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Wabbits Take Manhattan
The following story will make more sense if you've read the first two chapters.

Wilbur (and the Wabbits)
Wabbits, Pt. 2

When we spoke last, Pokey had left the woods to seek redemption in the city, I had blown up a squash patch and maimed a schmuck named Glen, and moments later, come to the realization that the only way I was going to get my own priorities straight was to set that pot-smoking retard back on the right path. So I packed a roller bag (that whole cliché about wabbits hitchhiking with a stick and a handkerchief is Hollywood bullshit) and booked a Greyhound trip to the city. I would have flown, but I blew all my frequent flier miles on a trip to Cabo to get drunk with Sammy Hagar. Or was that Hagar the Horrible? I don't know... all I remember is Viking helmets and that stupid "Más Tequila" song.

I got to the Greyhound station about forty minutes ahead of schedule, which sucked, because I had to spend most of my wait hiding behind a trash can to escape a psychotic Boston terrier that kept trying to deflower me. Then I got onto the bus, and was totally unsurprised to find that I was seated in the last row, between what was laughingly referred to as a "lavatory" (it's more like "a tiny room where people are free to indiscriminately wizz in whichever direction they would like") and a mountainous pile of blubber in a Darth Maul T-shirt. The friggin bus had barely started rolling when that fat fuck offered me a toke off of his pipe. I told him no thanks, as politely as I could because I didn't want him to get pissed off and sit on me later.

I've never smoked weed- judging by what it's done to Pokey, I think that was a good choice.

So there I sat, for the twelve or so hours it took to get to the city bus station, trapped between the stench of the bathroom and the combined weed-and-Cheeto-dust stink of my stoner seatmate. Fortunately, the guy was too into his weed and his bag of Cheetos to bother me. I was able to nap most of the way, which was good. Once we got to the bus station, I was not looking forward to getting a cab to my hotel. Hailing a cab may not sound like a big deal to you, but when you're only twenty-four inches tall, ears included, you find that people don't quite look down to your level as often as would be convenient.

After about ten minutes of waving my paws frantically, a cab bounced up to the curb and stopped. A guy wearing three jackets and a pair of fingerless gloves, with wild hair and a pallid complexion got out of the driver's seat and came around to grab my bag and toss it in the trunk. I didn't need my super-sensitive wabbit nose to tell that this guy was not going to "play The Man's game" and bathe more than once a month. He had about a dozen of those miniature crown air fresheners on the dashboard of the cab. I can't imagine how he could stand wearing three jackets in the middle of the summer, but hey, I believe in bathing, so we obviously didn't function on the same wavelengths.

To make matters worse, the only English the guy seemed to know was, "I drive where you want go," and "You tip good now." I rattled off the name of the hotel I was going to, and the driver pulled away from the curb with a lurch and a generous burst of horn as he nearly plowed into the side of a garbage truck. It was then that I learned he was also able to say, "Fuck you I signal" and make appropriate gestures to accompany it.

So, as this "gentleman" drove along, he listened to some strange type of Eastern-European crap on the radio- some guy shouting at the top of his lungs in a language that sounded a little bit rough on the vocal chords. For about the thousandth time since I'd left the wabbit pad, I reflected about how much nicer it was to live in the country, get drunk on cheap wine, go to Waffle House, and only have to deal with incomprehensible rednecks, instead of this smorgasboard of idiots.

What I wouldn't have given for some hash browns, served by a fat lady with big hair and no front teeth.

The cab driver got me to the hotel, and I paid him two red rupees and tipped him a green, causing him to mumble under his breath, "you no tip good" and speed away the second I closed the trunk. I took a moment to take in my destination. It's amazing how unlike a flea-bitten burned out roach motel they were able to make the place look on the Internet. But then, what gets passed off as "barely eighteen" these days is pretty dubious also. That's what I get for trusting the Internet.

I wheeled my bag into the lobby and had to leap up to ring the bell at the front desk. After what I assumed to be a couple seconds of trying to figure out if he was having acid flashbacks, a guy who looked like Pee-Wee Herman during his cameo in the movie at the end of "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure" peered over the front of the desk at me. "What can I do for you, friend?"

"I'd like to check in," I answered. It had been a long day, and my paws were killing me.

"No problem," he said, positioning himself in front of the computer, "What's your name?"

"Wabbit. Wodger Wabbit."

The desk clerk stifled a giggle and his eyes narrowed as he stopped typing. "Your name is 'Wodger Wabbit?'"

"Yeah," I responded, crossing my paws against my chest, "So?"

"Uh-huh." He continued typing into the terminal and trying to hide the smirk on his face. Without looking up, he replied, "Nothing. It's just an unusual name."

"Look," I glanced at the guy's nametag, "Francis, my mom had a speech impediment, OK?" That's not really true, but when you have a stupid name like "Wodger Wabbit," playing on people's guilt is pretty much the only way to get them to shut up about it. That bastard had the nerve to make fun of my name. Francis.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "So what are you in town for?"

"I've come to the city seeking my idiot friend, Pokey the Tokin' Wabbit."

"Token Wabbit? Is he black?"

My eyebrows knit in confusion, and I answered, "Uh, no, he's sort of a light tan, with a white belly." Why would he ask if Pokey was black?

"Riiight," Francis responded, "Well, good luck with that. Here's your room key." He dropped a key over the counter and said, "I'll just need a credit card to swipe and you can go on up."

I handed him the credit card (not mine, but let's just say there was a certain stuttering douchebag in Toontown who was going to be mighty confused when he got his next bill), he took the imprint and I headed over to the elevator, trying to ignore comingled smell of desperation and hooker sweat that seemed to seep right out of the walls.

The room was surprisingly nice, considering the rest of the surroundings. And by "nice," I mean whatever fluid stains there might have been on the bed were not visible, and I'd left my black light back at the wabbit pad. Ignorance is bliss, they say.

I'd made it to the city. I had a base of operations, but I still didn't have an idea where to look for Pokey. I went back down to the hotel bar, ordered a beer and started to ponder. If I was a dope-addled, two-foot tall wabbit with guilt issues and a didgeridoo, where would I go? I knew he was looking for Wilbur, but how do you find a guy with hooks for hands and an eyepatch? In a city of millions of people? I could think of a couple options, but I'm not an idiot. If I was an idiot, where would I look for Wilbur?

Here's what I knew about Wilbur. He was a total porno freak- he used to play it loud in his living room with no pants on... disgusting. And not just the tame stuff, either; really kinky shit. Like Japanese kinky. He liked Diet Coke with Lime and before he left he said he was going to find a hooker.

On about the fifth beer, I came up with two options:

A supermarket or an underground fetish club.

Guess which one I chose.

to be concluded

hey little fella, how are you doing today?: accomplished
soundtrack: The Magic Numbers - Mornings Eleven

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