1. Sherlock Holmes and The Toilet Paper Caper

With the aid of a magnifying glass, it is possible to see that on July 7^th, 1930, the author Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle died at the age of 71. As this was over 70 years ago, his literary work is no longer copyrighted and can be plagiarised to the Bahamas and back. Conan Doyle suffered a heart attack and there was no mystery surrounding the death, unlike most deaths encountered by his greatest creation, Sherlock Holmes.

The character of Holmes has always been depicted as a genius of criminology and a crime-fighter extraordinaire. Conan Doyle published four novels and fifty-six short stories featuring the detective, including one in which Holmes allegedly died. The detective obviously faked his death, so hence could go on to solve many more crimes and make a lot more money for his author. Despite the occasional wads of cash, Conan Doyle did not like writing about the detective for he thought it kept him from more sensible writings. I know just how he felt – I yearn to do more sensible writings but this tripe keeps coming out instead.

In memory of the author’s death we will now reveal the lost story of Sherlock Holmes, never before seen in print except by people with eyes.

Sherlock Holmes and The Toilet Paper Caper.

I’m sure I do not need to begin with introductions, so I will. My name is Dr John Watson, often mistaken for John Motson and occasionally for Joan Jetson on weekends. I work with my good friend, Sherlock Holmes and have written many stories about his adventures.

Until now, I have been forced to write my tales under duress, which is always one step up from being under a dress. For that reason I have never been able to tell the whole truth about Holmes and his cases, but I do not mind as it seems someone called Martha Colon Doiley has been taking the credit and the money for the tales of Holmes I have produced. Actually I am miffed about the money situation.

I would now like to take full credit for this true story of the one case Holmes could not solve. The case I have called The Toilet Paper Caper.

Everyone has heard of the Baskerville case, when Holmes was said to have uncovered the mystery of the demon dog plaguing the Baskerville family. There was a lot of crap going on in that case. I stood in it at least three times and Holmes slipped on some. When I recounted that tale in my writing, I was told by Holmes to exaggerate the scale of the hound – it was really a Jack Russell.

Anyway, that has nothing to do with the Toilet Paper Caper, unless you take into account that I used quite a bit to rub my shoes clean.

The Toilet Paper Caper began not long after the Baskerville case, which was not long after I started working with Holmes.

On the day it began I sat in his study while he stood on a chair and played the violin.

“Why don’t you sit down, Holmes?” I asked him.

“It is a contradiction for one to sit in a study, Watson,” he replied as he fiddled.

“You burnt your arse on the radiator again, didn’t you?” I asked.

Holmes stopped fiddling and began playing the violin.  This was his way of saying yes without actually saying it. He hated it when I had deductions of my own – especially as they were right on more occasions than his.

“Have you noticed, Watson, that there is a severe lack of toilet paper in this house?”

“I can’t say I have, Holmes. When did you first notice it?”

“Not long after making your acquaintance, which leads me to one conclusion.”

I held my breath while I waited. It struggled in my grip but I hung on until Holmes spoke again.

“I conclude that we have a thief among us.”

“There are only two of use here,” I pointed out.

“Do not be fooled,” Holmes countered. “There are people everywhere.”

He jumped across his counter and poked the curtain with his violin bow. The curtain giggled inanely. Holmes pulled back the curtain to reveal a man wearing clown make-up and holding a pack of cards.

“Watson, escort this joker off the premises!”

I did as requested, and when I returned four more lurkers were awaiting an escort. I gave them a phone book and told them to find one themselves.

“Watson!” Holmes shrieked when I returned to my seat. “I have it!”

“Well don’t give it to me. I just got rid of it last week and my nose is still tingling.”

“It was my arch-nemesis who stole the toilet paper; Professor Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime.”

I found it funny that Holmes always gave the Professor that title. I always thought of him as more of a Half-Nelson. “How have you concluded this, Holmes?”

“I fear he is trying to disable me from my crime-fighting by stranding me in a moment of weakness.”

“I thought you had sorted your bladder problem,” I said.

To avoid answering, Holmes resumed playing his violin. I made a note to hide it from him at the earliest opportunity. He continued playing for some time. I tried to sleep until he finished but he kept me awake by subtly poking me in the eye with his bow.

Six days later Holmes finally put down his violin. It had been poorly for some time and it was the kindest thing to do – it always sounded in pain when Holmes played it.

I excused myself to use the bathroom. I returned ten minutes later with a piece of toilet roll stuck to my shoe. Holmes jumped on it straight away. He missed and landed on my foot.

“This is a clue, Watson. Where did you find it?”

“On my shoe.”

“See, we are making progress. I am almost ready to apprehend the culprit.”

I began biting my nails. It was the anticipation that got to me.

The door bell rang. I crapped my pants and had to excuse myself again. When I returned, Holmes was standing in the middle of the study with a tall policeman, a short tramp and a greasy-haired shop assistant from Tesco.

“Ah, Watson.” Holmes greeted me. “I am about to solve our toilet paper theft. What is that on your head?”

I reached up and plucked a sheet of toilet paper out of my hair.

“Ah!” Holmes exclaimed. “The final clue. Now I will begin my deduction!

“You will recall, Watson, that I said my detection of our toilet paper crisis arose shortly after making your acquaintance. PC Plump here will remember a discussion I had telling him that I had noticed many lurkers in my house and believed they would be able to spy on the toilet for me in order to catch the culprit. Tommy the Tramp was the lurker who watched the toilet for me from inside the bowl.”

“So that’s what the smell is,” I said.

“Sorry, guv,” said Tommy, dripping on the carpet. “I did help solve this case though…I saw the culprit through the water.”

“Finally,” Holmes announced, getting to the end of his build up, “I visited Tesco to buy new toilet rolls only this morning, which can be confirmed by this bubblegum-chewing, greasy-haired shop assistant, yet now there is not a scrap left in the house! Watson, you have twice walked into this room with pieces of paper stuck to your body and furthermore it is following your frequent visits to the lavatory that most of the paper seems to disappear.

“Therefore, I have one conclusion to make.”

The room waited in silence. I began to sweat.

Holmes held up his hand. “The butler did it!”

Fourteen lurkers groaned from behind the sofa, curtains, rug, mirror and wallpaper. Tommy the Tramp swore through a mouthful of toilet water. I breathed a sigh of relief and blew Holmes’ deerstalker off his head.

“Holmes,” I said. “We don’t have a butler.”

The doorbell rang. Holmes bounded to the door and returned with a tall thin man.

“Watson, let me introduce our new butler. PC Plump, take him away.”

The butler was led from the room, followed by the shop assistant, Tommy the Tramp and fourteen lurkers.

I sat in a chair and Holmes resumed playing his violin. Holmes was satisfied that justice had been done and he had once again cracked the crime.

Unfortunately, Holmes never did work out the true culprit. I’m sure you haven’t either. I must admit that I was partly responsible, but not in the way you may think. You see I helped protect the identity of the toilet paper thief – The Hound of The Baskervilles.

Despite what I wrote on that case, the hound was not killed by Holmes. It is known only to Holmes and I that he is a terrible shot. The hound, all twelve Jack Russelly inches of him, took quite affectionately to Holmes’ leg. Holmes attempted to shoot him, but only succeeded in shooting himself in the foot, which is why he carried a cane for many subsequent cases.

I took pity on the little pooch and decided to keep him as a pet without telling Holmes. The only thing I had not been aware of was the Hound’s love of toilet roll. I often found him eating the paper fresh from the roll and I usually ended up covered in torn scraps of it trying to pull him away. Of course Holmes never knew this.

So there is my true story of the great detective of Baker Street foile by a dog. 

Now, if only I could work out where the smell is coming from all would be well. Only the Hound and I live here which means there is only one logical conclusion for me to make – the butler did it.

2. Santa's Little Hinderer

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat and a passing reindeer just dropped one in my hat.

Many moons have passed since the Back Side’s version of A Christmas Carol was unleashed, pushing the definition of “newsletter article” to page-busting extremes.

How can this year’s Christmas Special kick the arse of last year’s? Well it can’t. We’re slightly odd here, but we are still honest and realistic. So with the word count slowly ticking away let us bid you welcome to an original Back Side tale for Christmas – baked for three hours, lightly dusted with caster sugar and elves dandruff, and soaked in yellow liquid for that spicy taste. Make yourself comfortable and pick up that glass of sherry; I hear the sound of sleigh bells. Or Hell’s bells perhaps.

The Tale of Santa’s Little Hinderer.

Claus knew he had a problem.

“How did you say it got in there again, Nobby?”

Nobby the Elf looked embarrassed. It was normal for someone with bright pink blusher on their cheeks.

“Well,” Nobby began. “He just pushed forward and stuck it up the crack in front of him.”

“Ah,” Claus mumbled, scratching his beard and dislodging an icicle of drool. “How many times do I have to tell you, Nobby? Don’t let them stick their horns in the crack.”

A pace ahead of them, Comet grunted and attempted to pull his antlers out of the hole in the shed.

“Hang on, boy,” Claus said, patting the reindeer on the rump then rubbing his hand on his coat. “I’m trying to think. Nobby, we’re going to have to pull him out. It’s the only way.”

Claus took one side of Comet’s head. Nobby brought a ladder and made his way up to the other.

“Take hold of him,” Claus said, “and on the count of three pull. One”

Claus gained a sturdy hold on the antlers and braced his foot against the wall.

“Two”

Nobby grabbed a handful of reindeer fur and an ear. The ladder teetered.

“Three!”

*        *        *

The dark shadow of a sleigh crossed the night sky. At its head trotted Dasher, Dancer Donna Blitzen, Cupid, Prancer, Vixen and Barney – the goat.

“But you didn’t exactly tell me where to get hold of him,” Nobby continued to protest.

“Hmm,” Claus grumbled, picking dry blood from his finger nails.

“Anyway,” Nobby said, “Mrs Claus did a good job with the stitches. He’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“I only need him once a year, Nobby.”

“There you go then. Even better. That gives him a whole thirteen months to recover.”

“Twelve months,” Claus sighed.

“Really? My time does fly, doesn’t it?”

“Not fast enough,” Claus said. “Where are we going next?”

Nobby reached down into the glove compartment. Oddly, there were a pair of gloves inside, as well as The List.

“Right, two ticks. Let me just focus. Hang on I just need a bit more moonlight.”

Nobby tilted The List. He turned it around then leaned over the edge of the sleigh.

A sharp gust of wind sped by on a stealth bomber. Claus was aware of a brief fluttering sound, and a small strangled yelp.

He turned slowly to find Nobby staring back at him. The elf looked like someone had inserted a foot pump in his rectum and performed Riverdance on the pedal.

“Where…?” Claus asked, asking no more for fear of receiving the answer.

“Himeiii iieeih iieeeiighm,” Nobby whined, gesturing wildly.

Claus offered his own gesture that shocked a passing witch and knocked her off her broom.

He looked over the side of the sleigh. Far below, the moon illuminated the ground. More precisely, it illuminated a vast body of water that thrashed and thundered under the stormy weather conditions.

“Nobby,” he said. “Get the wetsuit.”

*        *        *

The sleigh landed on the roof of a detached house in Scotland, leaking seawater into the frost-coated tiles.

Claus stepped out onto the roof, his boots squelching with each footfall.

“I didn’t think the wave was going to– ”

“Shut up, Nobby.” Claus said. “Pass me the sack.”

Nobby removed the towel from his head and clambered over into the back of the sleigh. He picked up a dripping sack from the pile and pulled it out. Claus took it and squelched across to the chimney.

Nobby discretely followed, trying to work out why something tinkled every time he moved.

Claus squashed himself implausibly through the grills of the grate covering the chimney pot. No one said his work needed to be logical. The fat bloke delivers presents to children all over the world in one night and miraculously knows when they are asleep and when they are pretending for God sake. Logic just doesn’t come into it.

Inside, Claus emptied his sack on the carpet and rummaged around in the contents.

“Two for him. Three for her. One for him. Six! Why is there always one greedy kid in the family?”

Claus arranged the gifts around the room, stepped back and admired his handy work. Perfect as always.

He took a step towards the kitchen, then paused and listened. Something had rustled and jingled. He heard nothing further. Perhaps he had spent too much time with those damned sleigh bells. Maybe he should use a trumpet instead.

Claus walked into the kitchen. He flicked on the lights and gawped.

The table that should have contained a piece of Christmas Cake and glass of whiskey was instead occupied by a feast of Marks & Spencer’s goodies.

Claus drooled on his boots. After all these years of having to somehow dispose of the meagre offerings the children of the world left him, someone had finally given him the spread he deserved. He didn’t even like Christmas Cake – almonds gave him a rash and the fruit gave him the runs – and as for the whiskey, well he would rather milk on of the reindeers into a glass.

This was more like it though.

He popped open the bottle of wine and poured out a glass. Sweet goodness after sweet goodness he opened and sampled, eager to taste as many as possible before packing the rest into the empty sack for the ultimate doggy bag.

Suddenly the rustling jingle from earlier returned, this time with the volume knob cranked up to ten. In the living room Nobby arrived in a cloud of dust, a tangle of fairy lights and a bellow of “Oh crap!”

Claus poked his head around the doorframe. The elf lay in the middle of the floor, trying to untangle his ankle from knots of green wire and flashing bulbs. He took hold of the wire and gave it a gentle tug. The string of lights vanishing up the chimney jangled but didn’t release him from their grip.

Claus watched the elf tense.

“Mphf ghemgh!”

Claus desperately tried to chew and swallow the huge mouthful of food preventing him from shouting a warning. Somehow, he knew it was never going to happen.

Nobby took a firm hold of the lights in both hands.

Claus took firm hold of his throat as he tried to swallow too soon.

Readers took it for granted that what was about to happen would be nothing sort of devastating.

And they would be right.

Nobby yanked the lights with all his might, feeling a momentary sense of euphoric satisfaction as the wire grew slack before the noise began.

Up on the roof, seven reindeer and a goat looked about nervously as row upon row of flashing lights tore loose of their fastenings with the roar of a speeding train. Glowing snowmen dislodged from their holders, climbing Santas toppled from their ladders and fibreglass reindeers took momentary flight before crashing to the ground in a cacophony of smashing and splintering.

In the living room, Nobby looked at the handful of lights and wire, then at the chimney which seemed to be filled with so much noise, then finally at Claus who was turning blue and banging a fist on his chest. Nobby looked pale.  

Somewhere on the upper floor someone was awake and running across the bedroom floor yelling about getting a shotgun. Nobby grew paler with each passing second.

Behind Claus, the kitchen window exploded and a huge grinning face entered through the hole. It swung forward, slamming into the red-suited Saint’s back and knocking him against the door frame. A chicken bone fell from his mouth with a loud wheezing breath and Claus collapsed under the weight of the oversized decoration.

Nobby passed out just as the living room door flung open and the sound of a gun being cocked rattled in his ears.

*        *        *

“But– ”

“Shut up, Nobby.”

“I didn’t– ”

“Shut up, Nobby.”

“But really I– ”

“Nobby, if you don’t stop talking I’m going to chop your– ”

The cell door opened and a chunky policeman looked inside. “I really wouldn’t say things like that in here. You’re in enough bother without adding murder to the charges.”

Claus stood up and marched over to the officer. “Look, I’ve told you who I am and what I was doing in that house. I’ve even admitted to my incompetent elf causing the damages.”

“Ah, yes,” the officer said. “Of course you did. Look at it from our point of view though. We get a call from a concerned homeowner who has been wakened in the middle of the night by someone dismantling the decorations from his house. This homeowner then enters his living room to find a small man wrapping up the afore mentioned decorations into a neat bundle, while a big fat man is lying on his kitchen floor after eating a large helping of the family’s Christmas lunch. Then to top it all off we find a mountain of stolen presents on the roof in a cobbled together sleigh that seems to have a goat in place of one of the reindeer.

“Tell me if I went wrong anywhere.”

Claus gave Nobby a sideways glance that burned with unsaintly promises.

“Just make sure all of those presents get to the right people,” Claus said. “They’re all labelled.”

“Don’t worry,” the officer said. “We’re already onto it. We don’t want the children disappointed because some bloke decided to go on the rob.”

“Oh and get me my representative,” Claus said.

“Name?”

“Frost. Jack Frost. Oh and just one more thing.”

“What would that be, Mr Claus?” the officer said with the slightest hint of sarcasm.

“Can you come back in about five minutes and charge me?”

“We already have.”

“You can add GBH.”

The officer looked at Claus, then at a still paling Nobby, then at Claus again.

“Why do they always come out at Christmas?” the officer asked himself as he closed the door.

As he walked down the cell block, the officer smiled to himself. There were some very strange people in the world. Jack Frost indeed.

And from somewhere behind the closed door, an erratic screeching voice could just be heard yelling, “Remember you’re a saint!” before the usual sounds of a Friday night in the cells took over, underlined with a constant, jolly mantra that filled the night with an oddly sinister sense of Christmas spirit.

“Ho. Ho. Ho.”

3.1 The Lost Eggs of The Bunnies - The Good, The Bad and the Bunnies.

There’s eggs in them thar hills. That is what legend says. That is what Wild Bill Harekup used to say.

For centuries, relic hunters have taken to the dirt tracks and chasm filled mountains in search of the elusive Lost Eggs of The Bunnies - sacred eggs that are said to contain secrets so secret that no one actually knows what they are about. That, however, does not prevent people wanting to know.

But the hunters are not alone in their quest. Others also seek the ancient artifacts to use for their own gain.

And in the midst of these adventurers, the bunnies are out to claim back their lost treasures.

*        *        *        *

The wind blew down Main Street like a close range belch - warm and damp. A stray leaf danced along the sandy road, performing pirouettes and leaping summersaults until it came to rest with a crunch under a size ten leather boot.

“Eggs at Easter? How appropriate.”

The boot continued walking, allowing the crumpled remains of the leaf to raise itself from the ground before a second boot, this time in size nine, ground it into the dirt.

“So the timing makes it seem like a joke, but I’ve had it on good authority that it isn’t.”

The two men turned off the road, the crunch of feet on dirt becoming a thud on wood. They walked out of the sunlight and into the clammy, dim-lit interior of the Muldoon Saloon.

“What are you drinking, Harry?” the first of the men asked.

“Would it be too much to ask for eggnog?” Harry responded.

“Yes.”

“A beer then, Bill. I’ll get the table.”

By the time Bill approached the table with two very full pint glasses, Harry had unfolded a number of papers and was gripping them with knuckles whiter than an Englishman’s arse.

“Come on then, Harry,” Bill said as he thumped down the glasses. “Tell me all about it before your head explodes.”

“I can’t help it, Bill. This could be just what this town needs. We’ve been scraping together pennies here and there, but this isn’t Deadwood. We need something good unless we want to end up like Range Creek!”

“Where the hell is Range Creek?”

“Exactly! I don’t know and neither does anyone else.”

Bill rubbed his temple. “So if no one knows where it is, then how does anyone know it’s not there?”

“I didn’t think of asking that, but if anyone did find it, they’d say it was bad. Bad, bad, bad.”

“Ok, so it’s bad. I don’t know if you’ve looked around out there recently but like you said, this isn’t Deadwood. It’s Redwood, and it’s a hole.”

“Which is why this could be just what we need!” Harry hissed, seeming to be a man very much on the edge of yelling his every word at the top of his voice.

“I’m listening.”

“Well, it’s like this…”

*        *        *        *

“It looks like these eggs had been thought lost for centuries, maybe even longer than that.”

The smoky air in the room made it difficult for many of the occupants to breathe or see. Allowing more than a dozen people to puff on cigars in a compact, unventilated room had been something of a mistake.

One person who didn’t mind was Black Jim, the four feet tall leader of the Black Fathers. Whether he stood or sat, his head remained just below the level of the rising grey clouds.

“And are you sure about this, Black Bull?” Jim asked the six foot monstrosity beside him.

“Yes, Master Jim,” came the reply from the above the cloud. “The Lost Eggs are somewhere in Redwood.”

“So what of the legends? They say the Eggs were never found in the mountains.”

“It seems the legend was created as a diversion to keep the Eggs safe from hunters.”

“And us,” Jim said, rubbing together his sweaty little palms. “Well done, Black Bull. You have been very clever in gathering this information.”

“It was the nutcrackers that did it,” Black Bull said with a grin lost in smoke.

“I don’t need to know that,” Jim said. Being the head of a shadowy organization wasn’t a guarantee you wouldn’t be squeamish. “So where in Redwood are the Eggs hidden?”

“Well, that’s the problem,” another man said.

“What do you mean, Black Jack?” Jim asked.

“Well it seems that while the legend was created to put treasure hunters off the scent, there has been nothing written of where in Redwood the Eggs are to be found.”

“Maybe I was premature in my congratulations,” Jim said, steepling his fingers and glaring into the cloud overhead. “I trust you have thought of a way to narrow down our search?”

“We have,” said a third conspirator.

“Who is that?” Jim asked. “Is it Ball or Hole?”

“It’s Black Hole, Master Jim,” the voice said.

“And how have you managed this?” Jim asked.

Black Bull and Black Ball bent down and lifted a large metal pot onto the table. Black Bull lifted the lid.

Jim was forced to climb onto the table in order to see the inside of the pot. When he leaned over the edge, a wicked smile spread over his little, podgy face.

“Excellent,” he said. “Now all we need is to do is find out…”

*        *        *        *

“Where they’ve taken him.”

The Council Room of the warren was crowded with furry bodies. More bunnies crammed the hallway outside. This was not a normal Council meeting. It was a Crisis gathering.

“We’re not sure, Butch,” one of the scouts said. “We lost them near the Muldoon Saloon.”

Butch Harekup, seventh generation grandson of the legendary Wild Bill, looked out across the mass of fur and ears.

“How many of them were there?” he asked.

“Three. Black Fathers by the looks of it. They’ve gone too far this time.”

A rumble of agreement rustled though the crowd.

“Quiet!” Butch bellowed, his voice echoing through the halls of the warren. “Why have they suddenly decided to go this far now?”

“I think I can answer that,” an ancient voice spoke from behind him.

Butch turned around, to find the eldest of the warren dwellers occupying the opening there.

A hundred and one pairs of fluffy ears lowered as the bunnies bowed, and many furry bottoms were tickled in the process.

“There is no need for that,” Archimedes said. He shuffled forward, resting on a crude stick. “There are more pressing matters to be dealt with.”

The crowd waited in silence for the elder to proceed.

“The reason the Black Fathers have taken Samuel is because they are seeking the Lost Eggs.”

“The Lost Eggs are nothing but a legend, aren’t they?” Butch asked. “A story one generation passes down to the next like that of the Easter Bunny. We all know we are the ones who put the chocolate eggs in the baskets, and we do it to keep the legends alive, right?”

“All legends have to start somewhere, young Butch,” Archimedes said. “The Lost Eggs are real, and contain the secrets of the first of our kind. The secrets that have helped us survive this long. If the Black Fathers or anyone manages to get their hands on the Eggs, then I cannot begin to imagine what will befall our kind.”

“That really doesn’t sound good,” Butch said to the mumbled agreement of the gathering. “I guess this means we have to do what we have to do?”

“It does,” the elder said with a half smile.

“I thought I was past all this,” Butch said with a sigh as he turned to face the crowds. “Sundance, where are you?”

A small furry body bounced up and down in the middle of the throng.

“Hoi hoi, a’m here Butch, my old pal, my old buddy!”

Butch rubbed his hand over his face. This was going to be just like old times.

Why me? Butch thought. Of all the rabbits in all the world, why me?

He addressed his partner, along with what amounted to an army of rabbits. “Open up the store hold, Sundance, and hand round the artillery. We’ve got a hostage to save and our heritage to fight for.

“Bunnies! Today we fight to keep our freedom!”

The story continues in “A Fistful of Bunnies”.

3.2 The Lost Eggs Of The Bunnies - A Fistful of Bunnies

“And there you have it,” Harry concluded, taking an almighty gulp of beer from his glass. “Like I said, it’s just what we need!”

“It still sounds like some flight of fantasy to me,” Bill said solemnly. “Bunnies? Eggs? And right under the Muldoon Saloon?”

“I’m telling you it’s not, Bill. All we have to do is get under the cellar floor and dig down through the foundations.”

“You make it sound like digging a hole in the back yard to bury your buckshot in. How exactly do we get Abe to let us dig up his cellar?”

“We don’t,” Harry said, swilling the rest of his beer into his mouth and, in his excitement, down his shirt. “He’s already started down there.”

“He’s what? You mean you told old Abe Drake about this before you told me? Some friend you turn out to be. Gimme the money for that beer.”

“Never mind the beer money. Are you going to help or just grouch about it?”

The pause was infinitesimal before Bill answered.

“Where’s the shovel?”

*        *        *        *

Butch Harekup clipped his lucky carrot into his holster. He felt an elbow dig into his ribs.

“So, Butch, what’s the plan, buddy? How we gonna get Sam back, ay?”

It was easy to despair at Sundance T’Werp. He had always been a carrot short of a cake, and by some eccentric twist of fate he always ended up by Butch’s side.

“Do you have to poke and prod me all the time?” Butch asked. “Is it really necessary?”

“You want me to give ya a kick instead?”

“Forget I said anything,” Butch said. “Have you got everything I told you get?”

“Yup, yup. Ah’ve got the rope, the carrots, the crowbar, the carrots, the toffee hammer and the carrots.”

Butch raised his hands. “What’s with all the carrots? Haven’t I told you about the carrots?”

“Aww, ya can’t have too many carrots, Butch. Ya never can tell when you might just need a good carrot.”

“Ok, fine, take the bloody carrots. You’re carrying them though. Now are the others ready?”

“Oh, yup yup,” Sundance said with unparalleled and frequently irritating enthusiasm. “They’s all ready. Pip, Pumpkin and Pie are coming with us, and Honey is coordinating the others through the tunnels.”

“Great. We’ve got to get moving now. They’ve had enough time to take Sam into the torture chambers. The scouts lost him and Black Jim’s men near the Muldoon Saloon. The Black Fathers only have one hideout anywhere near there so they must have him there.”

“What if they don’t, Butch?”

“Sundance,” Butch said, patting his partner on the back, “sometimes you ask far too many questions.”

“It helps me get the answers, old buddy.”

“That’s true. It would just help if you remembered them. Now, let’s get the others and get going. We don’t have much time.”

*        *        *        *

The ancient wooden door, cracked, chipped and clawed, swung open and thumped against the wall.

A long dark shadow fell across the dirt, menacing and huge, and came to an end by the dangling feet of Samuel Gun. The bunny was chained to the wall by his wrists and ears, with his head hung low.

The shadow moved forward, shrinking with every step until it was no more than four feet tall.

Black Jim looked up at the little furry captive.

“So,” Black Jim said. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?”

Samuel coughed and wearily lifted his head. “Yes. You’re still a small, ugly fuck.”

Black Jim twitched then smiled. It was disconcerting in so many ways.

“You and your type always did have a lot of spirit,” Jim said, taking hold of Sam’s cheek and shook it like a loving parent. “I will break it, though. Believe me I will break it.”

“You’d struggle to break wind,” Sam said.

Black Jim turned red. “YOU WILL TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW!” he bellowed, fluffing out the fur on Sam’s face and smothering him in breath that smelled of garlic sausage. “Or something very, very bad will happen to you.”

“I think it already did,” Sam coughed. “Your breath stinks.”

“Insolence! We’ll see how long you can endure…” Black Jim paused. His eyebrows lowered, his eyes narrowed and his lip curled back. Sam suspected the leader of the Black Father’s thought it an evil glare, but it looked more like he was having his face squeezed by two hands. “…the Bunny Boiler!”

Black Hole and Black Horse squeezed their bulk through the doorway, carrying a large rusty cooking pot and a small gas burner.

“Undo his chains,” Black Jim ordered, “and start heating the water. Our little guest is going to take a dip.”

*        *        *        *

The constant chit-chit, chit-chit of soil being dug hissed in the cellar of the Muldoon Saloon.

Harry, Bill and Old Abe bent and rose in perfect synchronicity, displaying bare backs and bare wrinkly cheeks every time they bent into the growing hole in the cellar floor.

“How far down did you say we need to dig this thing, Harry?” Bill asked, hoofing a spadeful of dirt out of the hole.

“Bet’r not be much bl’dy fu’thr,” Old Abe huffed. “A’hm bl’dy knackered and ready to conk.”

“It’s only a few more metres,” Harry told them. “It’ll be worth it though. We’ll be able to buy this town and turn it into the new Tombstone.”

“Ah’ll need a bl’dy tombstone aft’r a few more metres!” Old Abe spluttered.

Abe Drake had been landlord of the Muldoon Saloon for as long as anyone in the town could remember. He talked like a relic, looked like one, and almost been buried twice. His hair was pure white, as was the moustache that usually trailed from his upper lip to his chest but today was tied up behind his ears while he worked.

“And I thought we were meant to looking to outdo Deadwood?” Bill questioned. “Nobody mentioned going as big as Tombstone.”

“Yesterday we hadn’t mentioned any of them,” Harry pointed out. “With this Eggs, we could be bigger than anywhere you can think of!”

“How ‘bout Texas?” Abe asked.

“Now you’re just being silly,” Harry said. “Now do you want to waste any more breath on gabbing, or are we going to put our backs into it?”

Without anyone making a response, the three treasure seekers began to dig like men possessed.

*        *        *        *

“What can ya hear, old buddy?”

“Shhh, Sundance,” Butch hissed.

Butch, Sundance and a small fistful of bunnies stood in a freshly dug tunnel running right alongside the chamber where Butch knew Samuel was being held captive. .

The Black Fathers had crossed paths with the bunnies many times, and many times the bunnies had thwarted Black Jim’s nefarious plans. The hideouts of the Black Fathers moved from time to time, but the rabbit scouts did a good enough job to keeping track of the changing lairs.

Butch pressed his ear against the tunnel wall. “I can hear talking,” he whispered. “It’s got to be the right place.”

“So what’s we gonna do now then, Butch?” Sundance said, in something that he seemed to believe was a hushed tone. “How’re we gonna bust him outta there?”

“How many times have we done this kind of thing, Sundance?”

“Oooh, haha, haha. Loadsa times, buddy. We’s a right pair of heroes, me ‘n you.”

“Exactly. How do we usually do rescues?”

“Ah, we uses the element’a surprise, don’t we.”

“Right. So this is going to be no different. Now if you’ll be quiet a minute. I can hear Jim.”

Through the very thin layer of dirt separating the tunnel and the chamber, Butch could hear the conversation clearly with his ear held gently against the wall.

“Ooh, lemme hear,” Sundance said, diving forward in his usual childish manner.

“Sundance! Nooooo– ”

Butch’s yell echoed through the tunnel as Sundance bounded into him, knocking them against the tunnel wall which cracked under the weight.

In a shower of stone and soil the pair of bunnies crashed onto the floor of the Black Fathers’ torture chamber, coughing and spluttering in the dust.

Butch groaned. “You know something, Sundance? Sometimes I could take my lucky carrot and show it right up your ar–”

“Well, well,” the melodious tone of Black Jim broke in. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Butch rolled over and jumped to his feet. He immediately noticed three things.

Only he and Sundance had fallen into the chamber, which meant the others had hopefully avoided detection.

Other than Jim, there were three other Black Fathers, outnumbering them two to one.

Finally, on the far side of the room, Samuel hung over a bubbling cooking pot by his ears on what looked like a winch mechanism.

“Why do you bunnies always think you can just charge in and ruin my plans?” Jim asked.

“Ah’ll tell ya why,” Sundance answered to Butch’s dismay. “ It’s because we’s bloody better than you, that’s why. Me and Butch here are rough and tough. So you’s all just say ya prayers.”

Oh my God, Butch thought. He really never knows when things have gone wrong, does he?

“Oh, I’m not sure I need to,” Jim chuckled. “You see, I think my prayers have been answered already. Jack, Board, Bull. Show them just how we deal with their kind. Give the bunny a bath!”

“No!” Butch yelled as Jack and Bull moved menacingly forward, and Board reached for the winch.

The story concludes soon in “For A Few Bunnies More.”