There’s a rabbit that lives under my sink in the kitchen. He built a nest out of quarks and gravitons down there at the back behind my tools, cleaning products, and grocery bags. He has shag fur and diesel fuel for blood.
To the casual observer, he would look more like a penguin. They’d think: Hey, that’s a penguin with shag for fur and diesel fuel for blood living in that quark and graviton nest under that guy’s sink. However, I know it’s really a rabbit.
The rabbit knows a secret passage under the sink that leads into my walls. During the day he reads a copy of The Diary of Bridget Jones he has in his nest, but at night he slides on his belly into the secret passage and slithers around in my walls. I can hear it. I can hear him chewing on celery that the government sends him. He slides into the space in the wall behind my bed and whispers to me while I sleep.
He whispers secrets from books about the old gods and the time before the universe was born. Books written by blind, mad monks who saw too much. Books revealing things man was never means to know. He whispers secrets about the time before time to drive me mad.
I don’t know how the rabbit knows these secrets. All he reads is that damn Diary of Bridget Jones. At least he’s not whispering things from that at night. Then I really would go mad.
The rabbit doesn’t like it when I talk to the bum down the street. The bum lives under parked cars and eats discarded mint dental floss. He asks me if I have spare change when I see him. That’s to let me know that he knows. The bum knows I know about the symbols hidden on coins. He knows that I walk toward the west.
He told me about his brother’s goldmine, a way to extract it from sagebrush out in Colorado. He discovered the secret by listening to vibrations from his fillings. That’s why he insisted on the silver amalgam. The polymer invisible ones don’t vibrate right.
The CIA took the goldmine away, though. His brother had filed his claim and everything, filed it in a dentist’s office instead of the land survey to them off, but they found out anyway. The CIA manipulated the maps so the goldmine was in Wyoming instead of Utah.
The bum knows I can help. I know about longitudes and latitudes.
The rabbit doesn’t like it when I talk to the bum. He knows the bum would share the gold with me if I helped get the mine back. Then I could line my walls and not hear the rabbit whisper secrets at night. Then I’d be free from him.
I’m not worried, though. Even if I don’t get the goldmine back, I can always pretend to be a cola. Everyone knows that cola is a rabbit’s greatest fear. Have you ever seen a rabbit drink a cola? You haven’t, because rabbits fear cola more than anything else.
Even more than plastic wrap.
I’ve got that rabbit under control. I’ll let him whisper some…just to learn a few things. If I get tired of it, or need to sleep, I’ll just pretend to be a cola. That’d show him. That’d show any rabbit.
David S. Atkinson is the author of “Bones Buried in the Dirt” and the forthcoming “The Garden of Good and Evil Pancakes” (EAB Publishing, spring 2014). His writing appears in “Bartleby Snopes,” “Grey Sparrow Journal,” “Interrobang?! Magazine,” “Atticus Review,” and others. His writing website is http://davidsatkinsonwriting.com/ and he spends his non-literary time working as a patent attorney in Denver.