Slow Rotting Easter Bunny

Gerald, the slow-rotting Easter bunny, crawled from beneath a clump of juniper bushes and looked around. It was dead this morning. Daytonville was supposed to be party central, but apparently all the kids got a little freaked when Gerald took off his overalls and started setting fire to things.

The morning was particularly warm for May and this didn’t bode well for the brewing hangover. Gerald rubbed his face and hobbled towards the charred remains of the Highland Park gazebo. He saw the crumpled form of the effigy he and some guy named Pete had tried to build out of a Styrofoam cooler, a vodka injected watermelon and bright orange traffic cones lying just outside the zone of destruction. He vaguely remembered battering the effigy in its fake face with his ball of a tail when it refused to catch a fire.

Stretched and stained overalls hung from a tetherball rope twenty yards away. Gerald slowly hopped in that direction, absently scratching the fur of his belly. He noticed that the hair was a little more matted then normal. He looked down to examine the markings on his abdomen.

“God damn,” he muttered.

Apparently some kid had spray-painted “I’M EVIL” onto his chest and stomach. It was true, but still… Uncool.