, in his prime, he had supervised more than his share of successful watering holes. His wife, bewildered and downtrodden, had hoped that their abrupt relocation to the suburbs might compel him to abandon the saloon business once and for all. Even with the drastic change in scenery, however, it had been utterly impossible for Acie to accept retirement. The tavern stood as a testament to his dedication.

In spite of his bluntness, ill manners, and short temper, Honey had always been quite fond of the old man, and did not wish to disappoint him.

"Sorry, boss," she apologized hastily, springing to her feet. "I'll take care of it."

She'd nearly fallen asleep behind the counter. Weekdays were a joke. She'd only served one customer all day, and even then, she'd practically been forced to coerce the man into ordering something more adventurous than a Diet Coke with ice.

Such was life.

Tossing a damp washcloth into the sink, she swept past the counter in a blur and rushed through the door to the back room, a cramped employees-only lounge which doubled as the manager's office. Two bulging plastic garbage bags stood side-by-side near the door. Pausing only to grab her jacket and sling one bag over each shoulder, she let out a frustrated sigh and quickly turned the knob.

"The Best of Al Green"

"Wanna listen to anything in particular?" I inquired once we had turned back onto the main road.

"No," Honey retorted flatly, directing my hand away from the radio dial.

I stared at her disbelievingly.

"Just concentrate on the road, Daffy," she muttered. "Besides—" (a brief pause suggested that she had considered biting her tongue) "—I have a feeling you and I have very different tastes in music."

"Oh, yeah? Who do you like?" I knew I was trying her patience; she'd already had more than enough opportunities to show off her short fuse.

"Just drive," she sighed, rolling her eyes.

My heart sank. I was clueless as to why she seemed to dislike me so intensely. She and Melissa had been close friends for years; in fact, it was through Honey that I had first met my wife. By most peoples' standards, we should have been "friends by default," yet she carried herself as though she harbored some long-standing, deep-seeded resentment towards me. I wondered if it was my lisp that irritated her, or perhaps my personality simply rubbed her the wrong way. Maybe she blamed me for Melissa's…

"Sorry," I droned apologetically, shaking off my thoughts. "Just trying to lighten the mood."

She sighed again, this time with an inflection of compromise. "Al Green," she murmured, still refusing to look at me.

"Who? Al Green?" My right hand went to the visor on the ceiling, flipping it downwards to reveal a long row of desperately unorganized CDs. My fingers danced gingerly over each label.

"Check that out," I remarked proudly, removing The Best of Al Green from its slot, nestled snugly between Step in the Arena and Dark Side of the Moon.

Her cheeks reddening, Honey carefully lifted the disc from my outstretched wing, handling it as though it might burst into flame at any moment. After examining it for a while, she screwed up her features and returned it to me with a nod.

"So we have something in common," she conceded.

I didn't tell her that the CD had actually belonged to Melissa, or that I barely ever listened to it. More important was the fact that I'd finally gotten her to lighten up, if even for a moment.

"The Visible Hand"

I can't tell if my lungs are frozen or on fire. Either way, hope has inexplicably crept back into my head. At the very least, I can make out the sky above me: bright, blue, and clear.

Right on cue, my skull collides with blunt iron and a cloud of warm blood instantly streaks through the icy water.

I feel nothing.

My hands grope wildly at the metal bars in front of me, muscles tightening. After a moment, the

hatch gives way and I frantically clamber out of the water, flopping face-first onto a bed of soft, wet snow, every inch of my body trembling, drifting in and out of consciousness.

I lay still for what feels like several minutes, eyes clamped shut, taking slow, shallow breaths; resting.

Unfortunately, at the moment, I'm in no condition to rest.

Searing pain rips through my chest, like a hot knife plunging into my back. A reminder. I shake it off, slowly rising to my knees, forcing my eyes to snap open and survey the bleak surroundings.

An alleyway: two tall brick buildings on either side; the dark pavement below is cracked and covered with brittle, melting snow. Twin dumpsters hug the walls, an uninviting metal door to the right of each. A light breeze ripples through the air, briefly muffling the silence.

Hugging myself for warmth, I set to examining the open storm drain, now filled to the brim with murky, frigid water. To my surprise, the source appears to be a long rubber garden hose snaking over the snow, around the far corner of the alleyway. A trap.

Blood runs into my eyes; I lean precariously over the water, taking a moment to observe my wavering reflection.

My ruffled feathers conceal a long bloody gash extending from the top of my forehead all the way down to my left temple. Wincing, I dab at the thin trickle of blood with my fingertips, causing a lone speck to run down and hit the water.

A doorknob turns nearby, setting my feathers on end. As quickly as my battered body will allow, I turn and dive behind one of the dumpsters, embracing my knees, hoping to blend into the shadows.

They must know. They must know why I'm here.

Metal scrapes against the icy pavement.

Footsteps.

The dumpster opens—rustling—then, with a thud, closes.

Silence.

The running garden hose slinks out of view. A sharp metallic squeak cuts through the air; the water slows, finally stops coming.

More footsteps, now over crackling snow.

A tall, skinny figure, back turned, dressed in worn tennis shoes, jeans, and feminine overcoat, steps into view, examining the open storm drain with curiosity.

I don't budge as she treads around the outside of the circle to slide the upturned manhole cover back into place. I don't blink as her eyes turn up, widen, and zero in on mine.

I don't move.

She freezes, as if to allow me ample time to examine her.

A rabbit. Gray fur, slightly scruffy and unkempt, ears pulled back, yellow baseball cap turned awkwardly to one side. Her eyes are a deep, liquid blue, piercing and strikingly clear. The corners of her small mouth are pulled down, a look of reserved dissatisfaction permanently etched into her young features.

I've seen that expression before—in the mirror.

Time restarts.

She takes an uneasy step backwards and pauses, holding her palms up, as if uncertain what to do with them. Then, noticing the bloody, undressed wound running jaggedly across my forehead, she seems to reconsider and leans forward with inquiring eyes.

"Did you just climb out of there?" she asks through squinted brows, gesturing towards the dripping storm drain.

Something in her eyes tells me she's trustworthy.

"Yes. Can you help me?" My chattering bill obliterates my response, reducing my usual squawk to a low, hollow warble.

The rabbit blinks and draws up the corners of her mouth. "What's that?"

Technical difficulties.

Inching forward, I suddenly lose my balance and tumble hard onto all-fours, landing directly at her feet. Not the least bit startled, she quickly kneels down to help me up.

"You look so familiar," she says airily, taking me by the shoulders and peering into my eyes. "What's your name?"

The first letter gets caught on the tip of my tongue, rattling around my bill like a loose tooth. "D-D-D-D-D-D-Daf-f-f-f-fy…" I manage, shivering.

"Chapter Ten"

For once in his lifetime, Bugs Bunny was uncertain. As a single towering, armor-clad sentinel led him down a long, narrow corridor he recalled having traversed hundreds of times during his tenure at ACME, he began to grow fearful of his inevitable response to what he knew awaited him in the infirmary. Upon witnessing it, would he become regretful, jaded, thoughtful, meditative, grateful, elated? The answer, like so few others, stubbornly eluded him.

"How much further?" It was a pointless question. He knew exactly how far they were from their destination. The building was his, the blueprints ingrained in his memory.

"Just a little," replied the man in front of him. His voice was terse and overcome with boredom.

The majority of his hirees, Bugs noted, seemed greatly apathetic to his concerns. They regarded his demands with a blasé attitude and at times sounded downright mutinous. If it weren't for all the money he had pledged to their organization, he was quite certain that most of the hired guns currently at his disposal would have never gotten involved with him in the first place.

As they walked on, the hallway swooped around a corner and down a small flight of stairs before swelling into a wide-open, dimly-lit lobby. Following his escort through a barely-visible set of plate glass doors and past an abandoned secretarial desk, Bugs tensely straightened his tie as if to provide himself with solace, wholly ineffective preparation for the circumstances which laid ahead of him.

There was another door, a smaller one, at the back of the lobby, tucked away beneath a layer of shadows as though shamed by its mere existence. The man calmly pushed open the door and gestured for him to enter, which the rabbit did quickly, with as much dignity as he could put on.

The room was dark, even more so than the rest of the extinguished, quieted building. A number of sterile surgical utensils perched atop steely, uninviting metal trays shimmered in the corner like bats' eyes in a blackened cave. Various bulky, nondescript machines plastered with red, boldface warnings protruded awkwardly from the walls as if to keep each side of the room as asymmetric as possible. In the center of the room stood a chilly examining table which appeared, at first glance, to share more in common with an autopsy slab than anything decent. Above the table shone a piercing white spotlight, obscured by the silhouette of the tall fox who stood before it.

Bugs' bodyguard followed closely behind him, silently easing the door shut once he had entered the room, closing off the outside world. Stillness permeated the atmosphere. The fox slowly turned, removing his gloves as he did so. Behind him, Bugs could nearly make out the image of a motionless leg lying flat across the slab, a puddle of sparkling, rose-colored blood gathering beneath it.

"Is it him?" he inquired edgily, his face blank, his tone raspy and breathless. It was another pointless question, yet one he felt obligated to ask.

The fox did not respond immediately; rather, he remained silent for a moment and calmly stepped to the side, allowing Bugs a clearer view of the twisted, brutal image he had envisioned so many times before in his nightmares.

It was me—and indeed, I was dead.

My chest had all but caved in. More heavy caliber bullets than one could count on fingers and toes had torn through my blood-drenched clothes, my feathers, my skin, liquefying my insides like a swarm of parasites starved for a host. My left eye had fallen closed; the one he'd taken from me remained shrouded from view. My beak was shut.

At long last, I was silent. At long last, I had failed. At long last, my body had refused to persist in the face of it. For once, there was no gleeful, selfish expression chiseled into the subtle lines of my face, only an abnormal emptiness which seemed to resonate beyond the vacant shell my body had become. The sensation expanded throughout the room like a large plume of smoke, echoing outwards, filling the void my existence had created.

Bugs, his heart tensing, his mind racing, uncertain of what to think, uncertain of what to feel, took an unnaturally hesitant step closer. His eyes were unable to look away.

He reached for my hand. He touched it. He lifted it. He felt it: the deadness, the futility, the frustration, the anguish, the fear, the jealousy, the betrayal, everything he had put me through, everything the world had put me through. Solemnly, he interlocked his fingers with mine and placed his other palm on the back of my hand, raising it to his forehead as if to descend into prayer.

As quickly as it had been snatched away, the truth became clear to him. He derived pleasure from my suffering. It brought him satisfaction to see me falter, to see me struggle, to watch as I broke down and lost control. He loved it. It made him whole. It was an unhealthy psychological abstraction, a disreputable, uncontrollable aberration, one he felt guilty to harbor but never guilty enough to avoid gratifying.

Now it had gone too far.

Life was not a game, it was a secret, an enigma so quiet and unassuming that one could not truly comprehend its significance until it had been completely snuffed out and extinguished. It had been easy for Bugs to induce my suffering, yet it was torturous for him to witness the outcome. The chase, he professed, had seemed so much sweeter than the reward.

His face stoic and objective, he silently released my hand, allowing it to flop limply onto the table beside me. "How did it happen?" he whispered.

"You shouldn't concern yourself with the details, sir," replied the fox, named Marbury. "The less you know, the less you'll need to lie in your deposition."

Bugs did not look up. His eyes were focused and immovable. Images of the two of us together continued to flash cruelly through his head. And then he thought about the moment of his treachery, the moment he had taken aim at my forehead and sentenced me to death without so much as a callous explanation. He remembered the look on my face, the brief glimmer of terror in my eyes, the dark, hateful, betrayed expression he had had the curse of witnessing, the curse of feeling, the curse of knowing.

"Are you sure he's dead?" he asked.

A bemused, slightly irritated chuckle prefaced Marbury's answer. "Sir, he's got two-dozen bullets lodged in his chest, major lung damage; he's probably lost more than half the blood in his body; his heart stopped beating nearly thirty minutes ago."

"Are you sure he's dead?" Bugs repeated threateningly.

Marbury grimaced distastefully, wringing his hands. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life," he insisted, stunned that Bugs had even felt the question worth asking. Did he not have eyes?

The rabbit allowed his head to hang. "We're done," he muttered.

"Not quite." Persistence was key. "There's going to be an investigation; we need to make sure we have an agreement in order—"

"Not right now," Bugs interjected coldly. "I'll negotiate with your sponsor when I've got time. Not right now."

"I'm sorry," Marbury continued resolutely, "but he was insistent that we get things rolling right away. The FBI was already on this duck's trail when we caught up with him; who knows how long it'll take for them to track him down?"

"Track him down . . . track him down . . . " Bugs slammed his fist on the table. "They can't track him down, he's dead!"

The rabbit gave a toothy grin and snickered oddly to himself, yet he did not appear cheerful. On the contrary, his expression became one of detachment, of distance, even a loss of control.

"It doesn't suit him well." With those words, his laughter immediately subsided, replaced by a tight, close-knit introspectiveness.

Marbury anxiously shuffled his feet, an alarmed, slightly disturbed gape draped across his angular features. He remained silent, feigning the same chilly, respectful stillness that had previously stifled the hare, hoping to soften his approach.

"Look," he persisted, "we've done everything you've asked us to do. All I need is a few minutes of your time so we can put together . . . an insurance policy."

A spiteful, obstinate frown came over Bugs' face. "Okay, doc," he conceded reluctantly, "if you want me to call him, I'll call him." His ears flattened against his head. "Just gimme a minute to—to . . . " he sighed, "just gimme a minute."

Biting his tongue and allowing his head to tilt rather conspicuously to one side, Marbury offered a brief, understanding nod and turned away. "We'll be right outside," he whispered, signaling to his partner to leave the room. His steel-soled boots scuffed loudly against the floor as he passed through the doorframe and slowly pulled it shut, eyeing the towering rabbit suspiciously until he had completely disappeared from sight.

With the door closed, Bugs felt his knees buckling shakily underneath him. He quickly braced himself against the table where I lay and leaned forward, his breath coming in short, uneasy gasps, his chest heaving up and down, his eyes glazing sporadically over my cold, inanimate features. He felt as though he might vomit at any moment.

"It wasn't supposed to end like this," he remarked softly, with a definite tinge of urgency. "This isn't right. This isn't the way I wanted it at all."

My face remained still, unresponsive, lifeless.

"If I could change it, I would," he went on, now as though he were somehow pleading with me. "If I could go back, I swear to God I'd end it right, I'd do what was best for both of us." He placed one hand gently on top of my chest and held it there for several moments, his eyes condensing to slivers, nearly welling up with tears. "I'd end it on our terms."

Seconds later, he lifted his hand and sheepishly glanced down at his open palm, knowing that it had been covered with blood before he even laid eyes upon it.

"I'm sorry," he choked, suddenly lifting my sunken shoulders off the slab and drawing me into a close, almost brotherly embrace. "I'm so sorry."

For a long time after that, Bugs Bunny remained absolutely silent, his arms wrapped tightly around my ribs, his head resting solemnly against my shoulder, his heart and respiratory rate finally beginning to slow—and then something changed very dramatically.

He felt warm.

The sensation spread across his chest like blood in water, expanding outwards, gradually flooding towards his shoulders, embracing him as he embraced me. His eyes slid open like narrow window blinds, his upper lip quivered with trepidation.

A subtle throbbing accompanied the heat, like a distant drumbeat, slightly out of rhythm, slightly slower and shallower than the metronomic pulse of his heart. He could feel it, rising in strength against his chest, pounding through him like an echoing bass drum.

The blood froze in his veins.

His eyes, sallow and overwrought, widened.

He turned his head towards mine, a look of deepest apprehension mounting across his lined face, silently overcoming him.

The corners of our eyes met.

The world spun slower.

All superfluous memories quickly faded into the inky blackness surrounding us. The moment itself was emblematic enough of our hateful, violent, sadistic relationship. No emotions, no senseless explanations were required.

I could feel the blood rushing to the furthest corners of my body, dispersing adrenaline evenly throughout, gingerly reawakening my muscles, coaxing them from their fleeting instance of hibernation. I stretched my fingers, spreading them apart, the feeling like testing an old leather glove that hadn't been worn in years.

My chest remained riddled with bullets; my heart and lungs ignored them, powered by elements more potent than life itself. All the pain had finally been sapped away. Now, there was nothing left to distract me, nothing left but my objective.

Bugs never saw it coming. My hand went to his throat with the brute force of a charging rhinoceros, immediately causing his eyes to glaze, widening around the edges. When I threw him into the wall, a look of stunned amusement suddenly came over his face. It was as if it provided him with the utmost pleasure to feel me so close to him again, even if the tables had been drastically turned.

I dug my forearm into the space above his Adam's apple, lifting him off his feet like a helpless marionette, nearly snapping his neck like a twig. My bill came within inches of his nose. My single eye convened on his two, engaging them like a vengeful kamikaze.

"I came back for you." My voice was as gravelly and hate-filled as I had ever heard it. It was the severest, sincerest whisper ever uttered by a living creature, if I could still be considered as one.

Bugs was unable to reply, his face streaked with morbid shades of purple as he struggled to free himself. The strength with which I had pinned him to the wall appeared to have stunned him beyond retaliation. He wasn't thinking clearly. For all his suppositions, he hadn't been prepared to defend himself against the grizzly onslaught of a dead duck.

The sharp toe of a polished dress shoe rammed squarely into my shin, momentarily turning the tide, putting me on the defensive. Don't let him get away! The words flashed repeatedly through my head as I silently wrenched the helpless rabbit to the floor, continuing to choke him all the way to the ground. I could feel the bones in his neck snapping beneath the force of my elbow, crackling as his knuckles might when jerked back and forth. I centered all my weight over his chest, crushing his lungs as he wheezed futilely for breath. His hands released their grip on my

forearm where his fingers had dug desperately into my skin and began to claw violently at the tiled floor, reaching for something, anything, to defend himself with. For once, luck did not appear to be on his side.

Relying on sheer spontaneity, he placed both palms flat against the floor and pushed off the ground, drawing himself to his knees. Catching me staggering backwards, off-balance, he quickly set one foot forward and propelled himself backward, knocking both of us wildly into the wall behind us, upturning a small, shimmering tray of surgical instruments in the process.

The tiny silver tools clattered shrilly to the white tile floor below, violently breaking the silence, sending both hired guards bursting excitedly through the door, guns drawn, eyes cutting sharply from Bugs to me and back again.

The rabbit spun away from my vengeful arms, clutching his reddening throat with one hand and his hollow, sunken chest with the other. I nearly charged him again, but the loaded gun in Marbury's grasp forced me, begrudgingly, to reconsider.

"Jesus Christ!" the fox cried in awe upon shifting his sights in my direction. His voice embodied a low undercurrent of disappointment; his diagnosis, obvious as it may have been at the time, had, in fact, been wrong.

"Don't shoot him!" Bugs choked breathlessly, still panting heavily, sweat moistening the fur on his brow.

"Sir, I—I—" Marbury stammered profusely, barely able to keep his trembling trigger finger from unloading the entire clip. "He was—he was—there's no fucking way he—"

"Shut up!" Bugs demanded, staring at me with an expression of greatest profundity, refusing to take his eyes off of me. With the manic fox reluctantly silenced, a certain degree of calm settled throughout the room.

"Daffy . . . Daffy . . . " Bugs repeated brightly, his voice a strange mixture of prayer and admiration. "I—I knew you couldn't have died on me the way they said you did. It wasn't right."

My eyebrows remained narrow, restrained aggression causing my beak to quiver furiously, chattering as if caught in the cold. Nothing he said to me, no matter how twisted, no matter how heartfelt, could further postpone the inevitable. Sylvester had already convinced me otherwise. Death was guaranteed; compromise was not an option. All inhibitions had finally been lifted.

"Daffy," he seemed to enjoy the way my name rolled off his tongue, "I want to tell you something important. I want to make sure you understand me."

"I already understand you." My voice was strained, hushed, lowered, yet I could barely contain myself from erupting.

Bugs shook his head. "This is groundbreaking. This is brand new territory." He glanced sideways at his mercenaries, both of them still dumbstruck from the sight of me; funny, no one ever seemed so shocked when I emerged unscathed from those masochistic cartoons. It was a simple matter, I professed. There was something about that gilded screen, the perfection of it, something that made it all seem kosher, the brutality less palpable, less horrific, acceptable.

"What I said to you earlier," the rabbit murmured painfully, "none of it was true. I lied to you. I didn't mean to, but I did. It seemed like the truth at the time.

"The real truth is . . . I don't hate you; I need you. Without you, I'm nothing, I'm a pawn, I'm a loose cannon. I need someone like you to carry the load for me, to shovel all the shit in this miserable fucking world. You can understand that, can't you?"

"I told you, Bugs. I already understand."

"What?"

"You are a pawn. Better yet, you're a dog, a filthy, ungrateful animal. Your entire life, you've had everything you ever wanted placed right at your feet, just given to you out of the grace of God. No struggle was ever too much for you; you never lacked any self-confidence; you never felt the ache of defeat, the hopelessness, the helplessness, the defenselessness; everything good in the universe fell right into your lap, so easily, so naturally, like it was the way of things. And yet you still have the nerve to stand here in front of me tonight complaining that it isn't enough, that somehow you need more, you need my suffering to entertain you, to make you feel right again? You've already taken my life away from me; I won't let you take my dignity, too."

At least, that's what I wish I had said.

In reality, I said nothing. I allowed every stone to remain unturned, every issue forgotten, every emotion unrealized. And while I stared at him coldly, his reaction insisted that he had expected more, perhaps rightfully so.

"If I'm honest," he continued softly, after a beat, "I don't want to be the one to kill you. I don't want to be the one to stop you from living your life, to take that right away from you. At one time I thought I did; obviously, I was wrong."

The tone of his voice suggested that he knew there would be no turning back from the point we had reached, and that there could be no compromise on either side.

"I don't want to be the one to end this," he reiterated, "but I'm certainly not going to lie down and die for you, either. I still have a few rights of my own." He glanced at the guards by the door, then back at me. "You should have fun with these two. Just remember, Daffy, I've already beaten you once. You might have all the persistence in the world rooted in that body of yours, but if you force my hand, make no mistake, I will beat you again."

Nothing more to say, he turned and briskly stalked out of the room, shoving past the motionless, statuesque guards, sliding the door shut quietly behind him. His footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, spaced in a constant rhythm, gradually receding into oblivion. I moved towards them, refusing to lose the trail.

"Don't move!" the fearful, defeated Marbury exclaimed, hastily cocking his weapon. The man beside him followed suit, eyes like a pair of laser sights, tremulous.

For a moment, I hesitated, my better intuition persuading me to halt in my tracks.

Marbury swallowed heavily, gathering himself. "Turn around, put your hands on the wall."

My animal instincts, my vengeful, implacable impulses, urged me to reconsider.

"Do it!" the fox's sharp, piercing bark appeared to shock and intimidate even him.

I lowered my head. The unspeakable thought of losing Bugs without ever pursuing the chance to settle the score continued to whirl around inside my mind, gaining momentum, clouding all reason and logic like a swirling sandstorm. The feeling was not much unlike terror.

Marbury straightened his arms violently, shaking the pistol in his grasp, as if to remind me that it still existed. "I'm not gonna say it again!" His voice was beginning to waver, steadily eroding, melting, deteriorating.

"What are you going to do?" I murmured. "Shoot me?"

The very idea was vaguely humorous to me. I could not possibly be damaged, beaten, bruised, or battered anymore than I already had been. Even death was not enough to slow me, much less to defeat me. What more could a simple bullet do to cause me harm?

Marbury's eyes widened gapingly. The gun trembled in his hands.

"Just let me go." There was something unusually persuasive in the frailty of my voice, coupled with the tenseness in my shoulders. "God knows I deserve a break."

The fox continued to hesitate; he was not convinced, clearly still pining for a paycheck endorsed by Bugs' signature. "What if you don't make it? What if I let you go and he kills you?" he wondered aloud.

"If," I responded tersely, with more confidence than I could ever recall commanding.

Marbury's gaze remained locked unblinkingly on my stern, uncompromising features for a few seconds more. He then turned to glance at his partner, resoundingly clueless as to his next course of action, desperately in need of a second opinion. His companion, however, had already lowered his weapon.

"Just let me go," I repeated with the softness of a poltergeist.

His eyes sliced back in my direction. His grip loosened on the pistol. His arms fell heavily to his sides, cautiously relieved. I took a step closer to him.

"Now, if you don't mind," I remarked slyly, "I could use that gun."

In the blink of an eye, I found myself in the hallway, armed, voraciously retracing Bugs Bunny's steps, hunting him, sniffing him out like a baited bloodhound. The darkness surrounding me burned with an austere violet glow, beckoning me, pulling me onward, guiding me towards my sole ambition. Every step was a graceful stride; despite my injuries, every breath was deep and full; I remained powered by invincibility.

The hallway expanded, widening into a large, rectangular office space, unlit, packed with vacant cubicles, dead computers, lonely swivel chairs. My right side was all but defenseless, blinded, easily ambushed. I crept between the rows of cubicles, handgun outstretched, left eye dutifully scanning the shadows for any aberration. At the opposite end of the room was a large glass pane which separated the front offices from the CEO's. A streak of blood from Bugs' slashed palm accented the door handle. I reached for it with a steady, skeletal hand.

Shards of glass rained down over my shoulders as a muffled crack rang out and a nickel-sized bullet shrieked past my head, nearly grazing my bill. I spun around, dropping to one knee, pointing my gun furiously into the blackness, lone eye searching for the silhouette of my enemy. The rabbit, however, had already ducked for cover inside a cubicle.

"Alright, Daff," he proclaimed semi-facetiously, "I apologize! I admit, that was a cowardly move!"

I refused to allow my emotions to get the better of me, again remaining chillingly silent.

"Let's not be kids about this! We're not boys anymore, doc, we're men! We should settle our differences like adults, am I right?"

He extended his arm out into the open, brandishing a silenced pistol, flailing it around to assure me that he was disarming himself. The gun dropped to the floor with a hollow thud. He took a slow, ginger, pensive step from his alcove, arms raised high above his head, attempting to flaunt a certain undeserved innocence.

As his face came into view, emerging into the ghostly light, I immediately straightened my shoulders, raising my own weapon, ejecting a warning shot which nearly sheared off his enormous ears.

"Christ—Daffy!" he snarled breathlessly, darting for shelter. "You trying to give me a fucking heart attack? Don't I get a chance to defend myself?"

The pathetic son of a bitch didn't know when to shut his mouth. Thankfully, I did.

To justify such a ridiculous request with a slew of crass, indignant remarks would have been downright foolish of me. He was completely oblivious to his own hypocrisy, and I had no intention of forcing any long overdue epiphanies down his throat at this point. The time for self-discovery had come and gone. He could go to the grave believing whatever he wanted to believe; it meant nothing to me, as long as he had, indeed, gone to the grave.

"Let's try this again," Bugs suggested softly, once he had regained his composure. Again, he tiptoed into the light, this time at a slightly hastened pace, as though he expected it to earn him more favorable results. It did.

My finger, tremulous and irresolute, hesitated to pull the trigger. One bullet was not enough, I told myself. One bullet alone was not sufficient repayment for everything he had done to me. There was so much anger, frustration, hatred, and pain that I still wished to unleash upon him, to satisfy and unfetter myself of, that I could never contentedly reap my vengeance in such an anticlimactic fashion . . .

. . . even if the anticlimax was what I had become accustomed to.

Whether willfully or not, the gun slipped out of my hand—and Bugs charged.

The two of us collided, barreling into the unbroken pane of glass, bending it under the force of our combined weight. He hurled his fists at me, his jagged knuckles shredding the side of my face, causing tiny white stars to surround me in the blackness. It didn't hurt; nothing hurt me anymore, not after the enormity of the pain I had already outlived and endured.

I opened my palm, catching his balled fist in mine, clenching it as though it were the very embodiment of everything in the world I despised, every bad break, every short-ended stick, every hurdle, every obstacle, every challenge I had failed to clear. I dug my fingers into his unprotected skin. My spine tingled with glee, with relief, with fulfillment.

But hatred alone would not be enough to win this battle.

Bugs' knee streaked into my stomach. I doubled over. He lifted me off my feet, threw my head over my heels, dropped my body to the floor like a stone. I landed flat on my back, hesitated, feeling clueless, frustrated, discouraged. For a split second, I feared that, in spite of everything, he might have still been stronger than I had envisioned—stronger than me, even now. I cursed my thoughts. They were cowardly, gutless, tentative, yet they only served to amplify my aggression, to heighten the effects of the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I spun out of the way, his foot stamping the ground where my head had lain. I dove for the gun. My fingers closed around it, but not before Bugs could wrestle himself on top of me, diverting my aim away from him, to the wall. I pulled the trigger once out of desperation. Light flashed all around us, succeeded by rich purple smoke which filled the air with a noxious, metallic scent, sending fiery tears rolling down my cheeks. Bugs took me around the neck.

I relinquished my hold on the gun; it went off a second time as it clattered to the slick marble floor. Smoke again clouded my senses. I drove my elbow upwards, behind my head, made contact with my enemy's nose. Warm blood dribbled over my feathers. My resolve toughened; I struck again. The weight lifted off my shoulders, vanishing as Bugs was repelled backwards. I leapt to my feet, whirled around on my heels, faced his dark silhouette, the shimmering moonlight outlining his towering figure through the glinting panes of glass.

Lowering my head, I hurtled towards him, driving fearlessly into his chest, forearms raised. There was a loud crack, but the glass did not break. He let out a muffled groan, his breath spreading hotly over the back of my neck; he was hurt. I raised my fist, sent it flying into his jaw, cocked it back once more, repeated, certain that I had felt the bite of more tepid blood spattering against my knuckles. I reared back to strike again. His head dodged to the right. Unable to hold up, I punched a gaping, jagged hole in the glass. Long, deep gashes appeared over my feathers, peeling back the skin, glimmering, streaming red.

As I yanked my damaged hand free, the rabbit planted both paws squarely against my chest and shoved me away. I managed to retain my balance. My left eye focused on him: crumpled, ragged, injured, with thick shards of glass incising his back. There was no pity in my stare. I drew back my right leg, planted my other foot, channeled every vengeful, murderous, insolent, hate-filled thought in my mind, summoned every last illusory ounce of strength in my body, and lashed out at him with everything I had.

Lightning illuminated the room as the glass pane exploded. Bugs tumbled backwards, collapsing on top of a wide, cluttered desk—his desk—sending papers flying, blood spurting.

I refused to linger. I did not care whether he was alive, awake, unconscious, or dead. All I desired was to torture him, to exact more vengeance, to inflict more pain. I stalked towards him, the broken glass crackling like fire under my boots, and seized him by his collar, pulling his head up from the desk. He responded with only a faint, weakened gurgle, as if attempting to get a word out, but my ears were closed to his hollow excuses.

My knuckles slashed across his bloodied cheek and the back of his head again collided with the unforgiving desktop. Before he could react, I had yanked him back towards me and struck a second time, knocking one of his front teeth loose. There was something hypnotic, something magnetic, something intoxicating in the gruesome squelch which emerged from each solid punch, enticing me to continue, to repeat ad nauseam until my own fist had turned sore and begun to bleed.

He reached for a switchblade in his pocket, a last resort. I yanked it from his grasp, flattened his ungloved hand against the surface of the desk, seething rage in the deliberateness of my motions, and drove the dagger directly through his open palm. The helpless squeal which followed was every bit as real and satisfying as the murders of his followers.

Moving away from him, I turned and dashed back over the carpet of broken glass, retrieving the gun I'd left behind, returned with it raised hesitantly in front of me, gazing down the sight, the barrel trained shakily over his forehead and that's all there is.

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