Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 21
“I am like Microsoft. I make software to make your dreams come true.”
“You make software?”
“You make my dreams come true?”
“No. But I COULD. It’s the thought that counts.”
Rabbit drove on. None of them said a word for the next 800 miles.
A wasp flew into the cabin and stung Rabbit on his face.
Both of the passengers stared at Rabbit, expectantly. His entire face turned red, then pale as snow (which is quite an accomplishment, as he is covered in fur). His lips were very tightly pressed against one another. Birds sang outside.
Mr. Fox tapped his paw on the glass of the passenger side window. Rabbit and Dr. Bear looked at the paw, then the glass, considered something, then both shook their heads as if they arrived at the same conclusion at the same time.
Another wasp flew into the car and landed on Rabbit’s nose. The small lupine’s eyes crossed until he focused completely on the insectoid interloper.
The air was pregnant with silent expectancy.
The Second Insectoid Interloper raised his stinger.
“FUCK!” screamed Rabbit, giving birth. “FUCK!” he grabbed both of his own ears and rammed his head into the steering wheel. The airbag deployed as Perfectly Frank’s Suzuki Samurai careened out of control, directly into the path of an 18 wheeler carrying jet fuel from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Bangor, Maine. The tractor trailer hit the brakes and jackknifed, flipping over and over until it crashed its way to the railing of the overpass, where it went over, utterly crushing an armored CDC vehicle carrying experimental strains of avian flu.
Dr. Bear punctured the airbag with his claws and they kept on moving.
“We should get a cup of coffee,” yawned Rabbit.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. Maybe a donut.”
“How about an egg and cheese sandwich?”
“That would be nice.”
“I could go for some honey and berries.”
“You are so gay.”
“Come on, it’s my species, you know.”
“Speaking of species, where are we? Mr. Fox?”
“Uhm, you are asking me like it is some kind of Fox thing. I can tell you we are not at the Tree.”
“Helpful bit of info there, Mr. Fox. Helpful. Why don’t you check the map?”
Mr. Fox unfolded the map (it took up most of the cabin) and after studying it intently for 4 hours declared in a satisfied southern drawl: “We are represented, folks, by a tiny bacterium that I put on this map. All we gotta do is find the bacterium (I named her Shannon, she is easy to recognize, she has exceptionally long cilia), and we will have our exact location!
“Bang?”
“Bang!”
“How do we find her?”
“Like I said, she has exceptionally long cilia,” Mr. Fox furrowed his nonexistent eyebrows. “What we need here is an electron microscope.”
“You make software?”
“You make my dreams come true?”
“No. But I COULD. It’s the thought that counts.”
Rabbit drove on. None of them said a word for the next 800 miles.
A wasp flew into the cabin and stung Rabbit on his face.
Both of the passengers stared at Rabbit, expectantly. His entire face turned red, then pale as snow (which is quite an accomplishment, as he is covered in fur). His lips were very tightly pressed against one another. Birds sang outside.
Mr. Fox tapped his paw on the glass of the passenger side window. Rabbit and Dr. Bear looked at the paw, then the glass, considered something, then both shook their heads as if they arrived at the same conclusion at the same time.
Another wasp flew into the car and landed on Rabbit’s nose. The small lupine’s eyes crossed until he focused completely on the insectoid interloper.
The air was pregnant with silent expectancy.
The Second Insectoid Interloper raised his stinger.
“FUCK!” screamed Rabbit, giving birth. “FUCK!” he grabbed both of his own ears and rammed his head into the steering wheel. The airbag deployed as Perfectly Frank’s Suzuki Samurai careened out of control, directly into the path of an 18 wheeler carrying jet fuel from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Bangor, Maine. The tractor trailer hit the brakes and jackknifed, flipping over and over until it crashed its way to the railing of the overpass, where it went over, utterly crushing an armored CDC vehicle carrying experimental strains of avian flu.
Dr. Bear punctured the airbag with his claws and they kept on moving.
“We should get a cup of coffee,” yawned Rabbit.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. Maybe a donut.”
“How about an egg and cheese sandwich?”
“That would be nice.”
“I could go for some honey and berries.”
“You are so gay.”
“Come on, it’s my species, you know.”
“Speaking of species, where are we? Mr. Fox?”
“Uhm, you are asking me like it is some kind of Fox thing. I can tell you we are not at the Tree.”
“Helpful bit of info there, Mr. Fox. Helpful. Why don’t you check the map?”
Mr. Fox unfolded the map (it took up most of the cabin) and after studying it intently for 4 hours declared in a satisfied southern drawl: “We are represented, folks, by a tiny bacterium that I put on this map. All we gotta do is find the bacterium (I named her Shannon, she is easy to recognize, she has exceptionally long cilia), and we will have our exact location!
“Bang?”
“Bang!”
“How do we find her?”
“Like I said, she has exceptionally long cilia,” Mr. Fox furrowed his nonexistent eyebrows. “What we need here is an electron microscope.”
posted by Balázsy András at 2:12 PM
5 Comments:
Who's Shannon?
The Bacterium. With exceptionally long cilia. YOUR cameo is coming. No worries.
Hey, Sarc gets a cameo? I'm so jealous.
I loved that last line. Very Cool Hand Luke. "What we have he-yuh... is a fail-yah to communicate."
You can have a cameo too.
Thank you, that would be cool.
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