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Infinite Crises


 

The First Day
Page 1

Foggy visions of three squirrels licking each other clean are suddenly interrupted by a loud pulsating BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. A dark brown paw comes fiercely crashing down upon the electronic horror that’s causing the racket. Sheets are tugged and wrapped around the lazy body as snoring shortly ensues.

"Good morning, Love," whispers a soft purring voice, "Time for breakfast." Tired eyes open as a flopped-over ear is brushed out of the way, making visible a voluptuous feline of the female persuasion. She stands beside the bed wearing nothing but her more than perfect fur, a flawless onyx coat tinged in purple hue. Her body itself is lithe, well fed, groomed and toned. Out of the black, her eyes lay a heavy contrast to her fur. They are an icy blue with the cat-eye slit. She leans in, dangling a single carrot BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. The same brown paw slams down as breakfast vanishes. The lethargic ball of fur rolls to the other side of the bed and BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The little box of doom is knocked to the floor still sounding its battle cry. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. Matching paws fumble hurriedly toward the floor, groping for salvation. BEEP. BEEP. Click. The evil artifact is placed back upon its throne, as the tired thing beneath the sheets sits slowly upright and opens his deep cherry-wood eyes.

A reluctant sigh and a pair of boxers from the not-yet-putrid pile later, and the bathroom mirror finds itself being gazed upon by a sleepy bunny-boy of about nineteen. He's got that one ear perky / one ear floppy thing going on that somehow makes him seem to just ooze of curiosity. Noticing a particularly unpleasant morning taste, he squirts some toothpaste onto his brush and rinses it under a bit of warm water. As he stares into the sink watching bits of mint-green goop fall from his side-to-side brushing action, he thinks back on how the dentist always told him to use an up-and-down motion. After a bit of warm water gargling to ensure that no bits of minty-freshness will later interfere in any morning juice, the sleepy Lepus kicks his shorts into the corner and turns on a warm shower.

Half an hour later, a slightly more awake, greatly more dripping wet rabbit emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a purple cotton towel. He stands, five-foot-eleven, staring at himself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Glaring at his reflection, an eyebrow raises, a grimace forms, and then a nose twitches happily as he giggles at himself. The pathetically wet figure pats himself with the towel, drying his soaking fur, dark brown with tinges of lighter shades and even some orange here and there. Once moderately dry, the towel is wrapped back around his waist, and he props his feet under his desk for some sit-ups. Two sets of thirty. No time for anything more this morning. He’s only got fifteen minutes to get dressed and make it to his first college class.

Now he must make one of the most important decisions in any college career, what to wear the first day. The first decision is made to wear a pair of long dark-tan cargo pants. They are a little big on him, so the bottom few inches are rolled up above his shoeless hind-paws. The pants have an excessive amount of pockets on top of pockets, some of which seem to be specifically designed for glow-sticks, but all of them are empty now. A chain leads from his side belt loop to his back pocket, attached to a tattered Velcro wallet he’s had since he was thirteen. The next article chosen is an earth-toned, collarless, short-sleeved shirt with three buttons at the top. The shirt is striped in thick lines of brown and dark blue with smaller lines of white, gray, and light blue in-between. His little white and brown tail peeks out from under the back of his shirt and has a bit of a wiggle to it as he approves the outfit in the mirror.

After a quick look around to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, he grabs his book bag and heads toward the front door. He runs down the apartment building steps, around the corner, down more steps, around another corner, four flights in all before suddenly stopping. He‘s forgotten cologne. Normally he wouldn’t care. Normally he has no particular problem gracing the world with his own natural eau de lapin smell, but today is the first day and first impressions are everything. So around he turns, rushing back up each flight to his room, where he chooses the one in the orange bottle, because he figures of course that it best matches the color of his attire.

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