What was his old campaign, exactly?

Summers told WGME-TV that the Talking Phonebook picked up one of his old campaign numbers by mistake.”

Possibly America's next Vice President.

Definitely America's next Vice President impersonator.

EDIT:  We are not alone.

“Palin, who has more than a passing resemblance to Tina Fey, took on the kleptocracy of Alaska’s Republican politics and won.”

c/o: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/multimedia/archive/00282/phone_4__282193a.jpg

They were four days in and the booth was starting to smell.

The first day had seemed fresh and exciting. They arrived Sunday night. The four of them had two hotel rooms near the airport. The expo center was downtown. The shuttle ran them in in the morning and took them back at night. They worked in shifts of two and two, eight to two and two to nine. There were restaurants downtown, but they got discounts on the food at the expo so they generally ate there. Breakfast was at the hotel, continental.

Benny had worked the second shift last night. They’d switched on Wednesday: Diego and Bill had changed places because Bill and Marissa weren’t getting along. Benny had taken a second shift to even make the schedule work out, but Bill spelled him for a lot of it because he felt sorry.

Benny had slept in that morning, until nine, had breakfast and taken the shuttle at eleven. He roamed around the expo from eleven until noon, then started thinking about lunch. He’d been excited to find a falafel stand on Monday, since it was a novel thing to have at a technology conference. Now, after four days, he was sick of it, especially since he could smell it in the booth, but compared to the alternatives (sushi, going outside) it was cheap and easy.

They hadn’t thought to bring a trash can. This wasn’t a big mistake, since they were able to use a cardboard box to hold their falafel wrappers, soda cans, napkins, unwanted flyers, and other refuse; it was easy to take the box to the trash can down at the end of their row of booths and dump it out. The problem was the smell of things like wrappers and Marissa’s orange peels that seeped into the tablecloth and the padding of the chairs. The overwhelming odorlessness of the air conditioning masked it for awhile, but over time it started to drive Benny nuts.

“Benny?”

Benny turned around. “Oh, hey Topher, what’s up?”

Topher had walked up behind Benny as Benny was standing observing the booth from a distance, wondering whether he should approach and notify his co-workers of his presence at the expo or continue to enjoy the relative liberty of wandering unseen.

“Did Bill get here yet?”

Topher was a friend of Bill’s who worked for a venture capital firm. His firm didn’t have a booth, since it’s employees mostly roamed around scouting for hot new companies to fund, which did not seem to include Benny’s company.

“I think he was going into the city for something.”

“Oh, okay. Cool. If you see him, let him know I’ve got some stuff for him. I’ll swing by later.”

“Sure, no problem.”

Topher had the well-groomed look of someone successful, or at least Benny imagined that’s what it was. Perhaps it was just the well-groomed look of someone who didn’t have to sit in a booth that smelled like bygone falafel and tangerines. Benny felt slightly resentful; he could see Topher had already answered a call on his cellphone as he walked away, which Benny interpreted as a harbinger of more income.

Or a social life. It indicated the existence of people with a need to contact Topher. Benny, considering his purpose at the expo, found this doubly depressing, since he had not received a call on his phone for the past three days—except one from Marissa saying she’d be late—and he worked for a cellphone company. This line of thought was one from which Benny had been attempting to steer away over the past three days. It sucked.

Better, he thought, to stay positive. Ironically, at this moment, he saw Marissa waving to him from down the aisle. He walked over.

“How’s it going Benny?” she asked has he approached. “Diego, I’m just going to step out for a minute if you’re OK?” She turned and jogged off in the direction of the ladies room, which was also, Benny thought, the direction of the doors to the outside and fresh air and sunlight and new people and freedom. Except it was raining.

“How’s it going, man?” said Diego.

“Ah, not bad,” said Benny, “not bad.” It was bad, but he wasn’t going to think about it.

“Any business?” he asked Diego.

“Not really. I think most of the important people have already been through, or they show up in the afternoon. I think there was some kind of big focus group thing this morning.”

“I still haven’t seen a schedule,” said Benny. “I sorta thought they’d give them to us. Not that we have time, I guess.”

“Yeah, totally,” said Diego. “Is Bill here?”

“I think he went downtown,” said Benny. “Said he was going to pick up something for his girlfriend.” That was another reason Benny never got any calls on his cellphone…

“Oh yeah, he might’ve told me that. I can’t remember anything anymore.”

“It’s all just a big blur!” said Benny, trying to be funny. He chuckled slightly, more at the attempt than the accomplishment. He was not funny. If he were funny, he wouldn’t be here…

“Totally,” said Diego again. “Man, I’m ready to get out of here.” He stopped speaking as a middle-aged woman in a red blouse stopped and looked at the mounted poster on the corner of the booth. Benny walked slowly around and joined Diego behind the table.

“Can I help you with anything today?” Diego asked politely. The woman looked up at him.

“Oh, no—I’m just looking around,” she said.

“Please do,” said Diego. “Let me know if you have any questions or anything.”

“Okay, thank you,” she flashed the fake smile of someone trying to escape from a conversation. As she began to turn away, another woman walked up next to her.

“Did you see that?” said the woman in the red blouse, pointing to the poster on the table. The other woman—in a blue blouse—looked at the poster and laughed.

“It goes in your nose?” she said. “Really?”

“Yup,” said Diego. “It really does. It really works.”

“You’re kidding,” said blue blouse woman, looking at him for the first time. Benny was surprised to see that her expression looked genuinely intrigued.

“Nope,” said Diego. “It’s a new way to do hands-free. You can’t even feel it once you get used to it.”

“But how can you hear ?” the woman asked. “There are no earphones?”

“Sinus cavities,” said Diego. He was rephrasing his sales pitch, trying to sound real. “Your voice resonates in your sinuses when you speak. This does the same thing.”

“When you speak,” the woman said, looking confused. “But—how does it connect to your ears?”

“Through the Eustachian tubes,” said Diego, turning the poster so he could see it. “See—your ears connect into your nose through these tubes in your head. That’s why you can’t hear as well when you get a cold.”

“Wow,” said the blue blouse woman. “So it’s like having your cellphone inside your head.”

“Pretty much,” said Diego, smiling uncertainly. “Seriously—it works a lot better than it sounds.”

“Very cool,” said the woman, looking less intrigued. “Thank you very much.”

She rejoined the woman in the red blouse, who had already taken several steps away from the booth.

“People think we’re gross,” said Diego, after the women were out of earshot. Benny didn’t say anything.

“I mean seriously,” said Diego, “who would seriously go out and buy a nose phone?”

“I don’t know,” said Benny after a minute. “It sort of seems like a good idea. It does work better than it sounds.” It unnerved him to hear Diego say the same things that had been going through his own head for the past four days. He had to fight back.

“Yeah,” said Diego. “I don’t know. I guess you’re right. Maybe something will happen.”

Benny didn’t think so, so he decided to change the subject. “Where’d Marissa go?”

“Well,” said Diego, “the charitable me says to the ladies room, the uncharitable me says she went for a smoke.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Benny. That was another smell in the booth: breathmints,.

“What time is it?” Diego asked.

“Almost one,” Benny said. “You hungry?”

“I’ll grab something in a bit,” said Diego. “You on at two?”

“Yeah,” said Benny. “I’ll spell you in a bit. Just let me grab a bite to eat.”

Carol was working in the kitchen when she heard Roger singing in the basement.

“Roger?” she called.

“Roger?”

She opened the door to the basement stairs.

“Roger?”

“What is it?”

“What are you doing?”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing?”

“Are you singing?”

“What?”

“I said are you singing?”

“Yeah.”

“You are singing?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

She paused.

“Roger,” called Carol,

“What is it?”

“Why are you singing?”

“I’m practicing.”

“What?”

“The lads and I are working on a song.”

“A song?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you singing a song?”

There was another pause. Roger shuffled to the foot of the stairs.

“Well, there’s this protest, see,” he said. “More of a demonstration.”

“A protest?”

“Yeah, for the pig farmers.”

“But…what are you protesting?”

Roger paused and looked at the stairs.

“Well, it’s about the price of pigs,” he said.

“You’re protesting the price of pigs?”

“Well, yeah. You know about that.”

“Well why are you singing?”

“Well, we just thought we’d write a song for it. Terry says we could be an internet sensation.”

“A what?”

“Well, you know, like on YouTube and all that.”

“On what?”

“You know, like a music video.”

“You’re making a music video about the price of pigs?”

“Well, not exactly. It’s just for a bit of publicity like.”

“A song about pigs?”

“Yeah.”

“How does it go?”

“What?”

“How does it go? I mean–you may as well sing it for me, if it’s going to be an internet sensation.”

“Ah no.”

“What?”

“No no, I can’t. I haven’t practiced yet, like.”

“Roger.”

“I can’t.”

“Roger!”

“Listen to me–will you. I won’t sing it till it’s done. I won’t.”

“You can at least tell me what it’s called.”

“Listen, I don’t–”

“Roger, you’re hiding down in the basement in the middle of the afternoon singing a song about pigs for a music video. The least you can do–”

“All right, all right. Terry and Bill wrote it. It’s called–”

In Oslo, Ole Danbolt Mjoes, chairman of the peace committee, was asked whether the award could be interpreted as criticism of the Bush administration and the United States, which do not subscribe to the Kyoto treaty to cap greenhouse emissions. He replied that the Nobel was not meant to be a “kick in the leg to anyone” — the Norwegian expression for “kick in the teeth.”

“Honey,” said Olaf, “I think the Wildsteins are here.”

“Just give me a second,” said Helga.  “Oh shit!”

There was a crash in the kitchen.  A pool of reindeer stew began to seep around the door.

“What did you do?” yelled Olaf.

“Oh I…shit.  I tried to taste the stew.”

“Out of the pot?  Nobody can kick that high.”

“I know, I just…”

“Honey, they’re here.

“I know, I know,” snapped Helga.  “Just get the door.  This’ll be all right.”

“Olaf mein freunde!  How are you doing?”

“Oh not so bad Klaus.  Matilde, lovely to see you.  I’m afraid Helga had a little accident with the soup.  Do sit down.”

“I can help with anything, no?” asked Matilde.

“No, no, don’t worry about it.  She’ll be right in a minute.  She tried to taste the stew but she isn’t as limber as she used to be.”

“I keep forgetting!” said Klaus.  “Of course, you Norwegians eat through your legs.  It must get difficult if you are as stiff as I am.”

Olaf smiled thinly.

“I mean, I don’t–” Klaus began, “I didn’t mean to give you a kick in the teeth–I MEAN, sorry, leg.  SORRY–”

We were just pulling off I-70 outside Carter, Indiana, when the SatCom crackled. A high wind was blowing and the Prius was getting rocked pretty hard. Elijah picked up the handset.

“Two-seventy to ECC,” he said. Another gust of wind. I braked sharply and took us around the clover-leaf.

“Two-seventy, stand by to receive an F-U-B on the twenty-seven fifty,” said the dispatcher.

An F-U-B was a “Field Update Bulletin.” The laptop screen changed colors and the printer began to hum between the seats. Twenty-seven fifty was the code for the call we were on: a pig farm emitting type 1-A ultrapernicious greenhouse gases without a permit.
My name is Melody Pfue. I’m an agricultural emissions investigator.

Since I have to allow that some of you may end up reading this as a temporal resonance artifact, I suppose I should briefly explain the context that brought us to this place. I suppose it all began when Rosie O’Donnell was elected president early in the 21st century. Although few in the establishment anticipated it, looking back, it’s pretty clear how it happened. I won’t go into details, but the political upheaval led to a series of major policy changes, including the imposition of some fairly stringent greenhouse gas emissions standards.

That’s where my job fits in. People hear “greenhouse gases” and think of carbon dioxide and car exhaust and factories. But far more dangerous than carbon dioxide is methane, an even more familiar greenhouse gas and one that many people have trouble talking about. Farming operations—cattle farms, pig farms especially—are the worst polluters of all.

Secretary of the Interior Michael Moore inadvertently put the spotlight on methane during a heavily publicized demonstration at a Nebraska dairy facility. Besides starting a national conversation about the gas, the incident gave Al Gore the lyrics that won his second Grammy. Suffice it to say the regulatory climate heated up faster than the troposphere, and a whole new movement flowered in American bureaucracy. Scores of public spirited young people answered their nation’s call with trowels, test kits, probes, and little balloon-baggie things. More than one wag quipped that politicians were finally taking a stand on bullshit and hot air, and maybe it was true. But this American, for one, is starting to feel a little deflated by it all.
“Confirmed,” said Elijah, reading the printout. “It’s Holzfürzen.”

“Shit,” I said. I slammed on the brakes. The power readout on the dash spiked upwards from the regenerative braking energy.

“Congratulations!” said the car’s computer-voice, “you just conserved three hundred joules of energy. That’s equal to one and one-half pounds of CO2.”

“Piece of shit,” I muttered, slamming the gear lever into Park. Somehow the thing got stuck on “demo” mode, and since it was a government car we didn’t have the code to turn it off.

“Give it here.” I motioned to Elijah.

“This corner’s fading a bit,” he said. It was self-erasing, reuseable paper, from which all print was supposed to disappear after two hours. Evidently, this particular sheet had got ahead of itself.

I muttered something Elijah couldn’t hear. He looked out the window and fingered the peace charm he wore around his neck.

“Goddammit I thought we nailed this fucker,” I said after reading. Holzfürzen was a complex figure—a mad scientist with a redneck’s antiauthority mouth-foaming. Tenured at a big state-school Ag department, he had gradually gone off the rails and was most recently prosecuted for releasing radioactive pea-fowl in a metropolitan area.

“It was something to do with temporal resonance,” said Elijah. “Additional documents came to light that suggested a conspiracy or something. They threw the case out.”

“Believe me I know,” I said. “Mathiason worked on that case.” Poor Mathiason—savagely pecked, his organs irradiated while he lay bleeding, and not a shred of evidence to tie it to Holzfürzen. Fucking birds.

“So what’s the read on this one?” I asked Elijah. “Do we play it straight or go for the gusto and call in SHIT?”

SHIT is another acronym. It stands for Special Hazards Intervention Team. We call them in for—as the TV cops say—“situations”. I’ve had more than my share of SHIT episodes, and I can tell you the acronym isn’t totally inappropriate.

“Well,” said Elijah thinkingly, “if we’re outdoors in daylight, what…you’re thinking of might not have as big a chance of happening…and it’s certainly easier than calling in…”

For a fucking peacenik, Elijah had a point. I hate to agree with anyone with a beard, but it’s certainly true that we had no material justification for an armed response. There was an old saying among AE investigators that “if you don’t have shit, you can’t get SHIT.” And the paperwork—“wipe up”—after an unplanned panic call was intentionally copious.

“I know,” I said. “You’re right—we’ll just do it. But I still have a bad feeling.”
We wheeled onto a two-lane access road and thence through several traffic lights, ending up on a non-descript secondary highway through loose strip malls and scruffy country.

“You’d think if he’s going to have a farm, he’d at least put it in farm country,” I said. Elijah remained silent, gazing across the punctuated flatness.

Strip mall eventually petered into occasional trees. A deck of midlevel clouds weakened the afternoon sun. I sniffed slightly and reached for the heater controls.

“How do you turn this thing off?” I demanded. It wasn’t his fault, poor kid, but this god-damn smart car stuff just tries to do everything for you and is therefore impossible not to fuck up.

“Smog particulates, zero point three parts per million. Air breathability index, healthful,” said the computer voice.

“I feel better already,” said Elijah.

“Listen, I thought I smelled something,” I said.

“Like what?” asked Elijah.

“Pigshit,” I said. What else? Elijah rolled down his window.

“I see what you mean,” he said.

“Well then roll up your window because it’s fucking freezing,” I said. “Nothing you haven’t smelled before.”

After a series of turns onto increasingly poorer roads, the corrugated metal of Holzfürzen’s pig barn glinted in the distance.
In a perfect world, I should explain, the barn would act as a kind of giant gas hood. The methane released from farming operations under the roof would be collected in a subterranean duct system, then piped to pressurized roof tanks, from which it would eventually be collected and used to fuel turbogenerators.

Eventually it grew more complicated. The growing national concern for the environment also extended to the pigs themselves. Animal rights groups inevitably protested the pigs’ indoor confinement. Emissions engineering firms responded with a system of flexible tubing attached to “minimally invasive” couplings, which, in practice, were exactly what they sounded like. Mated to a complex program of what was essentially house training, the system enabled the husbandry of “zero-emissions, free-range pigs”, whose “humanely-raised” meat products sold for premiums that easily recouped the considerable startup capital involved. I grew accustomed to, but never admired the practice. The expression “to squeal like a stuck pig” is not without grounding in fact.
Holzfürzen evidently chose to keep his hogs inside at this time of year. That is, if he let them out at all. As we rolled through the farmyard, the sound of grunting resonated within the metal walls.

“Play it cool,” I said to Elijah as I shut the car off.

“Thank you for another safe and pleasant journey!” said the computer voice.

I stepped out and zipped my windbreaker. My cellphone sagged reassuringly in a pocket.

We walked gingerly over the semi-frozen muck. Little as I cared for the shoes, I’d be damned as let Holzfürzen’s pigshit wreck them.
If you watch a lot of television, you probably think Federal agents kick down doors and shout “freeze”. The scenario became so iconic in the early 2000s that several art films were produced featuring this behavior almost to the exclusion of anything else. I remember one notable modern art museum showed the work of a photographer—whose name eludes me—who worked entirely on the theme. I don’t remember the museum either, but the show was called “freeze frames,” which someone thought was funny.

Needless to say we weren’t that sort of Federal agent, and, moreover, public tastes have changed. After a brief fascination with double-agentry, the viewing audience seems to have fixed their attention on an angsty sort of therapy-style monologue, in which the agent, who has become emotionally involved in the pursuit of the villain, expresses the tortuous ambivalence he feels at the arrest he is about to make.
“Are you Holzfürzen?” I asked.

“Ya,” he said.

“We’re here about the pigs.”

“Ach.”

A wisp of white hair drifted to rest on his forehead. Nobody said anything for a minute.

“Mind if we look around?” said Elijah finally. I like an awkward silence, but for some reason he does not. Impatient youth.

“No,” said Holzfürzen eventually. He was kind of staring into space. A wave of smell passed over us. Elijah started walking toward the barn.
No matter how many times I inspect them, I never get used to pig barns. The noise gets tolerable, but the smell—breathing through a used diaper doesn’t describe it, but it might make it better.
“Shall I blow the LIPS?” shouted Elijah over the squealing.

I shrugged and nodded. LIPS stood for Leak Indicating Purple Smoke. That wasn’t the official acronym, but it was easy to say.

“Clear!” yelled Elijah, pulling the cord on what looked like an oversize firecracker.

Thick purple smoke billowed out. We headed for the door. On the way out, Elijah body-checked Holzfürzen by accident, not seeing him .

“The men who come—” Holzfürzen began.

“Let’s go outside now sir,” said Elijah loudly. “We can’t stay here.” He turned Holzfürzen around and nudged him forward.

LIPS isn’t perfect. It won’t help you find loose hose clamps or bad fans. The idea is to flood the collection system with it and see if any comes out outside. It’s prima facie evidence in a tube.

“The men who come, the have burst tank,” said Holzfürzen.

“Men who come—could you be a little more specific?” said Elijah.

“Men who come with tank to take gas—”

“Come with tank?”

I sighed. “Collection men,” I said to Elijah. I didn’t believe the German accent for a moment, but Elijah was so officious it made me ill.

“You’re saying the gas collectors broke your holding tank,” said Elijah. “Is that right?”

A plume of purple smoke began to blossom from the ductwork on the roof of the building. Holzfürzen sniffed slightly and brushed away his hair.

“They pump in, not out,” he said. “There is explosion.”

We were silent for a minute, watching the smoke diffuse in the still air.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I said finally. I turned and walked toward the car. The metallic squealing from the barn seemed to throb in my head.
“So you don’t think he blew it intentionally?” Elijah persisted.

We were back heading for I-70. Elijah was asking what we were going to do with Holzfürzen.

“You can’t really think he’s telling the truth?”

“What the hell is truth anyway,” I said. I knew I was pissing Elijah off; it felt good in a way.

“I don’t get it, Mel,” he said. “One minute you say you want to nail him, and then we walk out without so much as a maintenance citation.”

“I’m getting too old for this game,” I said.

“So—what? Are you giving up? Is that it?”

“What do you want me to do, Elijah?”

“But if he’s lying—”

“Oh he’s not lying,” I said. “And if he is, the truth is even worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“The man is a genius, Elijah. He has enough patents to stopper every pig in that barn. I should have seen it before.”

“Seen what?”

“It’s a warning,” I said. “Gang warfare. Someone’s trying to warn him off.”

“You mean a competitor or something?”

“Those pigs,” I said. “We smelled them with the windows up, at least two miles away.”

“So, you mean—”

“Those are not normal pigs.”

“You mean they smell extra bad?”

“Methane, Elijah. It’s a big business now. I think Holzfürzen was trying to make it bigger. More methane means more fuel and more money.”

“So he breeds extra gassy pigs? Why does that make someone want to blow his collection system?”

“You tell me. Competition? Maneuvering for a buyout? Holzfürzen’s a big deal, but compared to a gas-gen company he’s not worth a hill of beans. We’ll never know without a full investigation.”

“So we should—”

“Wait and see,” I said. “They can blow a hole in his gas tank there’s no saying what they’d do to us.” I was watching a gray Peugeot that had trailed us all the way through Carter and back onto the highway. It passed us gradually. Windows tinted black.

“Jesus,” said Elijah at last. He leaned back in his seat.

“World’s a funny place,” I said. A funny place indeed. Deep, and getting deeper all the time.

__________________________________________________________

Addendum.

Proluratol may not be right for everyone. People who have serious heart, liver, stomach, brain, or foot conditions should not take Proluratol. Women who are nursing, pregnant, or may become pregnant, or may be pregnant and not know it, should not take Proluratol. Tell you doctor if you experience dizziness, nausea, hallucinations, heart palpitations, chest pain, breathing difficulty, rectal bleeding, cerebral hemorrhaging, or abdominal spasms, because these can be signs of a rare but serious side effect. Be sure to tell your doctor about any other medications you are taking as Proluratol may cause an unexpected reaction.

Proluratol. It’s time to live again.

The CPS celebrates the revival of its internet access by reminding YOU to celebrate responsibly.

CPS cultural critics have also given this website a .08 on a scale of 1 to 10 for tasteless, idiotic feature writing.

[NOTE: The CPS editorial staff regrets to inform its readers that some characters in the ensuing narrative have seen fit to use profane and derogatory language, making that narrative potentially unsuitable for small children and the infirm.]

“Eep!”

Was the first sound Mr. Neegan heard when he returned to his room.

Out of habit, since he had grown used to not hearing well, he ignored it. Without turing his head, he reached discretely to adjust his hearing aid. The next sound he heard was

“Help!”

He hadn’t gone to the Easter service, preferring instead to write by hand, and then type laboriously into the email his son had created for him, a letter to his daughter, Rosalyn, thanking her for the basket she sent him. The dark chocolate eggs were delicious, he told her, and the chocolate rabbit was quite magnificent—so much so, in fact, that he had set it atop the dresser to admire it for a while before deciding how to eat it.

“Please! We’re choking!”

Mr. Neegan was at a loss. The room seemed empty.

“Let me out!”

It could be the noise of his stomach. There it was again. Dinner had been better than usual—usual wasn’t bad, of course, and Mr. Neegan wasn’t fussy like some—lamb, mint jelly to go with it naturally, roasted potatoes, very nice coleslaw made locally, and some kind of apple cinnamon cake that crumbled.

“Over here!”

There were the daffodils, but obviously they couldn’t talk, and anyways they seemed quite cheerful. Smiling. The sun would be on them in a little while. The Cancer Society people brought them. Mr. Neegan supposed he should feel more strongly about cancer than he did. After all, hadn’t it killed his law partner, Hanley, and Mrs. Jackimowicz from down the street? With a child still in college too—that was hard.

He knew he should hate cancer, but the daffodils were so pretty. A flaw in their tactics. Hard to exhort people to action by giving them beautiful flowers. Make people angry instead. But Mr. Neegan didn’t want to be angry, and probably for that reason he didn’t get worked up about cancer, for there was really very little he could do.

Was that rabbit waving at him?

“Let us out! Help!”

It was actually more a tableau of rabbits. Peter Rabbit, to be precise, with Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail gathered around him. Rosalyn had adored Beatrix Potter as a child, and Mr. Neegan had adored reading to her. “A little something from long ago,” her card had read.

She had her own children now, boy and girl, Benjamin and Gloria. They had both liked Beatrix Potter too, though Benjamin was by now much more interested in dinosaurs, which he and Mr. Neegan had discussed—and imitated—at length during their last visit.

Clearly the rabbits were talking to him. This really did seem impossible.

Perhaps he was having a seizure? A stroke of some sort? Sudden onset of acute dementia? Something like that. He thought to call for the nurse, but he didn’t really feel ill and anyway didn’t care for the bosomy redheaded giantess who worked Sundays. She had chided him all through lunch not to spill food on his sweater. He didn’t like the sweater—a gift from his sister—valentine’s day—hearts—and figured the longer it spent at the cleaners the less he’d have to look at it.

It wasn’t that they were actually waving when he looked at them, but out of the corner of his eye they seemed to flail wildly and pound against the plastic window in the box.

Perhaps the screaming was just electrical interference of some sort. Radio broadcasts that got into his hearing aid somehow. Lord knows there was enough of the radio these days that sounded like that. Mr. Cocoletis two doors down claimed something like that happened to him, though he used the N-word in his account of it. Mr. Neegan disliked the sissification of the language as much as the next man, but he’d never really had a taste for the N-word.

Mr. Cocoletis was a piece of work, Mr. Neegan liked to say. A bankrupt Greek real estate magnate or a vanquished small-time Mafioso depending how much you knew, which in Mr. Neegan’s case was a fair amount. Several of Mr. Cocoletis’s shell companies came up in the Hartford courts at one time or another, and Mr. Neegan almost sued one for a client—would have done had the fish truck not been mysteriously towed in the night, but that was another story.

“I can’t breeeathe!”

Mr. Neegan clutched his hear. He turned his hearing aid down but even so he now heard continuous sobbing. He walked to the dresser.

“Who said that?” he demanded.

“In here! Pleeeease!” And although he saw nothing move, Mr. Neegan heard a rapping against the plastic—the same sound you’d expect if you flicked it gently with your thumb and forefinger.

“In the box?” he said. He knew it was; he just couldn’t believe it.

“Of course in the bloody box where do you—” But Mr. Neegan had already opened his pen-knife. He slit the seal on the box and open it.

“FUCK!” said one of the rabbits.

“You can talk!” exclaimed Mr. Neegan. He felt bewildered. He should probably tell someone, but tell them what?

“’Course we can fucking talk,” said the largest one, “’least when we’re not SUFFOCATING.”

“Blow me Petey I don’ know how we survived in there,” said one of the smaller rabbits. “Two fucking days!”

“If I EVER get my mitts on that FUCKING BITCH I swear I will not be responsible for my actions,” said another.

“But…how could you suffocate in there?” asked Mr. Neegan. “I thought all chocolate rabbits came in boxes?” It sounded stupid as soon as he said it, but he didn’t know what else to say.

“Hermetically sealed coffin you mean,” said the rabbit on the left.

“The cunt who bought us,” said the big rabbit, “opened the box and slid us out. An’ I thought we was for it then, but once she saw what she wanted, she slid us back again an’ TAPED THE FUCKING LID SHUT.”

“My daughter,” said Mr. Neegan.

“Beautiful girl don’ get me wrong,” said the big rabbit. “Bigger breasts than even you’ve got but I mean—for fuck’s sake!”

“It’s bad enough that you gotta be eaten wiv’out worrying about smothering to death on the way,” said the third rabbit in a high voice.

“Oh shut up, Cotty. Nobobody’s asking you,” said the middle rabbit.

“But…you’re all chocolate!” said Mr. Neegan.

“Oh and you’re marzi-fucking-pan I expect,” said the big rabbit, who Mr. Neegan realized must be Peter.

“One doesn’t feel like chocolate when one’s head is bitten off,” said the lefthand rabbit, who was probably Flopsy, judging from the box.

“But if you’re made of chocolate how can you be alive in the first place?” Mr. Neegan asked.

“Oh that’s rich,” said Mopsy, the middle rabbit. “Four hundred fucking years old an’ this geezer’s asking us how we can be alive.”

“Good one, Mops!” said Cottontail.

“I said shut up, Cotty!” said Mopsy.

“But you’re just poured into a mold!” said Mr. Neegan. “I don’t see how that gives you life!”

“You were squirted into your mum’s cunt,” said Peter. “I could say the same thing about you. Now fuck off!”

“Well, okay, fine,” said Mr. Neegan, starting to feel angry. “But like it or not, you’re still chocolate, which means, which…means…well…”

“Which means what?” said Peter. “Which means you can snap our heads off and suck on them?”

“I know what he can suck,” said Cottontail.

“Shut up Cotty,” said Mopsy.

“Oh must we go through all this again?” said Flopsy. “It’s so tiresome.”

“Go through what?” asked Mr. Neegan.

“My good man,” said Flopsy. “Don’t you realize all life is precious?”

“But you’re chocolate!” said Mr. Neegan. “You’re food!”

“Yes but sentient, my good man—sentient. Would you wring the neck of a chicken that talked to you? Would you harpoon a dolphin that knew how to count?”

“But—”

“Why even your own animal rights-campaigners cite the mere possibility of sentience in whales as a reason to prohibit their slaughter!”

“Right, but—“

“So how can you, who fancy yourself a humane, caring man, possibly entertain the thought of consuming so rare and precious an example of non-human sentient life? I put it to you that your idea contravenes not only your own principles but also the wisest and best intentions of your species!”

“Well said, Flops,” said Peter.

“Here here,” said Cottontail.

“You don’t know I’m a humane man!” said Mr. Neegan. “You don’t know anything about me! And anyway, you’re man-made. Sentient or not we can still eat you if we want to!”

“Au contraire,” said Flopsy. “We know quite a bit about you. We know, for instance, that during the early years of her life, you used to terrorize your daughter every Easter by mimicking the voice of her chocolate rabbit crying out to her, beseeching her not to eat it. We know that you are a kind man, charitably-disposed, but that your impressions of sentience affected your daughter very deeply, and have now, by a function of fate unimportant to either of us, reversed themselves to penetrate your conscience. In fact, you now face the choice of quite literally eating your own words.”

Mr. Neegan thought for a minute. Of course he remembered teasing Rosalyn with her chocolate rabbit. But could he believe that his fake rabbit voices had made these rabbits take on lives of their own?

“Anyway, babies is man-made and you don’ eat them!” said Cottontail.

They were silent for a minute.

“So you mean to tell me,” said Mr. Neegan, “that all those times I pretended to be the voice of Rosalyn’s chocolate rabbit…that somehow it’s all added up and made you come alive?”

“Look mate, I don’t understand it any better than you do,” said Peter. “But that’s not important. The point is—“

“Who are you talking to, James?” asked the giant nurse from the doorway. Mr. Neegan dropped his cane and turned quickly.

“I…what?” he stammered, reaching to adjust his hearing aid.

“I heard you talking loudly and I just wondered if you were all right,” said the nurse.

“Oh, yes, fine—just a, er…phone call.”

“On the dresser? But your phone is over here—“

“Just, er, talking to myself, thank you,” said Mr. Neegan, regaining his composure. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Oh you’re not disturbing me, dear!” said the nurse. “I was just worried. Are you having trouble with your hearing aid, dear? I see you fiddling with it quite a bit.”

“No—no, just…it’s fine—really it’s fine. Thank you.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to come out in the social room and watch the race dear? Constantin’s out there.” Constantin was Mr. Cocoletis’s first name. That was another thing Mr. Neegan disliked about this nurse. She called everyone by first names like they were children.

“No, I—maybe in a little while—I’m just…looking for something.”

“Can I help you find it, dear?”

“No, no thanks—not lost, just misplaced it. Card from my daughter.”

“This one here by the bunnies?”

“No, no, different one. I’ll find it, thanks. I’ll be out in a little while.”

“All right dear, suit yourself. Just don’t go talking so loud or people might think you’re losing your mind!” She patted his shoulder gently and left. Mr. Neegan took a breath and turned back to the rabbits.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he said in a loud whisper. “She thinks I’ve gone crazy!”

“Sucks to be you, mate,” said Mopsy.

“She thinks? What kind of crackpot goes around pretending to talk like a rabbit?” said Cottontail.

“Cotty, I warned you.”

“Listen, my good man we have no quarrel with you,” said Flopsy. “If you’ll simply do what we ask we’ll give you no more trouble.”

“You haven’t even told me what you want!” said Mr. Neegan.

“Listen, mate, we don’t want any trouble,” said Peter. “Just take us somewhere nice and let us go.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Neegan.

“Just let us go,” said Peter. “I don’t care—put us in a field with those squishy little birds or whatever. We’ll work it out.”

“Squishy little birds?” said Mr. Neegan.

“Please don’t be obtuse, my good man,” said Flopsy. “Why they’re virtually ubiquitous! Save for this hell-hole, apparently.”

“Little birds? You mean chicks? Marshmallow chicks? Like this one here?” Mr. Neegan held up a marshmallow peep from his daughter’s basket. “Oh my god you have no clue! You’re out of your minds!”

“And you’re out of your diapers!” said Cottontail. “Hoo-ey is it starting to reek in here or what?”

“You’ve never been out of a store!” Mr. Neegan cried. “Never been off a shelf! There aren’t any marshmallow chicks in the real world!”

“Take us back to the store then,” said Peter.

“I can’t! And anyway, you’ll just be eaten there too.”

“NEEGAN! RACE IS ON! QUIT BREAKING WIND AND COME WATCH IT!” It was Mr. Cocoletis. Mr. Neegan gulped.

“I, uh…Sorry, Con, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“WELL BE QUICK ABOUT IT. I DON’T LIKE IT WHEN I CAN’T SEE WHAT YOU LAWYERS ARE UP TO!”

“I’ll be right there.” He looked at the floor and took a deep breath.

“All right, this has to stop,” he said. “I’m sorry but I don’t have a choice. They’ll have me committed.”

“Fucking blighter’s going to scarf us after all!” screamed Mopsy.

“Look mate, I told you, it’s perfectly simple,” yelled Peter. But Mr. Neegan had picked up the rabbit tableau in both hands and prepared to break it in half.

“My good man think of the loss!” cried Flopsy. “Think of the murder! Think of the innocence! Think of your little girl!”

“PLEEEASE DON’T EAT ME!” shrieked Cottontail.

—

Mr. Neegan couldn’t do it.

He put the rabbits down and took a step backward toward the bed. His ears were ringing.

He sat down. Out by the nurses’ station he heard the red-headed nurse saying “I think it may be Alzheimers. I’m going to have to call his kids if he keeps up like this.”

He took a deep breath. There was no way to eat them now. The voices, the memories were haunting him—not that he knew why, not that they should. They would consume him if he tried to kill the rabbits. He looked back at the dresser. The square of light from the window was creeping along the wall. The daffodils would be in sunlight soon.

The rabbits were quiet. Lying on the dresser, they couldn’t see him—or he couldn’t see them, perhaps—and consequently they didn’t talk.

Mr. Neegan rubbed his temples. He closed his eyes. Never in forty years of practicing law had he felt so confused, so helpless. He was scared for himself. He was scared of what might come next. He tried to take a breath. He felt a gentle warmth from the window behind him.

—

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly as he picked the rabbits up.

“Oh nice! Is that what they said at the concentration camps when they—“

“Shhhhh,” said Mr. Neegan, covering their faces with his hand.

He leaned them against the daffodil vase, facing the window. Softly, he walked to his bathroom and relieved himself. This took longer than it used to, and it was particularly slow now.

He stepped quietly to the dresser, not wanting them to see him. The sun was just touching the corner.

“YOU THINK THESE HORSES ARE GOING TO WAIT FOR YOU OR SOMETHING?”

“Coming,” he called. He shut the door behind him as softly as he could.

Reason #335.5: the French can do it.

***

EDIT: in fact, they did.