Bunny

(CONTENT WARNING: Language, Drug Use, and Violence)

Bradley Honaker was the last motherfucker alive. He knew it. Just fucking knew it. The last one. The last goddamned human being on the planet.

           And he was sprawled on the living room floor of his home at the corner of Irving Street and K Avenue, propped up slightly by the world’s heaviest damned coffee table, unbathed and unwashed, wearing only a pair of whitey-tighties that hadn’t been clean for six weeks. Somewhere, from an unseen Pioneer Hi-Fi system, Mungo Jerry was offering loads of advice about dating rich and poor girls in the summertime.

Ain’t nobody fucking left on this planet but me, Bradley's mind reported. The fucking Easter Bunny told me so. His thought process wandered off. His lips singing something only faintly remembered from his childhood and slightly altered.

The Bunny loves me, this I know,

for the Bunny tells me so.

Little ones to him belong;

they are weak, but he is strong.

Yes, Bunny loves me! Yes, Bunny loves me!

Yes, Bunny loves me! The Fucking Bunny tells me so.

Bradley tried to laugh and succeeded in only in dribbling spittle out of his mouth and blowing a glob of shiny, yellow-green snot from his nose. Both went sliding down the right side of his whiskered face.

I am the king of all creation, he thought. The emperor of whatever. The duke of who-fucking-cares. There’s so much shit I could go do. So much shit.

He thought that he could head on over to the Ford dealership on State Road 3 and get himself a sweet new ride. A truck, maybe. One of those big sonsabitches. The ones with the monster-sized cabs and the extra pair of wheels on the back. Or, maybe, he reasoned, I’ll grab a Mustang. The one he’d seen a few weeks back, right out there in the front under the little green and red and yellow and blue plastic flags. The bright fuckin’ red ‘Stang. The kind with the big ass V8. The ‘Five-O’.

Yeah.

That’s the one, he told himself. That’s what I’ll get. A sweet fuckin’ 1982 Mustang GT. Candy-apple fuckin’ red. That’d turn heads, for sure.

If there were any heads left to turn.

But there weren’t.

Cause Bradley Honaker was the last motherfucker alive.

The Bunny fuckin’ said so.

The big white and brown fucker with the soft-ass fur and the huge goddamned ears.

When had that big bastard last stopped by?

Bradley tried to think, but he couldn’t force his mind to latch onto that particular thread. It kept drifting on him, like the haze at the far edge of the blacktop on a blazing hot summer day.

I used to like those days, he remembered. Used to love summer. Riding bikes out by the quarry on Spiceland Pike. Little League games on the diamonds next to Castle Elementary.

“Those were the days,” Bradley mumbled. “The days of our lives.”

He tried to chuckle again and dribbled just a little more spit down his unshaven cheek and onto the greasy, orange shag carpet. Bradley thought about getting up. Thought about moving from his spot on the floor. Thought about maybe getting dressed. And maybe, just maybe headin’ on down to that car lot and getting himself that ‘Stang.

Yeah, he thought. Just take the ‘Stang. Take it right off the lot. Fuck whoever it was that owned the place. Fuck ‘em. I deserve a new ride. Deserve it.

All the shit I did for these folks, he thought. For the folks of Burdock.

Yeah.

Kept ‘em all done up.

All of ‘em. Whatever they needed. Whatever they wanted. A little pot here and there. Mostly for the kids at Burdock Senior High. Go fuckin’ Rams. Acid, too. Though not as much of that. Not many kids into that scene. Or grown-ups, for that matter.

Nah.

Weed was king for the young-uns. And Bradley kept the flow runnin’. Kept it nice and steady.

Freaked out about exams?

Have a joint.

Big game comin’ up?

Puff, puff, give, Babycakes.

Bradley met that need.

But that’s not where the real wheelin’ and dealin’ happened. Not why he deserved that big, beautiful ’82 ‘Stang.

Naw.

Not even close.

“It’s the heavies, man,” he murmured. “The fuckin’ heavy hitters.”

The folks he kept supplied with the big guns.

Speedballs and Apple Jack. Special K and fuckin’ ‘Ludes, dude. And, for the very biggest and bestest clients—like the goddamned Mayor—a little Black Tar now and again.

Bradley’s mind began drifting again, a sappy grin folded itself across his grimy face. His eyes wandered, up from the sea of orange fibers in front of him, to the far wall.

Goddamn, he thought. When the hell did I paint the wall that color? What color is that?

He tried to focus on the wall, tried hard, for all of eight seconds.

Or maybe, eight days.

Bradley didn’t know and he didn’t particularly care.

It was nice here on the floor. Really fuckin’ nice. The carpet was thick and soft and fluffy. Like a cloud. Like those big damned clouds you see in the summer. The ones that just sit up there in the big blue sky. All puffy and swollen and fat.

Maybe, he thought, I’ll get the new ride tomorrow.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Get the ride t‘morrow…”

Can’t get there today, anyhow, he told himself. Too far. Too far to walk. Too far to walk and this orange cloud on my floor is nice and soft…

And besides, he thought, the ‘Stang ain’t going nowhere. Nobody left to sell it. Nobody left to buy it.

“Cause I’m the last motherfucker alive,” he said. “Motherfuckin’ Bunny told me so.”

He chuckled for a moment and coughed once. He felt his head swirl and swim and saw the far wall start to melt away. It was warm here on the floor. Nice and warm and all cozy. Like hoppin’ into a running car in the dead of winter with the heat on full blast. Like climbing into a nice, deep, hot bath.

Or better yet, like sinkin’ into a tub of warm oil. All nice and wrapped-up and snug and…

Bradley wriggled a little, worked to burrow himself deeper into the embrace of the mass of orange fibers surrounding him. His mind briefly wondered what the carpet was made of.

Soft, he decided. It is made of soft. Soft and warm.

Those are things, he thought, that a carpet should be made of.

Soft and warm.

Soft.

Bradley’s breathing shallowed. His eyes drifted, fluttered, and then closed. His body relaxed. His face settled, turned slightly, eased down into the pile of vomit and hair and deep, soft, orange carpet.

*****

The noise woke Bradley, sent his heart rate rocketing into the stratosphere.

“Tha fuck?” he muttered into the carpet.

The sound came again, jarring and repetitive and fucking loud. Bradley could not place it. Not at first.

What the hell, he asked himself, makes that sound?

The sound came a third time, long before Bradley could begin making a list of possible causes.

Bradley tried to push himself upright, found that his arms were sore. Well, he corrected himself, one arm is sore. The other is out cold. Numb as hell. Dead and rubbery and Christ-on-a-crutch heavy. Bradley tried to throw himself over, onto his back, but was stopped by the massive edifice that was the coffee table. He tried to roll to his belly and succeeded after three attempts.

The banging noise returned, a hard, grating, whamming sound.

What in the hell is that? he thought.

Bradley was startled to discover that he could not breathe, realized his body was screaming for air. He flung his head to the side, inhaled in a lurch, and coughed. The side of his face was cold. Cold and wet.

And holy God, what was that fuckin’ smell?

Vomit, his mind reported. Ice cold vomit. Good thing you propped yourself up against mom’s old coffee table, Bradley, old boy. Mighta drowned in that shit.

The obnoxious banging returned around the same time the numb and dead arm moved from rubbery to prickly. Bradley tried to shove himself upright again and mostly succeeded. He looked around, not for the source of the banging. Not for anything really. Just looking.

Fuck, Bradley, my man, it’s cold as shit in here.

Bradley felt himself shiver. He shifted in his spot, slowly, painfully. The prickly arm was screaming for attention. Yelling for it as the feeling sublimated again, moving to something Bradley’s mind couldn’t describe. Music was playing, drifting to him. He worked to place it while his okay arm and hand held the angry one close and still.

Born on the Bayou, buddy. CCR. Good tune.

Bradley started to smile at the revelation, but was stopped by the banging noise.

Whammo-whammo-whammo.

Whammo-whammo-whammo.

What the…? he started to ask himself.

Bradley’s stomach heaved and he leaned forward to let the bile fall free. It dripped and dribbled and mostly clung to his scraggly beard. His stomach contracted again, harder this time, trying to expel shit that was not there. More bile raced up his esophagus, burning and boiling. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He retched a second time. And a third. A fourth. Fifth. Sixth. He swiped at his mouth with his good, bare forearm, letting the angry one rest in his lap, feeling the millions of pins and needles there.

Wham-wham-wham.

Bradley felt his head recoil at the noise, his brain torn between a half-hearted attempt to identify the racket and the need to find and shitcan the little bastard racing around the inside of his skull with a jackhammer.

His eyes closed briefly, trying to block out any and all sensory input. That only partially worked. The music still came to him—Jimi, now, ravaging a guitar—and the whamming noise continued.

Bradley was shaking, his body, he thought, reacting to the damned-near Arctic temperatures in the room.

Why the hell is it so cold? he thought again.

His mind tried to focus on that question before another bout of nausea assaulted him. He tried to shift his position, tried to scrabble sideways, and succeeded only in driving his filthy tighties halfway up his ass-crack. Bradley didn’t bother trying to pick the wedgie loose. He leaned forward and let the last of the bile drip free.

Wham-wham-wham.

The door, Bradley’s mind screamed. That’s the sound of someone banging on the front door.

“Fuckin’ Bunny,” Bradley muttered. “Furry-ass motherfucker.”

Bradley pushed himself up, tried to get his legs under his ass, and made it only as far as the top of the coffee table. He rested his nearly-naked ass on the frozen surface. He looked down, saw his own thin legs, pale and hairy and stained. There was a cut on one knee, a thin one. Bright red down the middle, same as that ’82 ‘Stang on the Ford lot. Pink on the sides, though. And swollen.

When did I…? he wondered.

Bradley saw the needles, tried to focus on them. Saw one with the tip bent ninety-degrees out of true. Saw a second one with the plunger missing.

And a third…

Bradley smiled, started to reach down for the needle and the dark brown syrupy liquid inside.

Whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo…

Bradley cringed at the noise, took three attempts to get to his feet, and shuffled to the door, one hand holding his own ribs and the other clutching at his sagging underpants.

Whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo-whammo…

Bradley coughed. He reached out a thin arm, snagged the doorknob on the second try, and twisted it. He peered out into the gray light of a cold February day at the figure on his porch.

Sure, as shit, he thought. It was the Fuckin’ Bunny.

Only…

*****

“What do you want?”

           The man posing that question was, as Jimmy Butler had imagined, a shifty-looking good-for-nothing. He had nervous eyes, Jimmy saw, dark and partially hidden behind a half-open front door and a ratty, battered screen. The kind of eyes that darted here and there looking for danger and a quick lie. Eyes that would search everywhere, glance at everything.

Except me, Jimmy told himself. Those eyes will not look at me.

           “Special Agent Butler, FBI,” Jimmy said, aware that that whole spiel sounded obliquely threatening. He was also aware that he hadn’t answered the man’s question.

*****

Goddamnit, Bradley thought, the Fuckin’ Bunny is a goddamned G-man now. Or G-Bunny. G-hare?

           “What do you want?”

*****

“I need to talk to you about something,” Jimmy said, truthfully.

He looked at the tiny man hiding behind ninety-nine bucks of fake wood and a holey screen and became aware that the scrawny fucker was wearing nothing but underpants that had, maybe, last seen the clean laundry pile during the Carter Administration. It was, Jimmy thought, both sad and disgusting. But both judgements were irrelevant at the moment. Bradley—Jimmy didn’t have a last name for this guy, knew him only by reputation and simply as Mr. Bradley—was in deep shit.

That tended to happen when you helped rip off a local bookie with connections to half of Vegas.

*****

“About what?” Bradley asked.

           Why couldn’t this Easter Bunny, G-man motherfucker just go away? Got things to do. Got a car to pick up. A free car. Cause I’m the last motherfucker alive. The Bunny said so. Before he picked up a badge and a gun.

           And there’s that needle. Still on the floor. Enough in there for another hit.

*****

“Listen, buddy, mind if I come in?” Jimmy asked, trying to ignore the smell easing through the partially open door. He nearly gagged and found himself suddenly grateful for the near-zero temperatures. In the summer, he thought, that smell would knock a buzzard off a shitwagon.

           Jimmy refocused on the task at hand, his mind racing through the situation.

If I bring him in, Jimmy thought—and if he’s willing to talk—he’ll get a private cell and three, maybe four squares a day.

If he plays ball.

By all accounts, Brad here knows a lot. What’s in his head can send a lot of folks to prison. Big folks. Local. Bigger than local. Folks in the rackets. Folks who do bad things to people who snitch. Really bad things. Like cement diving gear kinda things. Like what happened to Johnny Stardust.

*****

Bradley almost laughed. In spite of the aches and pains and the pounding in his skull and the near-overwhelming desire to grab the needle and find a good vein, he nearly laughed.

           The Bunny wants to come in, he thought. Had a good thing, me and the Bunny. Had a damned good thing. Info for product. Anything I wanted. Anything he wanted.

           But now…

           Bradley peered at the Bunny, saw the massive head and the big goddamned teeth. Saw the huge, furry ears and…

           And the suit.

           Cheap and wrinkled and dark.

           Cop clothes. Right down to the buff trench coat.

           Fucking traitor Bunny.

           Doesn’t think I see, Bradley told himself. Don’t know I know.

           “Fuck you,” Bradley growled.

*****

Goddamnit, Jimmy thought. This is not going the way I’d hoped. The scraggly bastard peering around the door is the best lead I got. The best shot at finding out who iced Johnny Stardust in his dressing room out at the Thunderbird Lounge on Highway 68.

Because Johnny Stardust had helped this skinny, half-naked shithead with the bookie rip off. He’d helped and he’d been whacked for it. Right there in his dressing room, all done up like Elvis, circa 1976.

Jimmy didn’t have a damn clue how Brad and Johnny had done any of it. Wasn’t sure how the con had been run, but he knew it had been. He knew it much the same way he knew his own name.

Time to try something else, Jimmy told himself.

“You know Johnny Stardust?”

*****

“Got a picture?”

Bradley heard his own voice croak the question. Odd, he thought. Not what I meant to say. Maybe it was the name, he thought, the one the Fuckin’ Bunny Cop had mentioned.

Johnny Stardust.

Bradley knew the guy.

Knew him well.

Correction. Had known him. Had. He’d been that little weirdo who owned the Thunderbird Lounge, the big Vegas-wannabe place out by the main highway. The guy who ran around on stage dressed like Elvis and that one Rat Pack fella with the sapphire eyes. What was his name? Frank something. The Rat Pack fella’s name was irrelevant, though. Just like Mr. Stardust.

Because Johnny Stardust was gone. Just like the rest of humanity.

The Bunny said so.

The traitor Bunny.

The traitor Bunny with the funny questions.

Look at the picture, Bradley thought. Look at it, say you don’t know the guy, and close the door. Send the Fuckin’ Bunny Cop back to its hole. That needle is still waiting. And so is that goddamned ’82 ‘Stang. Car won’t pick up itself. Will it?

*****

Jimmy pulled a photo from one of his deep pockets.

           “Here.”

He flipped the photo around and held it out so that the man behind the door could see it. He watched as those quick eyes flitted here and there, darting, it seemed, to cover every square inch of the picture.

Then, Jimmy Butler saw the eyes go wide.

Bingo, Jimmy thought.