Image by Andreas G from Pixabay
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.
***
When Hare arrived at the starting line, he found Tortoise standing motionless, ready to race and staring forward with blinkless resolve. Hare puffed out his chest, jogged into Tortoise’s field of vision, dropped and completed a dozen push-ups on the fingertips of his left hand, jumped up and, with a flash of limbs, sprinted on the spot for a good minute before moonwalking over to Tortoise’s side.
‘Morning,’ Hare said.
‘Morning,’ Tortoise said.
‘Ready for a whipping?’ Hare stretched and flexed and twisted and twirled.
‘We’ll see.’ And Tortoise permitted himself a blink.
Hare glanced at Tortoise’s shell and read a logo: THR.
‘Hey, what’s with the “THR”?’
‘Testudinal House Removalists. They’re my sponsor. My kid sister Chelonia and her hubby run it. And their boys, my teenage nephews, do all the grunt work.’
‘Your nephews?’
‘Yeah. Leo, Mick, Don and Raph. My sister had high hopes they’d become arty, cultured types, but, alas, they’re thick as bricks, so they do all the grunt work for the family firm. They’re over there near their truck. The boys agreed to be my support crew today.’
Hare looked over at a dilapidated lorry. Four hulky tortoises—each donning a different coloured eye mask and each with a beer in his hand and a cigarette hanging from his lips—lolled at the front of the truck. They each wore a black T-shirt that bore their parents’ company logo and stretched to bursting point to accommodate their muscled torsos.
A mouse wielding a miniature starting gun and wearing a white lab coat appeared before Hare and Tortoise and said, ‘Ready, gentlemen?’
Hare and Tortoise nodded.
‘Shake hands, gentlemen.’
Hare and Tortoise clasped hands and pumped twice.
‘Good luck, Turtle. See you at the finish line.’
‘Same, Rabbit. But not before I see you.’
‘Gentlemen, to the starting line, if you please.’
Hare removed his tracksuit pants and top.
Tortoise stepped out of his shell.
‘Hey, what the hell?’ Hare said.
Oh My God! he thought. There, warming up with a series of jumps and jiggles, stood Tortoise, a rippling bundle of lean, mean muscle with skinfolds barely in double digits. Hare looked down at his paunch, and a flicker of fear whitened his eyes. Maybe this wouldn’t be the carrot cakewalk he’d envisaged.
‘Fucking with your head, isn’t it?’ Tortoise said, grinning.
‘Hey, you can’t do that,’ Hare said.
‘All’s fair in love and war and competitive road racing.’
‘On your marks, gentlemen,’ the mouse said.
‘Besides,’ Tortoise said, ‘I’m only joshing you.’
He climbed back into his shell and crouched his stumpy legs into a starting position.
Hare followed, but his arms and legs shook as he awaited the starter’s gun. Shit! he thought. The leathery bastard and his mind games had him rattled. Hare sucked in and released a deep breath. Clear your mind, you fool, he thought, and focus on the race. Forget the smart-arse next to you and direct your energies, your mind and your process to one goal and one goal only: crossing the finish line first. And resolve steeled in Hare’s eyes.
‘Get set,’ the mouse said.
Hare and Tortoise rose as one and waited for the gun.
‘Psst! Hare!’ Tortoise whispered.
‘What?’
‘Your shoelace is undone.’
BANG!
And the Great Race was on.
Boom!
Down came Tortoise’s foot as he ambled from the blocks. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Twang!
Down came Hare’s truss as he shot from the blocks and face-planted. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’ He scrambled to his feet, ripped off the truss and flung it into the crowd. A group of grey-haired does jostled for the discarded truss, and after much tugging and slapping and shin-kicking, one of them squealed with delight as she held her prize aloft.
Hare cupped his hands in front of his buck bits as loud wolf-whistling came from the crowd.
‘Doe!’ Hare shouted. ‘Doe? Where are you?’
Doe’s head appeared amidst the crowd. ‘What, sweetie?’
‘Doe, my spare truss. Throw it here.’
A white blur flew from the crowd … and the crowd roared … and the white blur caught the wind and billowed … and the crowd cheered … and the white blur, in full spinnaker, sailed past Hare’s outstretched hand … and the crowd gasped … and the white blur landed on Hare’s ears and flapped about like a white flag, surrendering whatever dignity Hare had left. And the crowd roared laughing.
‘Oh, ha-ha,’ a flustered, flushed Hare said amidst the roars of laughter. ‘It’s all so hilarious to you lot.’
Hare lay on the ground and raised his legs in the air. And the crowd laughed. Hare wriggled and pulled. And the crowd laughed and laughed. Hare writhed and tugged. And the crowd laughed and laughed and laughed. With gritted teeth and one last mighty yank, Hare’s jackstrap snapped into place. And the crowd cheered. Hare jumped to his feet and shouted at the crowd, ‘You’ll all be laughing with me, and not at me, at the other end.’ And he put his triple chins down and surged off in pursuit of Tortoise.
He soon caught up to Tortoise, and as he surged past his shelled opponent, Hare said, ‘Hasta la vista, buddy.’ And he left Tortoise in a cloud of dust.
‘Asinine arsehole,’ Tortoise said, and he lumbered on.
On and on Hare ran.
On and on Tortoise plodded.
And a wide gap emerged between leader and last.
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