Foo thought the hardest part of being turned into a rabbit, wasn’t the carrots. In fact, try as she might to remember the meals she once ate, she still wanted those fucking carrots–every single light forsaken time the old man showed her one. That dirty old bastard.

Shriveled carrots. Wilted turnips. The skin of a grey potato even. She could not say no. It became a sort of game where Foo began to believe if she could say no, perhaps she could change herself back to what she once was. But no matter how much she refused to eat, nothing ever changed. She only just grew hungrier and hungrier and eventually, as her rib cage began to show, the old man would force her to eat. And that was unpleasant. Either way, she was eating the carrots.

And it was really starting to get her cotton tail into a fluff. 

But that wasn’t the only thing that made her thump her long feet. Top of the list, for example, was that her name wasn’t even Foo. And that wrinkled old  fart–wearing his little magical gown, and to her horror one day she discovered he wore nothing else–had called her Foo so many times that she had forgotten her real name! I mean, what kind of sinister bag of moldy gray potato skins could do such a thing?

Next on the list was the carrots. 

But near the carrots, maybe tied, was the fact that when she wasn’t performing, she had to spend her time in his stupid little blue hat, and it smelled like shit in there.

So yeah, being a rabbit sucked. And she had been one for far too long.

What she wanted was to be free, to run through the hills and eat grass…no, fuck, no! What in the blasted darkness! That’s not what she wanted. What she wanted was to….great, just great, now she couldn’t remember what she wanted either.

And such was the state Foo, not that she was ok calling herself that, found herself in on the day of the King’s coronation. 

The old man, which as luck would not have it was a name she could remember, hoped to make a few weeks worth of bread, and possibly more. The wares district in which he performed would be filled with those sorts of individuals who did not line up to see kings on parade–the sorts of people who would rather trounce the market place for stolen goods, who wouldn’t mind risking a coin or two for a sure bet on a few more. Salaman was good, and so was his act, and so she would be busy. Which for her, the star of the show meant very little. She’d still be fed with the withered carrots and leftover turnips that he bartered for when his coin was spent on his bread, and if he got lucky, ale. 

And so Foo sat alone in her hat, and when Salaman’s idiot nephew Liam, whom did not seem to have the intellectual fortitude required for speech, came to get her, she bit his hand. She always bit his hand, because he couldn’t do anything about it.

Because you can’t hurt the star of the show when you’re starving. 

Some things are simple that way. They just are and you have to accept them. Like being stuck as a rabbit, who lives in a filthy blue hat that smells like an old man’s ass.