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voice dropped to such a quiet whisper, Doris had to stretch out her neck to get closer to hear. “Some they eat, cracking them open, guzzling them down like the free drinks at a trailer-trash wedding reception. Some they stuff whole into their fat cheeks like crazed carnivorous chipmunks.”
    “To eat later?” It was sick, but Doris had to know.
    “You’d think so, but no, those furry little monsters have crueler plans. They, well . . .they boil the eggs alive,
then decorate them with their gang colors and garish graffiti. Then in the dead of night the weekend after the next full moon, they hide them all around the yard, atop fenceposts, under flower pots, in rain spouts, and in the mailbox, anyplace where they can be found and terrorize the survivors. Then, somehow . . . no one knows how . . . they make the little human children go hunt for the desecrated, dead eggs, crack them open, peel away the shell from the boiled unborn and eat them while surrounded by chocolate idols of the easter BunRab’s leering visage.”
    “How ghastly,” mumbled Doris, suddenly afraid to look at her own eggs nestled under her, lest she find they had been tagged with some hideous gang sign while she had dozed the night before.
    Clementine nodded vigorously. “Those BunRabs are mean, sick mother . . .” She blushed beneath her wings. “Well, they hump anything that moves, relatives included, the carnivorous little pervs.”
    Doris was quiet for a while as she pondered the sick, cruel world. She was nesting eggs right now in an attempt to bring innocent chicks into that world, but she had no idea how to protect her eggs or her chicks from the bloodthirsty butchery of the BunRabs. She thought so long and hard about the bleak fate that awaited her and her flock that Clementine fell asleep beside her. Finally, Doris woke her wise old aunt up.
    “What can we do?” she asked.
    “About what, dear?” came her aunt’s reply.
    “About the killer BunRabs,” said Doris. “How can we stop them?”
    “Squawk and peck,” replied Clementine as her head nodded down and she fell back asleep. “All you can do is squawk and peck.”
    On the night of the new moon before the vernal equinox,
the night on which the carrot-crazed fiends would have their greatest night-vision advantage, the killer BunRabs came from the east. Multiplying in number as only BunRabs can, they peeked out of culverts, crawled out of holes, scurried out of groundcover, and hopped out of woodpiles.
    Doris was the first to know they were coming. While the rest of the henhouse slept the sleep of the soon-to-be-rotisseried, while the cock still doodled the night away roosting on a fence post where he could avoid the dewy damp of the alfalfa sprouts of the field below, Doris was awake. She had been awake since the cock had last crowed, waiting in trepidation for the night of the lepus to begin. The rest of the flock slept, but this was no time to be chicken.
    Doris wasn’t sure exactly what slight alteration of the night’s gestalt heralded the BunRabs’ evil presence. It could have been the subsonic, rhythmic thrum of the padded, furry rabbits’ feet as the fearsome critters hopped silently in time through the cornfield east of the farmyard. It could have been the gentle breeze stirred by a thousand, nay a million, tiny BunRab noses wiggling and flaring in unison to suck in the breath of life to power their unholy quest for death and destruction. It could have been that the hypersonic background wail of the carrots and other root vegetables ceased as the omnivorous varmints forsook their vegetative delights for a maniacal dark night of carnivorous revelry. But most likely it was that a mother hen, once it has identified a threat to her offspring, has a sixth sense that no science experiment can detect and no fairy tale can explain—a sixth sense that squeezes the adrenal gland that makes all mothers sit bolt upright and spring up to the defense of their babies no matter the