An antiquated rustbelt factory, now an enormous rabbit hutch, looms over a makeshift tent co-op, with lean-to’s as far as the eye can see. Murderous screams emit from within on consistent intervals. A rabbit dies every second or two, just as another ten more are born. A full-cycle butcher’s assembly line: rabbit is born, rabbit feeds on rabbit gizzards, rabbit fucks like a rabbit, rabbit grows fat, rabbit is eaten by human, human shits rabbit. It is a rabbit’s world. It is early September 2010. We find ourselves in Detroit. In the funhouse rearview mirror is a bit of over-industrialization and unsustainable wages…through the windshield is billowing sulfurous clouds and a post-apocalyptic future.
Two dirty, coal-dusted hobos sit in a burned out 2001 Ford Taurus wolfing down their rabbit rations. They wear tattered three-piece suits and dulled Italian-made shoes. One of them has a no longer working gold Rolex on his wrist; the time forever stopped at 11:11 since batteries are mostly scarce. When ever he looks at his watch he makes a wish.
"I wish I had a cheeseburger that isn’t made out of rabbit."
"What I would do for cheese that isn’t made out of rabbit milk."
"Good call. Rabbit anything has a very poor taste."
"It doesn’t seem that long ago that we were living it up, making mad loot, eating whatever we wanted, watching the Red Wings win Stanley Cups and witnessing a Tigers renaissance."
"Fall of 2008 was tough, when we lost our executive-level jobs at Ford, our wives left us and our houses were shuttered with plywood but I think the beginning of the end was watching Patrick Kane’s goal sneak through the pipes."
"That was like watching someone rape my mother. I can’t fucking stand Chicago."
"Aren’t the Sox in town too?"
"That’s the rumor circulating."
"Why don’t we try to head over to Comerica and see if we can get a spot at the peep-hole fence?"
"It’s too far and I’m too weak…you should go though. As you can clearly see the disease is spreading away from my torso to the extremities, this is usually not good. I shall be dead in a fortnight. Please, take my pistol with you just in case."
"But, but, but you only have one bullet left and we both know what you were going to use that for."
"I remember how happy you were when the Tigers got to the World Series back in 2006. If you’re going to get there safe you should take it. I have dealt with the pain of life and I shall deal with the pain of death just as honorably."
"Are you serious?"
"Look at me! Don’t look away! Look my in the eyes! I don’t know how many days I have left in this deplorable existence…I want my friend to watch a fucking baseball game and the only way you’re going to be able to do it, is if you take my fucking gun. Take it and get out of my sight before I change my mind!"
"I’ll bet the Tigers are in first place."
"That’s what they say but I think the King is just trying to build up morale, after all he needs man-power to run this shantytown…and he certainly doesn’t need depressing news filtering around making people emotionally worthless…Like if the Tigers were 10 games out for example."
"I’ll bet they’re in first place..."
After swimming through a sludge-filled asbestos-laden river rife with man-eating Asian carp, being chased through the streets by the realistic-equivalent of zombies and somehow escaping a slave labor camp he was unfortunately conscripted into (incidentally run by Kid Rock, although they now call him King Rock).
In order to escape he made friends with a deaf robot that no one made replacement parts for anymore and it didn’t have much time left amongst humanity. The robot’s last act of freewill was aiding him to freedom by guiding him through the labyrinthine sewage-pipe system. They bade a tearful farewell as the robots electronics slowly malfunctioned before both their eyes. The robot cried anti-freeze.
Lost amongst the overgrown jungle of downtown D-Town, a telepathic, mutated cat guided him through the maze of burned out crackhouses and known stomping grounds of large packs of wild pitbulls. The cat negotiated this service in return for the assurance from the man that he would provide an honorable death for his wearied and diseased feline body...
Kid rock pictured here wearing a rabbit fur coat.
He finally emerged unscathed just in time for the final game of the White Sox series.
Surrounding Comerica Park were two large concrete walls with security checkpoints, by placing his small pistol where the sun don’t shine he was able to smuggle it within the premises. Protecting the area was an elite, highly-trained mercenary force brandishing weaponry made of the highest technology; just to make sure the rabble didn’t hassle the players or the fans driving their foreign cars from Bloomfield Hills who could still pay exorbitant prices for tickets, beer and food.
He arrived early enough so he meandered his way to the peep-hole fence to get a spot to watch the game. As game-time crept closer it got tougher and tougher to keep his spot but keep his spot he did; despite the constant groping, sucker punches and all kinds of other effrontery directed towards his person.
He still didn’t know what place the Tigers were in but the same rumor was circulating that the Tigers were in first place with the White Sox hot on their heals. There was no way to know, however, since Detroit had for all intents and purposes been cut off and forgotten by the rest of America.
The game, as was the White Sox custom (little did he know), went to extras with the score tied 3-3. He couldn’t see Maggs anywhere but thought he must have needed a rest and he had to laugh at how uncanny it was that the left-fielder looked like a spitting image of Johnny Damon.
Some guy named Valverde got in trouble in the 12th letting 2 men on with 1 one out. Fuck if he didn’t see Manny Ramirez saunter out of the dugout to pinch-hit for what looked to be a leprechaun or some kind of elf who had been playing 2nd base. He wondered out loud how the Red Sox could have let him go, the Sox must have given up Contreras, Swisher and Dye for him since he hadn’t seen them all game.
Manny goes yard, Jenks shuts the Tigers down and the man uses the last bullet in his friend’s gun on himself but he couldn’t even do that right so he was eaten alive by a tribe of formerly middle class citizens but now cannibal farmers.