The Easter Bunny Must Die!

Here’s another random romp in the old imagination. Purely fictional of course, and owned by yours truly.

The Easter Bunny Must Die!

By Plot Roach

Megan was having a bad day to say the least. It started when she fell out of bed at five in the morning to cries from the neighbors of: “Someone call the fire department, the building is on fire!”, and continued until she was mistakenly deported to Mexico.

At five that morning, she was having a lovely dream where she was Cleopatra and being babied by her two slaves, Brad Pitt and George Clooney, dressed in nothing more than linen kilts and smiles. She devoured their well oiled muscles with her eyes and she was hand fed grapes by her third slave, Tobey Maguire.
The screams brought her dream, and the barge she was traveling the Nile upon, to a screeching halt. Where she fell into the river, and was chased by a hippopotamus until she opened her eyes and realized it was just her golden retriever, Kiwi. The words that were being yelled filtered through her fuzzy brain and eventually the rest of her body caught on to the fact that there was still danger involved, but just not in the form of a river creature.

She lurched into a sitting position, which Kiwi helped alleviate by knocking her back to the floor again. Once she had placated the dog with a scratch behind the ears and tossed her fuzzy slipper for Kiwi to fetch, she dialed 9-1-1, only to find that her phone had been disconnected sometime in the night. She sighed and swore beneath her breath and walked out the front door to another neighbor’s apartment, tying her robe closed as she knocked on his door.

“What’s up?” he asked, he looked like a squinting rat and sounded as pathetic as a half drowned raccoon. God, do I look that bad in the morning? Meagan wondered to herself.

“The apartment building is on fire and I need to call 9-1-1.”

“And you need my help why?”

“My phone doesn’t work.”

“You should still be able to call 9-1-1, even if you haven’t paid the bill.” he said.

“I HAVE paid the bill, it just won’t work.” she huffed. “And if someone doesn’t call the fire department soon, there won’t be a building to call them from.”

“Okay, I’ll call them.” he said. He closed the door and left her on the porch. Should I go back to my apartment and wait or stand here like and idiot in the cold? she thought. A few more minutes of shivering sent her back inside, where the dog of bountiful energy and bad timing, once again knocked her to the floor. She closed the windows and shut off the air conditioner, hoping to keep the smell from permeating the apartment. She took her daily dose of medication and took the time to dump a bowl of food out for Kiwi who was dancing around her feet. She slipped into a sweat suit and tennis shoes and went in search of the ‘fire’, hoping it was not in her section of the apartment complex.

Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be coming from the west block, one building over from her own home. She sighed with relief that she would not have to scramble to get herself, her dog and whatever valuables she wanted to keep from the flames and pile them all into her compact car. Black smoke billowed form the topmost floor, but only out of one window. And it had an odd smell to it. One she recognized all too well from her younger years. Is someone trying to burn their weed all at once? She asked herself. It sure looked that way, as the smoke continued to issue out of the window and into the wind, caressing the people down below with its psychedelic energy. Those who knew what it was and approved, breathed deeply of the fumes. While mothers ushered their children indoors and scowled in the direction of the flames.

The police were there in five minutes, the paramedics and fire department were close behind. It took fifteen more minutes for a helpful resident of the complex to locate a gate key and let them in. By then the fire was more of a smoldering mass, and those that had stayed in the open to witness the mayhem were busy giggling and recounting the events which had just transpired to one another as if telling old war stories. “Did you hear about the time when…”

The police questioned a few of them, collecting everyone’s names and phone numbers in case the incident had to go to court. It turned out that someone in the burning building had been attempting to make “special pancakes” instead of brownies, because he did not have a cake pan. He forgot to use butter to grease the pan, had walked away while the mixture was cooking, and thus had set his kitchen -and the rest of his stash- ablaze.

All the while, Meagan could only think of the Chocolate Easter bunny she had hidden in the back of the refrigerator. How wonderful and luscious it would be to take a good long hot bath, chew its little ears off and slowly let the milky smoothness of it melt on her tongue.

Meagan walked back to her apartment, quickly found that she had accidentally locked herself out and slipped to the back of the building. She had locked herself out on numerous occasions to know that if she wiggled the back window pane enough, it would pop out of the frame and she could climb in after it. Her movements made a little hazy from the encounter with “demon weed“, it took her fifteen minutes to wiggle the glass loose and three attempts to launch herself up and over the window frame and into the apartment. Once again Kiwi was there to greet her by knocking her master to the floor. She laughed and screamed loudly, for Kiwi had found her way to licking Meagan’s stomach.

A sound of smashing brought her back to sobriety as Meagan realized that her front door was under assault. What the Hell? She thought, her mind trying to comprehend the scene while simultaneously thinking of the chocolate bunny that needed devouring. The door finally gave before her brain did, and Meagan found herself once again on the floor -this time having nothing to do with her overly loving dog- and being read her rights by the police. “But this is my house", she mumbled. But was said at a level of volume that only Kiwi would hear. They took her to the squad car and she overheard their conversation:

Snatches of “She fits the description of the burglar that’s been breaking into homes around here.” to “Haven’t I seen her turn tricks on the corner of Fifteenth street and Newman road?”

She tried to argue with them that they had the wrong woman, but all that would come out of her mouth was a babbling nonsense she was certain made sense in some language -if not her own. A few minutes later, she found herself down at the police station, where she was being photographed and processed. “I’m really not a burglar” she said. But it came out: “I’mnna gluarr” to the last three people she tried to confess her innocence to.

She found herself waiting in a small cell with others, all of which looked better off and could communicate more than Meagan could in her inebriated state. An interpreter came to the front of the cell and spoke with each person in turn. When the woman unleashed a torrent of speech upon Meagan, all she could do was laugh. “Do you know the Easter Bunny?” she asked the woman. “He needs to die in my belly!” she laughed. The woman only shook her head and pulled away. More time passed and all Meagan could think about was the chocolate demon that eluded her. Damn creamy tasting vermin, she thought. She envisioned him dancing around her apartment, slowly peeling away the layers of protective tin foil from himself in a vulgar strip tease.

Three men came and escorted her to a van where others were waiting. She fell asleep with the motion of the road passing beneath their tires and woke only when one of the officers shook her awake. “We’re here.” he said. “It’s time to get out and go home.”

“But where’s my apartment?” Megan mumbled . But the officer ignored her pleas and shut the door behind her. The van took off down a long stretch of dusty road, leaving Meagan in its wake. Having no other choice, she followed the others as they headed into a small town. Once there, a man met them at the road, giving each a slap on the back and a hearty hug, as if they had been long lost friends. He hesitated when he saw Meagan and she looked up into his eyes, dark as oil drops and reminding her of her overzealous dog back home. She cried, shamelessly and uncontrollably, until women from the village gathered her up and spirited her away to a small dark room.

Once she calmed herself, one came forward. “Do you know where you are?” the young girl asked.

“No” said Meagan. “All I know is that I was in my apartment, it caught on fire and then the police brought me here.” And with that said, Meagan began to cry again.

The young woman left the room, where the other women stayed to offer their support to the crying Meagan, and went to fetch the doctor. He asked, through the interpretation of the young woman, of Meagan’s full story. She told as much as she could and the old man laughed. “What’s so funny?” she asked.

“The doctor said that the medication that you are on did not mix well with the smoke of Marijuana. And it made you have a ‘bad episode’. The police must have thought that you were an illegal trying to break into someone’s apartment to hide from them. So in order to avoid paperwork, they just dumped you here with the others.”

“Does this happen often ?” Meagan asked. “The dumping of people, not the bad trips.”

“Why do you think the mayor meets those brought back and dumped at the edge of town with such a greeting? He knows it will only happen again the next time that they try and hide in the U. S.”

Meagan's mouth felt like cotton and her stomach rumbled as she faced the young woman and said: “I do know one thing for sure. When I get home, that damned Easter bunny must die.”