Image by Andreas G from Pixabay
Up hill and down dale, Hare ran. Across bridges and through tunnels, Hare ran. Past the 5K marker. Past the 10K marker. ‘Quarter of the way there,’ he said, rejoicing as he picked up his pace. He passed the 11K marker as the sun disappeared behind the clouds. He passed the 12K marker as the clouds darkened. And as he passed the 13K marker, the heavens rumbled.
When he reached the 14K marker, he looked ahead and saw a bright light glowing in the gloomy distance. I wonder what that is? he thought.
As Hare neared the light, he saw a vixen with a phone pressed against her ear and a briefcase in her other hand as she leant against a sleek, red convertible. Foxxy Sly. The shiftiest, most unscrupulous, most vulpine sports agent in the business. His agent. And she was good.
‘Yoo-hoo, Hare, darling,’ she said, waving her phone. ‘You’re doing brilliantly. Miles ahead, darling. And you’re looking fab. I’ve just got off the phone with Brad. He said he wants to play you in the movie. I also spoke with Salman earlier. He’s agreed to ghostwrite your autobiography. And, darling, the sponsors are lining up by the dozens. You’re the biggest thing since diced carrots. Anything I can do for you, darling?’ As Hare passed her, she started an awkward, high-heeled jog alongside him.
‘No, not at the moment, Foxxy. I’m feeling fantastic. Hey, what’s with the bright light ahead?’
‘The lighting, darling. They’re all set up. Are you ready?’
‘Ready for what?’
‘Your interview.’
‘What interview?’
‘With Connie Chang. For 60 Minutes.’
‘What? Can’t it wait until after the race?’
‘No. It’s in your contract.’
‘What contract?’
‘The one you signed with CBS.’ Foxxy unclicked and opened her briefcase. ‘You know, that ten-minute lead segment for this Sunday night.’ She pulled out a thick document.
‘I did?’
‘Yes. Look.’ Wetting her paw, Foxxy flicked through to the last page. ‘Your footprint’s here.’
‘And what happens if I don’t do the interview now?’
‘They’ll sue your bunny tail off, darling. Not to mention my bushy tail. They’ll take everything we’ve worked so hard for. And more. Come on, darling, just ten minutes. Tortoise has barely left the starting line.’
Hare stopped and looked around and stared back along the empty road from where he’d come. No Tortoise. Not even a dust cloud. Hare pricked his ears. No Tortoise. Not even a boom. Just empty silence between first and last.
‘OK. OK. But just ten minutes. No retakes.’
‘Thanks, darling. Follow me.’
Foxxy led Hare off the road and towards a trailer.
‘Just pop in there, darling, for a touch of make-up. Hide the gleam on your face from all the perspiration you’ve worked up.’
Five minutes later, Hare sat opposite a vacant chair and under the glare of the outdoor studio lights. Connie Chang arrived, sat in the chair, smiled at Hare and said, ‘Hello.’
Hare smiled and returned the salutation, only for the thick layer of foundation on his face to crack.
‘Make-up!’ someone shouted. And Make-up rushed on set and dabbed and brushed Hare’s face.
Connie crossed her legs, shuffled her notes and sipped her coffee. As the production team behind her busied themselves, Foxxy stood at the back, prompting Hare to sit straighter, raise his head higher and radiate a toothy winner’s smile.
An impatient Hare shifted in his chair and pricked his ears, eager to know if Tortoise’s booming steps approached. ‘Come on, people,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t have all day.’
Still Connie sat immersed in her notes.
Hare coughed and said, ‘Excuse me, Connie, but what’s the delay?’
‘Waiting for the opening sequence.’
‘The what?’
‘Quiet on set, please,’ a voice said.
The clapper loader stood before Camera One and said, ‘60 Minutes. Hare Interview. Take One.’ He snapped the clapperboard closed. A production assistant said, ‘And five … four …’ And she completed the countdown with the fingers of her outstretched hand.
‘And action,’ a voice said through a megaphone.
Tick tick tick tick tick.
Hare looked about, trying to locate the bomb.
Connie raised her head, flicked her fringe, looked into Camera One and said, ‘Tonight, on 60 Minutes, we’ve a world-exclusive with the world’s greatest athlete, Hare, who’s on the cusp of sporting immortality. Tonight, we go behind the pelt mid-race and discover what makes him tick.’ She pouted into Camera One. ‘I’m Connie Chang. That story and only that story, tonight on 60 Minutes.’
The only story? Hare thought.
Tick tick tick tick tick.
Connie flicked her fringe and said, ‘The great day. The Great Race. The world’s greatest athlete. And we’re a third of the way through the race, and the red-hot favourite, Hare, has opened what looks like an unassailable lead. He’s kindly agreed to talk to us mid-race. So, how’s it going, champ?’
Camera Two zoomed in on Hare as he said, ‘Good.’
‘How’s your body holding up?’
‘Good.’
‘And your mind?’
‘Good.’
‘Cut!’ a voice yelled through the megaphone.
A little pig with a black beret, a pencil moustache and a monocle trotted over to Hare and said, ‘What’s with the monosyllabic answers, champ? We’re going to need a bit more from you than “good”. Do you think you can expand on your answers?’
‘Sure.’
The pig shot Hare a death stare.
‘I … I … I mean, it would be my pleasure, Herr Director, to provide a fuller answer to any question Ms Chang asks me. But can we hurry? I need to hit the road.’
‘Better. Right. We’ll take it from “He’s kindly agreed to talk to us mid-race”. Places, everyone.’
Feet shuffled into position, and the clapper loader said, ‘60 Minutes. Hare Interview. Take Two.’ The clapperboard clapped, followed by the countdowner hand-signalling.
‘And action.’
Connie said, ‘So, how’s it going, champ?’
Hare smiled and said, ‘Very good.’
‘Cut!’
For one hour, the full sixty minutes, Hare sweated in front of the camera as Connie Chang grilled him. She made him blush. She made him squirm. She made him cry. He revisited the hell of his childhood, recounted the agony of injury and rehabilitation and self-doubt and recalled the day he met and fell in love with Doe on the set of Buck Wants A Doe. Every time he thought the interview had concluded, Connie would throw in another question. And every time he rose to leave, Foxxy would point to the contract and run her paw across her throat. Filming even paused for a full ten minutes as the crew allowed a boom-booming Tortoise to pass. ‘Affects the audio,’ the sound guy said.
At last, Connie said, ‘Thanks for taking the time to stop and talk, Hare, and all the best for the rest of the race.’
Hare went to jump from his chair, but Herr Director raised an open hand and signalled him to return to his seat. ‘Wait,’ he mouthed.
Connie flicked her fringe and pouted at Camera One and said, ‘I’m Connie Chang. See you next week on 60 Minutes.’
Hare raised his buttocks off his chair, but Herr Director signalled him to stay. ‘Wait,’ he mouthed.
Tick tick tick tick tick.
‘And that’s a wrap.’
Hare jumped to his feet and rushed back onto the race road, desperate to pass the now-leading Tortoise. At the 17K marker, Hare sighted Tortoise in the distance and, speeding up, caught and surged past him.
‘Ha! And Hare restores the natural order,’ Hare said to Tortoise, leaving him coated in a cloud of dust.
‘Pompous prick,’ Tortoise said, and he lumbered on.
On and on Hare ran.
On and on Tortoise plodded.
And wider the gap between leader and last became.
***
By the 20K mark, Hare found himself out alone in the open plains and powering ahead. No Tortoise. No crowd. No worries. ‘Keep your form,’ he said, and he straightened his back and checked his pumping arms and legs. ‘Keep your focus,’ he said, and he moderated his breathing and stared forward with single-minded determination. ‘Don’t succumb to the loneliness of the long-distance hopper.’ And he closed his eyes and chanted the calming mantra he’d stolen and patented.
‘Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare—’
Bang!
Hare came to a sudden, bone-cracking, breath-taking stop. Rubbing his head, he cursed his loss of form and focus. He looked up and saw a giant tortoise shell. What the hell was that doing out here in the middle of nowhere? he thought.
Up ahead a truck came into Hare’s view, and it reversed with a whining roar back towards where Hare and the shell lay and stopped with a skid. Four ninja tortoises hopped out of the cabin and gathered around the shell, and with much grunting and groaning and sweating and swearing, they heaved the shell into the back of the truck.
‘Really sorry about that,’ the blue-masked tortoise said. The tortoises laughed as they hopped back in the truck.
‘Arseholes!’ Hare said.
A red-masked head appeared out the passenger window and said, ‘Vacuous wanker.’
As the truck roared away, Hare shook a fist and shouted, ‘At least your uncle can alliterate, you illiterate imbeciles!’
Hare groaned as he struggled to his feet, and he set off with a painful shuffle along the race road, hopeful he would run out his injuries.
On and on Hare shuffled.
On and on Tortoise plodded.
And wider the gap between leader and last became.
***
As Hare neared the 25K marker, a bus came into view, and he saw three little pigs, each wearing a crisp white lab coat. One held a clipboard, another a small plastic cup, and the third donned pink rubber gloves.
The first pig stepped in front of Hare and held up an officious palm and said, ‘Halt. Drug testing.’
‘No problem,’ Hare said.
The second pig handed Hare the plastic cup and escorted him to a toilet booth next to the bus. Hare stepped inside, and the pig, with a huff and a puff, joined Hare and closed the door. A muted light fell on the pig’s face as it said, ‘Sir, if you could just provide a sample in the collection cup provided.’
‘What? With you in here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Watching me?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s protocol.’
‘But I can’t pee with someone watching me.’
‘Well, sir, it’s either that or disqualification.’
‘OK. OK. Give me a minute.’
Hare turned his back to the pig and breathed in and wriggled out of his jackstrap, which dropped to his ankles. He held the plastic cup and pointed and prayed. He willed his bladder to yield a trickle, a dribble, even a drop, but, alas, the bore had dried up. He whistled Dixie, visualised icy waters streaming off thawing glaciers and sweet-talked his prostate, but the cup remained empty.
‘Having trouble, sir?’
‘A little.’
‘Would sir like a drink of water?’
‘Yes, that might help.’
A bottle of water appeared over Hare’s left shoulder. He hunched his shoulders and cupped his privates.
‘Hey, you’re not looking, are you?’
‘No, sir. That would be most unprofessional. But I will request our maintenance crew to block that pesky, cold draught. Shrinkage can be a devil when sampling.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
Hare ripped off the bottle’s cap and drained the bottle with rapid gulps. Right, he thought, give his kidneys a minute to work their magic, and his cup would runneth over, and he could escape this cell and the prying eyes of its warden.
Boom-boom. Hare’s ears pricked. Boom-boom. Holy shit! he thought. Tortoise is catching up.
‘Could I please have another bottle of water?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Hare received and drained another bottle.
Boom-boom. Louder. Boom-boom. Nearer.
‘Could you turn the tap on, please?’
The pig obliged and the tap ran. Nothing. Hare rinsed his hands under the flowing water. Zilch. He sniffed peppermint oil. Nix. He sat on the toilet and applied the Credé manoeuvre, but still his bladder refused to yield even a drop.
‘Actually, could I have a whole crate of water? Urgently!’
The pig obliged, and Hare gulped and gulped, dropping emptied bottle after emptied bottle at his feet, all while Tortoise boom-boomed nearer and nearer and louder and louder. Still, Hare’s bladder remained defiant.
The boom-booming stopped. Hare placed his ear against the booth wall. An exchange of muffled voices occurred outside, followed by a prolonged creak, a moment’s silence and the whoosh of a forceful stream filling a bucket. Damn Tortoise! Hare thought. Damn him and his cursed bladder being able to yield a sample on the spot.
The sound of flooding outside triggered Hare’s bladder, and scrambling to get his sample cup at the ready, he sighed and relaxed and peed. He’d half filled his cup when outside went silent, followed by another muffled exchange, a grunt and groan, and then boom-boom. Nooooo! Hare thought, Tortoise had hit the lead. Hare willed his bladder to empty, and his cup filled and filled. To the top. And beyond.
‘I … I … I need another cup,’ he said.
Another cup appeared over his shoulder, and with a hasty swap, Hare filled and filled the second cup. To the top. And beyond.
‘I think I need a bucket,’ he said.
A bucket appeared over his shoulder, and with a hasty swap, Hare filled and filled the bucket. To the top. And beyond.
‘I think I need a garbage bin,’ he said.
The pig wheeled a bin in front of Hare. He stood on the chair, and with a hasty swap, he filled and filled the bin until, with a piss shiver and a last spurt, his sample lapped the bin rim.
Hare jumped from the chair and shook and shimmied his body until his jackstrap was in place, and he burst from the booth, only to run into the pink-gloved trotters of the third pig.
‘One last check, sir,’ the pig said.
‘One last check?’ Hare said. ‘What for? Can’t you see I need to get back in the race. Tortoise is getting away.’ A soft boom-boom faded in the distance.
‘Not until we’ve tested you, sir.’
‘Tested me? I’ve already flooded the Nile Delta for you.’
‘Sorry, sir. We won’t hold you up for much longer. It’s just a rectal. To ensure you’re not carrying illegal substances.’
‘What?’
‘If you’ll bend over and brace yourself, sir. It’ll only take a jiffy. I assure you, you won’t feel a thing.’
As Hare stared into the distance and cursed Tortoise, his buttocks clenched, his face grimaced and his eyes bulged and watered.
The gloved tester was true to her word, for Hare was soon back on the road and in pursuit of Tortoise. Within a kilometre, Hare sighted his trudging opponent, and as he passed him, he turned and gave him a smug smile and flipped him the bird with a raised middle toe and left him in a cloud of dust.
‘Nescient knobber,’ Tortoise said, and he lumbered on.
On and on Hare ran.
On and on Tortoise plodded.
And wider the gap between leader and last became.
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