Ah, Easter. What a lovely time of year. Four holidays and a fuckload of chocolate. The kids care. The parents care. Some people go to church, and some visit their family.
SERIAL KILLERS: The Easter Bunny
They might tell you that The Easter Bunny isn’t real.
They might tell you that the bringer of chocolate is make believe.
Because the reality of a seven foot man-rabbit running around a child’s bedroom when the lights are out, might be a little too much to take.
I know for one, that I didn’t believe.
Until he was staring me in the face
There was a story in the papers a few years ago about a classroom of eleven and twelve year olds being given live bunnies to look after in the spirit of Easter cheer. At first they thought it was just the simple case of one crackpot teacher, or at least one crackpot school. In actual fact, it was a sociological experiment funded by the government. Each child’s rabbit was inspected carefully after a single week in their care. Most of the rabbits were fine. Some were underfed, some were overfed. Some got sick. But the real experiment came where the child in question had caused their rabbit serious harm. Every so often there would be one person who decided for no apparent reason, to murder the poor rabbit. And they were suspended from school, told off by their parents, and given some counseling. What the children, the parents and the teachers didn’t know was how seriously the government took this experiment. For the rest of their entire lives, that child would be closely watched. Perhaps not every day. Perhaps not every week. But every so often when you’re just about to forget about that strange man following you … he’s back again.
Waiting for you to do something.
Waiting for you to crack.
I however, was not one of these delinquents. My school did conduct the experiment, and it wasn’t years later that I learnt I was being tested. You see we all thought it was a game. Looking after a rabbit. A little bit like looking after those eggs you draw on fake eyes, and fake noses, and fake moustaches. Except there’s nothing fake about a bunny rabbit. If you break him, then he feels the pain.
Just like if the rabbit breaks you.
I remember my bunny was a grey one. The pick of the bunch I would have thought. He stood out. He was different. The boys took the black and brown ones. The girls grabbed the white. And when I went to the basket I saw this one little grey angel staring up at me, looking for his new mother or father. He was lucky. Ignored and neglected by the breakers of this world.
Held close by one who would never stop loving.
Never stop hating.
Never stop remembering what had been seen before.
And so I held my rabbit to my breast, and I walked with him down a sunny lane. Fate didn’t have much in the cards that day, my friends. Two nasty girls were standing at the end of the road, almost as if they were waiting for me. Their eyes were cold. Their postures slumped. I watched their hands cut through the air as they spoke, and I knew they were predators. They had a nocturnal disposition. A reptilian nature.
My friends, I can’t tell you how much I tried to resist their whims. They tried to take him from my arms, and I pulled away. They struck my legs, my neck, my forehead, and I took the blows without letting go. My bunny was frightened. Our hearts had begun to merge, and I know he could feel the pain that was being done to me.
It’s okay, I could feel him say.
It’s okay for me to go.
My blood was on the pavement, friends. My two front teeth had been knocked out, and skin on my cheeks torn. The girls weren’t monsters of course. They were just ordinary girls doing ordinary things. It seems so common in human nature, that we wish to destroy one another, destroy the world around us, that even children will behave this way. Eventually my bunny broke away from my grasp and scattered onto the road. A car drove past and he was gone in an instant.
The girls fled. The girls ran. Maybe the death disturbed them. I know it definitely disturbed me.
And when the week was up, the men began to watch.
I had to be so careful. Even now, I know they are still about. I think I’ve gotten away with everything I’ve done before, but I can never be too sure. I can never be certain that this year won’t be the last.
But what a wonderful year it is. For some, the Easter holiday might come as a surprise. It might sneak up on them. Of course, I’m sure they’re aware that it’s around the corner, but I wonder if they know how soon…
Plenty of chocolate goes on sale as the dark Sunday approaches. Our chocolate of course doesn’t come from the supermarket chains or candy stores. We have our own factories. There’s one in Washington. New York. London. Paris. Sydney. Berlin.
Basically wherever the children go on Easter hunts on that Special Sunday morning, we have our rabbits on the standby. One great bunny lives in every great city. I first met mine a few days after the tragedy with the girls down the lane. He wanted to talk about my little bunny. He wanted to know if I had meant what had happened.
If I wanted to break something.
The only breaking I had in mind was for the girls who had caused my bunny harm. And so the man in the rabbit suit led me down into his lair – the factory where the chocolate is made. It was there he told me stories. Stories of horrible humans who liked to eat rabbits and bunnies. We were very fortunate to have our Easter Bunny, who was here to right the wrong. Who was here to settle the score.
This is the part you don’t see.
In Canada there was the story of the girl who found a very strange egg in the garden.
“How many eggs do you have, sweetheart?” her parents asked.
“Thirteen!” the girl replied.
“That’s odd,” the parents whispered to themselves. “We only put twelve out…”
The strange egg looked just like the other eggs. It tasted just like the other eggs. But what was strange about this egg was that it wasn’t supposed to be there…
And it could be months after the day in April that another egg is found. A normal piece of chocolate from a normal human being.
Ready to put into your mouth.
Ready to be broken.
My factory is in Australia, Melbourne. You can take a drive into the city’s underbelly if you want to see me. You drive past the G. Ride past Etihad. Run past Crown Casino.
I am in a sky scrapper. Selling my body to all the broken men of this town. A hundred and thirty dollars will get you half an hour. But it will never get you a day beyond April.
And I’ve heard them laugh about the money. Saying it fades faster than jerk off material I’ve just given them. Saying that they’re still fucking me long after we’ve parted ways.
But I remember their faces.
All of them.
For one day of the year.
Where I will pay a visit to their two story modernized homes.
Where I will pay a visit to their children’s bedrooms.
And show them what this bunny is all about.