Hare, There and Everywhere- Episode Two

By Martin Smith

588 BCE (With A Splash Of 2020 Foresight)

‘Rise and shine, champ,’ a sultry voice said.

Hare stirred in bed, opened his bleary eyes and saw a blurred, shadowy, buck-toothed face appear before him in the grey dawn light.

‘Up and at it, Big Buck,’ the voice said.

‘Doe?’ Hare said. His focus sharpened, and there, upon his buck bits, sat a bunnied beauty.

‘You betcha. It’s the big day, Harey.’

Good God! Hare thought. It is the big day. The great day. Race day.

‘Come on,’ Doe said. ‘Gimme, gimme, gimme.’

‘Give you what?’ Hare said.

‘Some loving.’

‘Now look, Doe, we’ve been through this a million times. You know I can’t. It’s the golden rule. No sex before racing. I’ve got to save my legs for the big race.’

‘But I want you, Harey. I need you. I’m so hot for you. And I’m not sure how much longer I can cope. It’s been two decades now, and we still haven’t consummated our relationship.’

Two decades? Hare thought. Boy, time flies. He’d long ago forgotten whether Doe was her first name or last name. He had a vague recollection that she may have been Jane Doe or Doe Jane before they met, but the world knew her as Doe, superdoe and hareitarian, and if it was good enough for the world, then it was good enough for him. Lately, Doe had become a tad fratchy and had dropped the ‘C’ word into their conversation. ‘Time to settle down,’ she had said. ‘My biological clock’s ticking,’ she had said. ‘I want to retire. Those harewalk heels are killing my feet,’ she had said. ‘Sure, sure,’ Hare had replied with a consoling pat on Doe’s arm.

It’d been bloody hard work not to lay an amorous finger on all her doey bits over the years, and despite him training his mind and body to forego carnal pleasure and live a disciplined, celibate life like a monastic Tibetan Woolly Hare, her alluring curves had pushed his willpower to the limit. And now, on the morning of the big race, she was once again bouncing up and down on his buck bits and laying it on thick and steamy.

‘Pleeaassee, Harey Pooh,’ she said, batting her eyelashes.

‘No, Doe. Just wait until after the big race. Once I’ve breasted the finish tape, I’ll commit. One hundred and ten per cent. I promise you that tonight, after I’ve won, I’ll ravage you.’

‘Promise?’

‘Cross my ears and hope to die.’

‘Any chance of a brief sampler to keep me going?’

Doe nibbled Hare’s ear.

‘Stop it!’

Hare hopped out of bed. Naked, he walked over to the window, drew the curtains apart and, while scratching his bum, looked up at the sky. Cloudless, windless and cool. Perfect conditions for the Great Race.

Hare wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a carrot juice. Holding the bottle with the label facing you, the reader, he said with a toothy smile, ‘Coney Carrot Juice. The breakfast juice of champions.’ He gave you a smile and guzzled the entire glass of juice, before smacking his lips. A thought bubble appeared above his head and, within, the image of a grinning him with his arms aloft and bursting through a tape at the finish line. Ka-ching! Hare thought. Gotta love these product endorsements and breaking the fourth wall. Ka-ching! Although it was more of a plop into the penny box at this stage, given all his sponsors had backloaded all his lucrative contracts, contingent on him crossing the finish line first. All that lay between him and a fortune was 42.2 kilometres. A mere jog in the park.

He stretched, belched and patted his belly. He—his belly! Hare looked down, and instead of seeing his usual buck bits, he saw a bloated belly hanging from his midriff. Hare gasped and placed his hands on his chins. He—his chins! Hare rushed to the bathroom mirror and stared in horror as he counted not one, not two, but three podgy chins below his gaping, buck-toothed mouth.

‘What the bloody hell?’ he said. He knew he had carbo-loaded all week and tapered down his training runs, but not to the extent that he looked more like a fat yak than a thin hare. And what was that wheezing noise? Hare held his breath and cocked his ear, straining to locate the source of the rattling whistle. But no sound, let alone a wheeze, broke the silence of the bathroom. His pulse throbbed a disco beat in his temples, and he blued in the face until his mouth burst open and released his held breath. The wheezing resumed, and as the bathroom mirror fogged and unfogged with the condensation of his rapid breaths, Hare realised the wheezing was coming from him. Good God! he thought. What the hell is going on? Last night when he went to bed, he was the fittest and healthiest he’d ever been in his life, but now, this morning, at the start of the most important day of his life, he was morbidly obese, dyspnoeic and tachycardic. He was the poster kit for reduced life expectancy. Oh God! He felt so … so … what was the word he was looking for? … fubsy? … pursy? … no, he felt so … rounded!

Hare rushed to his closet, and on his knees, he flung shirts and coats and pants and socks and running shoes over his shoulder.

Doe entered the room, munching on a carrot. ‘Whatcha looking for, Harey?’

‘My truss!’ Hare shouted.

‘Your what?’

‘My truss. I—ah, there it is.’

Hare pulled out a pair of white, elasticated briefs from the closet and turned to you, the reader, and said, ‘Jack Rabbit’s Jackstrap. The only truss trusted by the triumphal!’ Ka-ching! He flopped on the bed, and after a full minute of writhing and wriggling and cursing and cussing, he stood, once again thin.

‘Oh God!’ Hare said. ‘Is that the time? I’m late.’ He rushed to the bathroom and brushed his teeth (‘Buck Teeth Paste: The toothpaste for winners who are grinners!’ Ka-ching!). He gelled and combed his hair (‘Hare’s Hair Care: Just the tonic for victors!’ Ka-ching!).

At the front door, Hare gave Doe a peck on the cheek and said, ‘Well, I best be off. Wish me luck.’

Doe gripped Hare by his buck bits and squeezed and said, ‘Good luck, Harey. And remember, you promised.’

‘Yes,’ Hare said with a high-pitched voice, before grip and gripped went their separate ways.

Hare will return on Sunday 7 June. Stay tuned!