2. The Wabbit and the Inside Out

The Wabbit threw open the shutters and closed them behind him. An eerie light filtered through from the next street, painting the rubbish that littered the floor a fluorescent orange. At the far corner stood an old chair and a little further away, a coffee table with a reserved sign. The Wabbit pulled his automatic from his fur. "That looks like blood." His voice was the merest murmur, yet it echoed like a trumpet under a bridge. The Wabbit advanced with caution and touched the red stains. "Paint," he whispered. He thought for a moment. "Maybe someone painted themselves into a corner." He turned to the table and lifted the sign. "Reserved for whom?" He ticked it in his fur and sifted through the rubbish, but found little of interest except for a few receipts made out to 'A Customer' and listing various vague services. "This is a riddle," thought the Wabbit. It was then that he noticed the small pyramid on the chair. It looked like a Wablantis pyramid and he made to pick it up. But a little voice told him not to. He slid the automatic back in his fur and took out a camera. "I'll bring in the team and we'll scour this place with a fine tooth comb." His camera flashed. Then he tried to slide the shutter back up, but it was jammed. The voice he'd heard before spoke again. "They won't find anything. This place doesn't really exist." The shutters slammed open and a hidden force propelled the Wabbit outside. The shutters slammed shut. The Wabbit hopped back. His camera flashed again and he growled, "We'll see about that."

1. The Wabbit and the Back Street Market

The Wabbit was assured by a trusted source that the store would be open. So he was extremely annoyed. He'd made a special effort to haul himself out an early hour and here he was, looking at closed shutters. All the same, it was somewhere he'd never been before and so he glanced around. At first glance it looked seedy. A number of likely sorts idled around. The Wabbit thought of them as 'Herberts' and he frowned. Some greeted each other and shook hands. Others whistled aimlessly and followed others. He watched as they came and went. He detoured round the stalls in the main market, ignoring the cries of dusty dealers. Everyone was their friend apparently. Each passer-by was greeted in the same manner. "How are you? How are you?" The Wabbit hopped back to the shuttered store. "Are you a rabbit? Do you speak rabbit?" asked a trader." The Wabbit shook his head and moved on. It wasn't the kind of market the Wabbit was used to. He was fond of a search for an unobtainable jazz album, but everything he saw was boringly boring. He briefly took an interest in a stall selling football wear, but every single item sported the colours of a team he quite disliked. Then he heard a whisper. He looked around but there was no-one there. The voice whispered again. "Are you looking?" The Wabbit banged on the shutters and shouted. "I'm looking for an unobtainable item." "Maybe I can help you," said the voice ...

The Wabbit at his Adventure Caffè

Wabsworth tapped the Wabbit on the shoulder and said "Will you ask the question?" "All right," smiled the Wabbit, "What was that for a sort of adventure we just had?" Eataly was quiet and his voice rang out. "Drink!" yelled Tipsy. She scaled the giant wine bottle then tapped it - but it sounded hollow. "Political pastiche," murmured Skratch. “It took place in a socio-semiotic framework, yet it remained undelineated." Lapinette leaned back and nodded her head. "But in terms of intertextuality, it provided an oscillation of meanings accessible to pragmatic appropriation." "Drink!" shouted Tipsy. Lapinette twitched an ear. A waiter appeared, took an order and vanished. Skratch's eyes bulged and he spluttered, "In narratological stereotypes, autonomous constructs are usually foregrounded." Lapinette held up a paw. "Only for naive readers." It was Wabsworth's turn to speak. (Being an android, he had read everything there was to read.) "The adventure was political but utilised comical sharpening, which produced negative but likeable stereotypes." "The wine is coming," yelled Tipsy. "I rest my case," smiled Wabsworth. "Wabsy, I heard that," murmured Tipsy. "Skratch creased up with laughter. "Now you have to take Tipsy to the movies." Tipsy grinned. "I like political horror." Lapinette kept a straight face. "Like They live." Tipsy slid down the giant wine bottle. "They won't if they don't bring my drink."

19. The Wabbit and the 5 Star Judgement

There were only five stars left but they were brought to justice anyway. "Have you anything to say in your defence?" asked the Wabbit. They mumbled incoherently. "Let's just boom them," said StrangeGlove, He waved his automatic. "Due process must be procedurised," shrugged the Wabbit.  "You start," said StrangeGlove. The Wabbit addressed the stars. "What is your occupation or business?" Silence fell. Outside, traffic shuffled down Via Nizza. "I'll mark down "layabouts", mein Fuhrer," said Strangeglove. "From whence do you come?" snapped the Wabbit. An incoherent mumble hung in the air. "I am writing down a no fixed abode kind of place," sighed StrangeGlove. The Wabbit groaned and  continued. "What language do you speak?" The stars revolved in a circle and made a chattering sound. "Gibberish?" enquired Strangeglove. The circle of stars revolved the other way then bounced into one another. What voices they had were shrill and angry. "You can't argue in here," said Strangeglove, "This is a court of law!" The Wabbit and Doctor StrangeGlove drew back and spoke to each other. "What do you suggest?" asked the Wabbit. "Microwave until they boom," said StrangeGlove. The Wabbit shook his head. "Explosive liquidisation?" suggested StrangeGlove. The Wabbit wasn't happy. StrangeGlove thought for a while. "I suggest ... gainful employment." His eyes glistened. The Wabbit smiled in agreement. "What about traffic lights?" StrangeGlove laughed and nodded. "Then they'll have to change."

18. Puma, Terni and the Stars

Puma was waiting as only a puma could wait. Then with a mighty roar he leaped on the stars. His claws slashed, his jaws snapped and his teeth tore at the creatures. They didn't taste of much - a mite salty maybe. They were a certainly a long way short of meat. He landed on the sand, then clawed his way up a pole and leaped again. He beat them up, batted them down and ground them to dust. But there were many and they kept coming. The more he demolished the more there seemed to be - like a swarm of annoying insects. "I could use a helping paw," he screeched. That's when he heard the frantic flapping of cabbage wings. Terni the Food Dragon came swooping down from two o'clock high, toasting the creatures with a peppery dragon breath and swallowing them in giant batches. "Gnammy, yummedy gnam!" he roared. The starry warm tried to evade him by flocking up and down and circling in a sine wave formation. But they were a poor match for a food dragon with attitude. Puma picked up a fluttering star in his teeth, shook it around then let it go. He pounced again and ripped it to shreds. "Speak you little daemons," he roared, "Speak or we'll render you endangered." The remaining stars started to whine like dynamos. Puma swept them into a hole in the sand, sat on them and snarled, "You'll answer to the Wabbit!" Terni landed and tore a massive groove along the sand. His fiery breath ignited every piece of flotsam on the beach. "I can hardly wait."

17. The Wabbit and the Stars of Doom

It was a bolt from the blue. The Wabbit watched as the hatch swung open. Doctor StrangeGlove rapped on the hull and yelled, "Is there anyone hiding there in the dark?" Out lurched three stupefied Agents of Rabit, tiny stars revolving round their heads. One stumbled off in the sand and fell on his face. The others reeled around in a drunken fashion. "Incompetent fools," shouted StrangeGlove, "I will explode you like a boom." The Wabbit laughed grimly. "We'll keep the boom for later. Watch out for these stars." The stars whirled and merged then took off across the sand, like roosting starlings.

StrangeGlove and the Wabbit followed their path and watched them land along every structure on the beach. The noise was deafening. Then all became still. The Agents blinked. "Where are we?" "On the beach," said the Wabbit. The Agents looked unsteady, "I can't remember a thing," said one. They conferred for some time. "We are taking the vessel," interrupted StrangeGlove. "But how will we get home?" whimpered an Agent. The Wabbit waved his automatic. "Get the bus." The Agents hung their heads and headed to the road. "Augenblick, meine kleinen Freunde!" growled StrangeGlove. The Agents turned back. "What are these kleinen stars?" "They came out a packet of cornflakes," shrugged an Agent. "I was collecting them," said the second. "I have two yellows but I'm short of a red one," said the third. The Wabbit looked at StrangeGlove. "Do you like the stars?" StrangeGlove snapped a finger. "I prefer the dark."
["Augenblick, meine kleinen Freunde!":  Wait, my little friends!"  "Is there anyone hiding there in the dark?" : Return of the Pink Panther]

16. Skratch and the Tearaway Weapon.

Skratch wasn't surprised by the pod. He watched it roll to the beach hut and settle and he smiled. All was going according to plan. He meowed in feline satisfaction and brushed his paw along his fur. That was when he heard the sound of engines. It started like a chatter but grew into a whine. He felt a push of air, but all he could see was a blur. The object churned a path through the sand, flinging anything its path to the side. Flotsam and jetsam crashed along the beach. An old tyre pirouetted in the air. Skratch flinched as stones flew by his head. "Good grief," he muttered as he dodged out the way. The football was as big as he was. His nostrils filled with the acrid smell of burning oil and something else he couldn't identify. He watched the ball go. It bounced towards the pod and stopped. For a minute nothing happened. Then it started to sing. Skratch listened carefully. It was some kind of football song, full of offensive yet flouncy threats. He shrugged and made his way towards the pod. The big football broadcast a repetitive message that cast scorn on the place the pod's occupants came from. Skratch heard it continue with a variety of comments on the dubious parentage of the occupants. The messages then went on to forecast the likely appearance of any of the occupants' offspring, a diatribe so contemptuous that Skratch covered his ears and meowed to himself, "Sometimes the Wabbit goes too far." The pod's hatch opened ...