Eugh. I’m sick of carrot. Remind me to tell rabbit man that. I hate it. There’s nothing like carrot-flavored aftershave to spice up the Womble-hungry-root-vegetable-appreciation-society’s day of miraculous fulfillment. I’ll bet that’s the reason he told me to go “that way”.
Where was I again? I honestly can’t remember. I have a stinging headache, though. And my entire body feels like I’ve shared a synapse with the inside of a burrito. It wobbles when I move. I feel less stable than a giraffe made of butter. But I’ve gotta keep moving. It’s that or almost certain death*.
Where was the exit again? I can’t remember. Maybe searching my pockets will help. That’s always a good idea. If they contain a map, great. If they’re empty, I’ll at least have somewhere to put my brain once I’m done bashing my head against the nearest wall. Right then. What do we have here…?
A bottle opener. Right. That came in useful last night. I can smell the aftermath all over me. Right. And an umbrella. Not bad. I could use it as a club. I guess. But it’s a rather nice umbrella. I don’t want to ruin it. Hopefully I can explain that to whatever’s waiting for me in the afterlife**. Hopefully.
Wait. What’s- ohhhh. I remember. Rabbit man’s bunny mask. I wondered why he wasn’t wearing it. Guess I borrowed it at some point, for a laugh. It won’t do me much good now, though, and if the horde doesn’t get me, rabbit man will. It’s filthy. I guess I must have sat on it at some point. There’s not much room in these tunnels. Bloody rabbits. What’s their deal with altocelarophobia***?
Oh pen. I think I might die here after all. Rabbit man’s up ahead. Maybe if I throw the mask at him and carry on running, he’ll think that he dropped it and thus won’t be mad at me for getting it dirty. That should work. We’re friends now, aren’t we?
…I think he took it. I don’t know, though. I haven’t looked back. So long as I carry on running, I know he can’t hit me with that stick of his. Unless it shoots lasers. In which case I’m screwed. I doubt any form of cumulative natural selection can produce an immunity to bloody lasers.
*There was a slight, very slight, chance that the ravenous horde of drooling rabbits might simply want to stop him so that it could ask for directions to the nearest communal psychiatric clinic. Unfortunately, this would still have ended badly for Womble, because when a horde of unspeakably ravenous evil finally decides to seek help it does not expect a shrug.
**Although far from religious, Womble likes to think that there is an afterlife. At this point he was imagining a very fat penguin knitting a scarf, sitting at a table for two in a French cafe and looking mildly perplexed. The mind can only speculate what it thought about umbrellas.
***Fear of high ceilings.