You Can Go Your Own Way (redux)

This is how I want to die…

(other than having sex with Marilyn Monroe’s ghost after we’ve gotten to really know each other and that way it’s more than just a physical thing because I can’t really fuck well until I trust a lady or a lady ghost – but who doesn’t want that?)

…: I would go to Okunoshima. It’s an island in Japan that is about 30 miles east of Hiroshima. It’s home to very few people and multitudes of feral bunnies who (this doesn’t make any sense) are quite tame and come up to people. More like feral phonies if you ask me! Rimshot! Thank you I’ll be here all week! Try the unagi!

You have to take a ferry to get there from the Hiroshima Prefecture. The bunnies live and work there full time so they don’t use the ferry. I asked. Travel agents apparently do not care for absurdist anthropomorphic humor.

The island is also called Usagi Shima which is a really boring name, even though it sounds like a delicious sushi roll because all it means is ‘Rabbit Island’ in Japanese. I suppose I appreciate the direct simplicity of the name but I’d expect more pizazz from the people who birthed Kurosawa, sumo wrestling, and ronin.

Back to my last rights: I would arrive on the island. I would make sure it was a day in winter when there has been a fresh snowfall so the place is that calm quiet the land gets just after it has snowed. I would make sure it was just before sunrise so there wouldn’t be a lot of people around. I’m not shy about what’s about to go down but I would like to be alone with my thoughts before I make the transition.

I would find a large clearing.

What’s that? Yes of course bunnies don’t hibernate. Bunnies are gangster about cold – they don’t give a fuck. I would walk to a clearing and lay down a small rug (because I don’t want my butt to be cold) and take the magic potion bottle out of my rucksack and pour the – what’s that? Banging a spectral host of a bygone celebrity is reasonable but acknowledging that Hogwarts is real is out of bounds? I don’t care if you don’t believe me.

I would open the potion and pour it all over my head and lay down on the rug, looking up at the sky as the sun in the land of the rising sun woke up. The bunnies would smell me and all run at breakneck speed to investigate. I would be a fat man island in a sea of hundreds of bunnies who themselves were on a large island themselves. The sun would complete rising and as soon as it was at its apex morning position, a hush would fall over the chattering bunny horde…

(They are very talkative before 10 AM. They speak a variant of Cajun French. Wherever bunnies live in the world, they have agreed to speak this particular tongue. You see, there was a very bloody war that preceded this accord and bunnies far and wide all agreed that they never want to go back to the dark and Babel-ing times.)

They would all inhale deeply and then exhale. A sound like sizzling bacon would sweep through the swarm and the bunnies’ irises would start to redden until they were a vibrant shade of Moses’ Fire. Their chiclet teeth would stretch into long sharp, serrated fangs. And they would proceed, en masse, to eat me.

I wouldn’t feel a thing because I made sure to tell that wizard I was a giant pussy and I was down for the twisted symbolism but I wasn’t looking for anything that dramatic. But I wouldn’t be able to do anything about the smell of hundreds of soaked furry beasts piling over me and the sounds of them crunching through the 700-fill goose down and the denim and the Adidas and the tighty-whities and the stained wife beater and then the skin and the rest of my one million parts.

When they finished there would just be a blood-soaked rug and not a molecule of anything left to remind anyone I was ever there.

(For the record: don’t fret, dear reader. I’m under the care of multiple high-quality mental health professionals. My silly notions are entirely bizarre, yes, but harmless. Except to the people who chose to read them.)

But besides any concern you might have for me, the bunny buffet would finish and all those blood-red eyes would revert to their natural hues. A tiny sonic boom would reverberate across the clearing, blowing back hundreds of bunny ears. The bunnies would disperse and go about their business.

But what you wouldn’t be able to see with the naked eye is that my soul would have separated into thousands of parts and each one of those pieces would have grafted themselves on to some portion of every egg or every sperm of every bunny. And each of these shards would pass themselves on to all of those bunnies’ children and this would repeat itself until the last bunny descendant disappeared from the earth.

And thusly I would extend my mortal coil, abetted by the cutest army ever. I am become cuteness, the aww-er of worlds.

That is, of course, if the Norma Jean thing doesn’t work out.

I’m gonna go eat some carrots.


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