Gerald Makes It To Seattle

Gerald, the slow rotting Easter Bunny, shambled off of the Greyhound and into the rain slicked streets of Seattle. His exit from the bus was met with a rush of wind as the other passengers, en masse, exhaled sharply.

Reaching into his thrift store satchel, Gerald removed a bottom shelf flask of high octane rum and took a swig.

“I know white wine typically goes better with rabbit, but…” He looked around the dark sidewalk to see if anyone had noticed his biting wit. No one had.

“Seriously? Nothing?”

He squinted his eyes and attempted to focus to the East, noticing how the street climbing up the side of a hill appeared more like a wall from his vantage point. He had secretly been hoping that the “hill” in Capitol Hill was just a name. Tomorrow was the big day, and the syndicate and ordered him to this part of the world. He took another swig and slowly moved his head back and forth, looking for a local. A young Asian man approached and Gerald grabbed his arm.

“Which way is Capitol Hill?”

The young man screwed up his face and swung his head away as if something had just smacked him on the nose. He pointed to the wall road and roughly pulled himself away from Gerald’s grip.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Gerald moaned.

Halfway up said hill, Gerald had to stop and lean against a mailbox. He began retching up the rum, as well as most of the 40 he had chugged once the bus got through Portland. Coming from down the hill, Gerald could hear the sharp reports of a whistle. He felt his jaw pop as he clenched it. He stood straight, and looked up at the leather dressed gent blowing on a silver whistle with a coked up glee.

“Hey buddy,” he said.

The guy stopped in front of him, curtailing the shrill sound long enough to say, “you smell like feet and wet dog.”

Gerald grabbed the front of his leather shirt and said, “This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, and maybe you didn’t notice from the apartment buildings all around, but it ain’t no fucking rave either.”

A dirt-caked paw smacked the guy’s awe struck face and managed to lodge his little silver whistle into the back of his mouth. He looked as though he was trying to say something, but all that came out was a noise that sounded like tin drowning in a swamp.

Gerald continued on up, smiling slightly at the wet and choking tweets coming from behind. He reached into his satchel and spinning with a grace that was unexpected, and pitching with a power that minor leaguer would have envied, Gerald hurled a hard boiled egg, the color of a clear and early spring sky, straight at the guys face.

“Enjoy your friggin’ Easter!”