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tea and bread and jam. The Dormouse folded his arms, pushed the dishes aside, and laid his head down on them. The Hater picked up his teacup and smiled.
     
    “Ah ha!” he said. He pulled the bloodied napkin from his mouth, revealing a black hole in his perfect white wall of teeth. “I was wondering where you got off to.”
     
    He held his missing tooth up in the light. A spot of tea ran down the white silk of his gloves, staining them brown and red.
     
    “It was there the whole time,” mumbled the Dormouse.
     
    “So it was,” said The Hater. He noisily jammed the tooth back in place. Then bit at the air a few times as though testing it out. Smiling, he turned to the Dormouse. “You were about to tell us a story, friend.”
     
    “Very well,” the Dormouse muttered. “Once upon a time there were three sisters. Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie. They ate treacle and lived at the bottom of a well—”
     
    “What?” Alice balked. The confusion and chaos of her hosts was starting to wear on her. She was having problems keeping everything straight in her own head, as though their madness was rubbing off on her.
     
    “Confused?” said The March Hair. “Don’t be. It’s just the garbage floating around us.”
     
    “What’s a treacle?” Alice said.
     
    “Molasses,” said The March Hair. “You know; black tar .”
     
    “Yes, but this was Treacle of Andromachus ,” said the Dormouse. “Very tasty.”
     
    “You can’t live off molasses,” Alice said. “It’ll make you sick.”
     
    “And so they were,” replied the Dormouse sweetly. “They were very sick.”
     
    “So, it made them sick but they kept eating it anyway,” said Alice. “Doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any sense at all.”
     
    “You’re right,” said the Hater. “Doing something that makes you sick is a silly thing. Regardless of how good you feel when you do it .”
     
    “Some people never learn,” the Dormouse said. “Some people are trash.”
     
    “There, there,” said The March Hare. “Have some more tea, Alice.”
     
    She looked down at her empty cup.
     
    “I haven’t had any,” she said. “I can’t take more .”
     
    “You mean you can’t take less ,” said The Hater. “It’s easy to have more than nothing.”
     
    “What?” Alice said. She felt like she was drugged. The whole situation was overwhelming. “Nobody asked you.”
     
    “Ha!” cried The Hater. His smile was a crooked gash across the bottom of his face, but beneath that gash laid pearls. “Who is making personal comments now?”
     
    Alice shook her head.
     
    “The story—,” she said. “Why did they live at the bottom of the well?”
     
    “Yes,” the Dormouse said. “They lived there because it was a treacle well. And because someone had tossed them to the bottom. Nobody loves bad girls, you see. They have to take care of themselves.”
     
    “Oh, she knows,” said the March Hare. “All too well, don’t you, blond girl?”
     
    Alice answered with a confused look.
     
    “Simply put,” said The Hater, “They live at the bottom of the well because they must live at the bottom of the well, because if they didn’t, then the story ceases to exist and all of this, every bit of it , has been for naught. Now please, shut your mouth so my friend can continue his story.”
     
    “They were learning to draw,” said the Dormouse. “They drew all sorts of things. Anything beginning with the letter M. Mouse traps. Bleeding Muffs . Moustache rides. Muchness . Ever seen a drawing of a muchness, pretty plaything?”
     
    Alice shook her head, no.
     
    “I don’t think—,” she said.
     
    “ THEN DON’T FUCKIN’ SPEAK! ” The Hater screamed, jumping to his feet and slamming his fist on the table. “ IF YOU CAN’T FORM A SINGLE FUCKING THOUGHT IN THAT BOUNCY RETARD HEAD OF YOURS YOU KEEP YOUR CUNTING MOUTH FUCKING SHUT! ”
     
    “You know what ?” Alice said, standing quickly. She knocked the chair back behind