The Wabbit watched as the dust settled. His lips curled into a smirk. Agents of Rabit reeled around as if drunk. His thoughts turned to Christmas again. This happened every year - as if to a timetable. He didn't think Agents had much Christmas spirit, but all the same he thought, you never know. A door crashed down from the sky. "Shouldn't have used so much explosive," thought the Wabbit. But it crossed his mind that excess leads to the palace of wisdom. "You never know what's enough," thought the Wabbit, "until you know what's more than enough." He liked the sound of that. "Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by incapacity," he quoted. He grinned. The Wabbit would have kept quoting but the Agents had to be dealt with. He hopped over them. "Why do you do what you do?" But the Agents were groggy. "Blah, bloo blah," was all he heard. "You're not going to win this year's poetry competition," he remarked. He thought of Skratch. "On the other paw, maybe that will do it!" He chortled mightily and took a stroll along the beach. When he returned all the Agents had gone. "Must have been the poetry," he said. He was pleased he didn't have to do anything with them. "I'm fed up with judgement," he said out loud. "The last judgement comes very day," he added, "Who said that?" "Camus," answered a voice. The Wabbit turned and looked around but there was no-one there. There was nothing but empty beach huts. So he shrugged and made for the Adventure Caffè.