White Hands, Pt. 4

I’m minding my own business, doing my thing in my burrow when I see the hunter comes waddling along like an overstuffed sausage on undersized legs. He’s got his blunderbuss shotgun thing, his garishly impractical camouflage outfit, and a murderous glint in his eyes. “C’mere, Mr. Cat-Bear!” he cries out, his the pitch of his voice rising into singsong. “Come out to play!”

I’m thinking two things once I see the guy. First one is, “Christ, won’t this guy ever learn that my burrow has more than one entrance?” and the second is, “Wait, didn’t we just do this?”

I don’t mean that in the day to day sense, you know? I’m not talking about the punch clock monotony of it all, where the hunter shows up, I wallop him, I go out for drinks with the rabbit, the duck, the other duck, and the mouse, and then I repeat it all the next day. I mean those moments where you get dressed to leave your home, you open the front door, you step outside, and then you’re right back in your bedroom pulling on your pants. Deja vu, I guess you would call it.

Even as I’m sneaking through my burrow to come out behind the hunter, I’m asking myself what’s going on. I just hit the dumb bastard with my mallet, and now I’m in my burrow and he’s fine? I mean, he’s always fine. I’ve seen the guy bounce back from being blown to bits, but always the next day. Always after a day’s gone by, always after the sun’s fallen and the bright pointy stars have risen in the sky and everyone’s snug in their beds but the bats, the monsters, and the weirdos. All of this is running through my head, and then it hits me. The one thing that’s different.

The white hands must have done it.


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