They told me the rabbits were gentle, soft-pawed and doe-eyed and kind. They lied. Oh, they lied through their molars while the rabbits were plotting behind. They tunnel through concrete and rebar, through granite, through heartbreak, through time. They've eaten the neighbor's Toyota. They swallowed a whole washing line. At 3 AM, thumping in unison, ten thousand paws on the floor— a rhythm that loosens your fillings, a beat that unscrews every door. Their ears are antennas for chaos, their whiskers pick up your regret. They know every password you've chosen. They haven't forgiven you yet. One sits in the chair at my desk now, reviewing my spreadsheets with scorn. It circled a cell labeled "REVENUE" and wrote underneath it: MORE CORN. The garden is theirs. And the basement. The attic. The car. And the shed. They've filed the paperwork, frankly— the house is in their name instead. So if you see fur on the horizon, a thousand ears catching the breeze, don't run. It's too late. They're already inside your walls, eating your keys.
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