“It all began in a vast uncharted region of outer space. A whole flock of strange looking carrots drifting in space for billions of years, were floating down toward the Earth. But I didn’t know it at the time. As far as I was concerned it was just another typical day, except that I was late to work.”
-Bugs Bunny (Invasion of the Bunny Snatchers, 1992)
“We’re Bunnies Too – We’re Just Kind of Flakey!”
-Annie’s Homegrown Frosted Oat Flakes
APRIL 2013: An electronic search of the U.S. Copyright Office shows that a title search for “Floppy” since 1978 comes out to 631 copyrighted works. However, narrowing the field to “Floppy Rabbit” changes the result to 7 copyrighted works. The ominous problem is a search for “Floppy Rabbit Mutant” in the title search still shows no copyrighted works. This serious lack of information on the dreaded torn eared lepus was not surprising as those authors that have wrote about the deranged bunny (which also comes out to zero on a title search), do not wish to have their name associated with the research, nor do various underground groups wish general knowledge to be publically available about the exploits and adventures of this vile but occasionally benevolent bunny!
Series of undocumented voyages to uncharted dimensions of space and time continue until now.
Must be a good day on the Ionosphere border, with an almost clear pickup from an unknown research station shortwave radio near McMurdo Air Force station in Antarctica playing “Candy” by Iggy Pop and “Xanadu” by Rush on 104.5 Acid Lounge Ice Radio. The trouble starts when Floppy spills a half glass of Old Overholt whiskey on the control panel. While normal liquid spills have little effect on the controls, it should be noted that Old Overholt can do almost as much damage to most earthly materials as concentrated hydrofluoric acid.
While Floppy has the esteemed rank of Ovate Grade Druid Priest, I must admit that the degree of Druid Bardic Grade Minion is still quite an honor for a disciple in the “Path of the Wayward Bunny” cult. Possibly if I had listened more intently during the Australian training camp on the Parable of the Pots I could have achieved a higher status. At the very least would not have as many scars from the hits of that damn rattan staff by the irritable Master Floppy on getting the answers wrong. The reader should also note that a steady diet of boiled goanna (lizard) eggs does not make one educational appetite in the best form.
Floppy handles the flying saucer reasonably well for a crash landing. While there is no reasonable argument that driving while intoxicated in a car is ridiculous, it seems that being intoxicated on a space craft, repaired by parts from a relatively remote Home Depot,works well in emergency situations. The almost record size one ton Southern Elephant Seal curiously watching the fiery craft getting larger provided a abrupt and mushy stop on the ice.
The crash landing near the CIA outpost was as smooth as possible considering the mental state of the disreputable rabbit and the lack of normal maintenance on the craft. Floppy looks around for his rattan staff amid the mess of folding chairs, a couch with holes, Elephant Seal gore, and the mini-fridge (to keep beer warm in space) on the front porch. This mess started when Floppy was ranting once again about the election of Donald Trump. Not that he agrees or disagrees with the orange faced man, and was still a bit pissed at Obama taking credit for something he did back in 2009 (reference: Chapter 4: The Last Known Whereabouts of Floppy the demon, Floppy the angel). Picking ice crystals from the dirty matted fur he attempts to clear my head addled from the crash with a few whacks from the fucking staff. Looking around see few Quonset huts in distance and with the temperature around the normal average of minus 49-degrees Fahrenheit was glad to be wearing flannel prior to this crash.
A quick inspection of the craft indicates that the control panel can be repaired and most of the whiskey bottles and Rolling Rock pony bottles survived. There is minor damage to the heat resistant surfaces of the space craft, but nothing that a large bottle of Gorilla Glue can’t fix. Luckily we have just enough left over from the repair of Penn State beer steins cracked from the last crash. I start to work on opening and repairing the control panel as Floppy trails thick lines of Gorilla Glue on the damaged parts of the hull. Cursing not from the difficulty of the repair but from not finding the right size screwdriver, the damaged panel is blatantly tossed on the ice still dissolving from the remaining drips of the foul whiskey, and replacing the panel and testing. Floppy in an unexplainable good mood tosses an ice ball at me making my already sore skull even worse.
A family or flock of Emperor Penguins stands perfectly still and appears to watch, puzzled by our actions, but used to the unexplainable things (even for the resident humans) that occur in this part of the continent. Their puzzled look and motionless form reminds me visually of my former life attempting to explain pollution to conservative politicians in tuxedos. The snouts of the odd birds suddenly turn at the sound of futuristic Polar Snow Crawler coming out the gates of the distant buildings. The birds turn back facing us, more entertained by our predicament than the usual military vehicles.
Expecting possible problems since Floppy is a fugitive from the secret high security vault beneath an unnamed museum (reference: Chapter Two) till his initial escape to Easter Island. Preparations for a hasty departure (following collecting the salvageable Rolling Rock bottles from the snow) is underway. I fire up the rockets to levels well beyond the recommended limits of the maintenance manual, Floppy stands on the upper porch of our vehicle mooning the incoming vehicle and making obscene gestures. The penguins probably more curious on the unanticipated events contrary to their normal boring lifestyle stay a few minutes longer, then decide to waddle away leery of the shaking spacecraft and the humming of the vehicle almost at the crash site. Lifting off, Floppy considers a brief attack on the vehicle just on general purposes. However he notes that if we hurry, we can dock the main craft in the Troposphere, take the shuttle to the hidden entrance of the abandoned Penn State steam tunnels, and still make happy hour at the Phyrst bar. Checking Facebook and telling Floppy there may be a second Muse, he gruffly tells me doesn’t give a fuck, and to check the snack inventory for the journey northward to that ridiculous cold northeastern state but with a few worthy bars.
The CIA rapid response team notes the high instrument readings from the last remaining Old Overholt, drops and bags the old panel and broken bottles as evidence. Already burned and confused by the new American president, they are a bit perplexed on how to document and report this strange incident. The initial reaction of the view of the high resolution video camera is someone dressed up in an antique Bugs Bunny suit is making obscene gestures, although the sophisticated body image recognition system program appears to confirm that was a real bunny ass. This strange incident appears unrelated to the camouflaged giant hole in the ice first reported publicly by a retired Navy navigator in 2015, although not taken seriously by the general public and the reason this outpost exists. The CIA team measures the relatively short distance from the odd spacecraft crash to the hole that would have likely swallowed the craft if just a small bit further and if not stopped by the deceased seal. Under more consideration that the Russians are already making fun of the intelligence agencies, and jettisoning their plane toilets over the facility, it seems best to delete all the data and count the days till they rotate back to the states. A slight bit more processing would have identified the image as the outlaw Fluffy, but thoughts of weather above subzero and the lack of attacks from rogue leopard seals seemed more reasonable to pursue.
LATER THAT NIGHT: The bored CIA team finishes the final steps in shredding the hard drive, cameras, and removable devices that have evidence of the Floppy incident. The final step is complete incineration and letting the ashes of Floppy’s recent adventure disperse in the wind. Politics for the agency are screwed up enough without this going to the White House. The soft glow of the giant and still uncharted alien hole in the ice provides the backdrop for shots of Jägermeister
PHYRST SALOON (23:30 local): Floppy is more sociable than normal possibly due to the drinks offered by undergraduate and graduate students entertained by the appearance of the motley giant bunny and his drink befuddled human companion. A murderous bloodshot eye glare at few revelers inviting to participate in Table Wars puts their attention elsewhere. Table 11 collapses as they do not accomplish Cardinal Puff. Floppy closes with “Here’s to Cardinal Puff, Puff, Puff, for the third and final time tonight! Empties glass to the astonished undergraduates, slams it down, “Once a Cardinal, always a Cardinal!”
I offer a toast as shots of Jägermeister are put down on the old table by the barely clad lasses that are currently taking the attention of Floppy’s gaze and probably his deranged mind. “To those friggin wonderful Monks that put this herbal juice of the gods together let us offer thanks!” Shots downed, then another, and few more. Floppy looks over and asks if the second Muse is a reality or the delusion created by too many rattan strokes to the head. “Maybe! Time will tell! But it never seems to work out as planned does it my floppy eared Sensei” Floppy smiles and states that you have become one with the Wayward Bunny and have learned the lessons of the Parable of the Pots well. Time will tell on that one too and will I evolve into something else like the stale coffee grounds in the hot water, or just harden more like those damn foul tasting goanna eggs. Floppy continues: “Some things you can change, some you cannot, even the hundred year old peanut shells are gone from this establishment! Lose no tears on astray muses, changes beyond your control, and well worn flannel shirts!” Focus on what is real and not what is an alternative fact states the giant mutant bunny.
Aside from the normal hallucinatory effects of five shots of Jägermeister, a tear forms possibly from thoughts of past and present events. Nope, just a bit of irritation from the metallic flecks embedded on the eyebrows from those pesky micrometeorites hitting all over in outer space during those nights on the porch. Staggering up the old wooden steps and possibly departing the building forever, after one final karaoke rendition of Elton John’s “Something About the Way You Look Tonight” into the beer bottle microphones. A duet soon joined in by the Table Wars crowd making a historical night talked about for centuries to come in the dark pleasant establishment.
“There was a time I was everything and nothing all in one
When you found me I was feeling like a cloud across the sun”
Elton would have been proud of the rendition of this meaningful song. A last check on Facebook. As I state to Floppy the possibility of a third muse, the sound of the rattan staff (that seems to come from nowhere) cuts through the air and provides even more stars than in this clear night as it connects with the back of my already bruised skull. “Don’t you ever fucking learn!” Floppy always has a point, and even if he doesn’t, it is not wise to question his logic. Floppy tosses over a Schlage wafer pick and gives me thirty seconds to take out the padlock in the West Halls area. The shuttle is set on autopilot and smoothly lifts from the tunnel to the next adventure somewhere over what rainbow in the near future.
The shaking stops and the earth view is about the size of one of the nasty goanna eggs. Putting on the extra thick flannel shirt, put a “Fistful of Alice” on the disc player. Dry mopping the mess on the porch, sing along with “I never Cry” with a lack of oxygen high, and on to another adventure that only Floppy can plot.
Sometimes I drink more than I need
Until the TV’s dead and gone
I may be lonely
But I’m never alone
And the night may pass me by
But I’ll never cry
It is quiet on the porch and watching the trash bag float into some sort of orbit, and relax on a tethered folding chair. There is silence except for the sound of Alice Cooper coming from the control room. Scratching an itch on my right long furry ear, contemplate the past, present, and near future.
THE END OF SAGA UNTIL THE NEXT CYCLIC MOOD SWING
“Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long / To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?”
““Rhiannon’s Law #16: If it looks like a rabbit, and it hops like a rabbit, run the other way and fast. That shit is liable to tear you arm off.”
― J.A. Saare, Dead, Undead, or Somewhere in Between