The Easter Bunny by Dale Patrick Smrekar

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EDITOR’S NOTE AND DISCLAIMER : The views expressed in this fiction are those of the author alone. Names of persons or brands or entities mentioned are for satire and used for adult humor only, liabilities arising out of which are those of the author alone. The publishers declines all responsibility for losses incurred through the mention of the same under fictional satire and fantasy story titled “The Easter Bunny” as written by “Dale Patrick Smrekar”. This author is solely responsible for the content, accuracy, and any potential legal claims or consequences arising from this fiction story. The publisher shall not be held liable for any damages, losses, or legal actions that may result from the use of copyrighted material, trademarked brands, or the portrayal of real people within this work.

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The Easter Bunny by Dale Patrick Smrekar

“That whole egg bullshit nearly put me out of business,” the large six-foot white rabbit said while sitting at a Comic Con bar sipping a cold nonalcoholic beer. “Not to mention the bird flu’s effect on my chickens. They’re all still scared to death… wearing masks… and they’re not mating. I need more chickens for production, but no one wants to get F’d by bird flu.”

“Bird flu is pretty much done,” I say.

“That’s not what my chickens think…”

A little boy, maybe five years of age, dressed in a green, hard-back, ninja turtle costume, runs up to him and interrupts the large rabbit. “Hey, it’s the Easter Bunny. The Easter Bunny is here at Comic Con,” he says with a squealing voice.

He’s jumping up and down, so much that his Ninja Turtle face mask flies off onto the Easter Bunny’s lap.

“Here kid, put the mask back on. You’re ugly.”

The kid frowns and looks back at his mother.

“That’s uncalled for, mister,” the kid’s normally dressed, thirty-something mother responds.

“If you kept your ugly kid under control, this would never have happened.”

 “I’m going to report you to security,” She huffs.

“Go ahead, lady. Report me. They’re gonna tell you the same thing. I’m cosplaying. I’m the Death Bunny from Horror Comics. Just role playing my character and having a non-alcoholic beer before I kill again. Can you please leave me alone?”

The lady grabs her kid and hurries away. Every ten feet or so, she glances back at the rabbit, who greets each glance with a fake effort to leap from his chair to chase after her. She quickens her pace back into the mass of costumed characters.

The white rabbit looks over to me and comments, “I love Comic Cons. They give me a chance to mingle with people.”

I’m eagerly writing down every word the rabbit says. He’s quite a talker. I’m a newspaper columnist. I write the human-interest column you see twice a week in our local newspaper.

“You’re exactly what my editor back at the newspaper wants, an interesting cosplay character.”

He just smiles.

“Great costume, even your bunny lips move. Those robotics must have cost you a ton.”

He doesn’t reply to my comment about his face. “You know rabbits don’t lay eggs?” he says.

I laugh.

“But young human kids think we do. Got any kids?” the rabbit asks.

“One, she’s twelve,”

“A little old for me,” the rabbit says.

“That was a creepy statement.”

“Well, she is. She no doubt stopped believing in the Easter Bunny, many years ago.”

I nod in agreement.

 “Most kids stop believing in me around five or six. That ugly little Ninja Turtle I just shooed away… this should be his last year. Man, did you see his buck teeth and all the freckles? He needs braces… bad. Hell, he could be a comic character. Call him, Toother. He’d make a great little killer kid gone bad.” The rabbit takes a long gulp of his beer.

“So, tell me about your Death Bunny character.” I ask, flipping to a new page in the small pad in hand, ready to write down his reply.

“There’s no Death Bunny. I just told the lady that just to F’ with her. It worked. But even if security had shown up, I would have given them the same reply. There’s so many comic books out there and so many odd characters. Security would have looked confused and just walked away. Everyone here lives a fantasy. Security isn’t about to interrupt their fun.”

“So, you’re what?” I ask.

“The Easter Bunny, as the kid said.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You asked, I answered,” The bunny says.  

I’m thinking, this guy is delusional

“Can I take a picture of you for my article?”

I’m thinking, mentally deranged makes for great human-interest articles.

“I prefer you didn’t.”

“Why? It’s just a costume.”

“Pull on my fur.”

I yank; it doesn’t have much elasticity. “You’ve got it glued to your body suit.” I say.

“Check my eyeballs. Look carefully. Are these human eyes?” He pulls a lower eyelid down for my inspection.

I check out his large, round, milk chocolate irises. “You’ve got special contacts.”

“Hardly,” he says.

I change the subject back to eggs. He’ll crack character answering a bunch of questions, they all do.

“So, where are you getting your eggs for the next Easter? Do you own the chickens, and who takes care of all of them? Must be millions of them. Who colors all your eggs? How do you get into all the houses to deliver the eggs?”

I hit him with a tsunami of questions. He just calmly sits there.

“I’ve got helpers,” he says. “They take care of the chickens. As far as delivering the colored eggs, it’s all now doorsteps and windowsills.

He took another gulp and then asks the bartender for another non-alcoholic beer.  

“You know, back in the day, I was like Santa Claus delivering to all the good little children. But human kids have changed. I think computers are to blame. Now they’re all mean little shits.”

“You’ve cut back then?”

“Some. Baskets at the front door are my go-to. It shaves time off the overnight inside delivery to millions.”

“That’s a lie. You can’t deliver all those eggs yourself.” I got him, I think.

He stares at me. It’s a hard stare. Maybe I erred, and he is the Death Bunny of comic fame. “Santa manages it,” the bunny says.

I zero in on the front door deliveries. “Look, if that’s true, there’d be a lot of camera shots of you delivering the baskets to all those front doors.”

“It get it done, that’s all you need to know.”

E stares at me  eyes momentarily narrow, lips curl upward displaying his large front teeth. I sense a need to change subjects.

The rabbit relaxes after a moment of silence. “Look, people are just happy to get their Easter eggs. Especially this past year when they cost way too much. Have you seen the price of eggs. They didn’t come down.” he says.

“Our country’s leadership says they’re gonna bring the price of eggs down.”

“That’s bullshit! They didn’t even know how to cope with bird flu.”

“True… so, what are you going to do about eggs for next Easter?”

“M&M’s has come out with Easter colored chocolate covered peanuts,” He puts down his bear bottle on the counter and pauses. “Contracted for a huge wholesale supply of them for this coming year. You know chocolate is a legal substitute for colored eggs in almost every country.”

“Didn’t know anything was illegal for Easter.”

“Depends on the country. For a while I delivered surplus children’s books. Man, that opened up a hornet’s nest. Seems some of the parents didn’t like the selections they received. Especially the one where Billy’s got two moms. That shouldn’t matter, but parents have gotten weird. Caused me to rethink this whole Easter crap. But hey, I’m the Easter Bunny. What else does a six-foot white rabbit do? Huh?”

“Can’t think of anything”

“Right…” He pauses to ask the bartender for another beer, then remarks “It’s kinda hot in here. Too many people. Makes me thirsty as hell.”

Just then a guy dressed up as Iron Man pushed in front of us and ordered a beer. As Iron Man grabs his beer, he turns to me.  “I noticed you interviewing the rabbit here. Why? I’m the real superhero here!”

“Are you sure? I just counted five of you wandering around this end of the convention center.”

Iron Man turns and bolts after grabbing his beer. The bartender laughs and places two beers in front of us. “No charge guys. That Iron Man’s been a jerk the whole day. Your beers are on me for that putdown.”

“Thanks,” we both say.

The Easter Bunny continues. “The whole chicken bird flu thing has ripped the shit out of my finances. I’m not Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.”

“They’re richer?”

“Way richer. Santa’s been around since the 3rd century. Me, the 13th Century. He’s got a thousand-year head start. Had his damn elves cranking out stuff way early.”

The rabbit takes another swig of his beer. “You know this non-alcoholic shit tastes just like the real thing. Which is great, cause I’m the Easter Bunny and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Sounds like you’ve been to a few AA meetings.”

“A bunch,” he says.

I think I’ve got him. “Wearing your costume?” I ask.

“As I told you before, it’s not a costume. I’m the real Easter Bonny.

And you attended the AA meetings like that?”

“They’re real accommodating at AA. They just want to get you off the juice. They even call me the Easter Bunny. They’re not judgmental.”

I give up breaking his character. I’m just gonna roll with this possible human-interest article. “Okay, who colors all the eggs?”

“Massive herds of rabbits handle coloring the eggs for me. It’s seasonal work. They roll in a week before Easter, then roll back out when it’s done. My lair becomes a real zoo during that week. Rabbit elbows and ass holes for as far as you can see. It’s not hard to find rabbit employees. You know… we multiply like rabbits.” I chuckle.

Of course, I’ve got that problem with hawks.”

“Hawks?”

“Yeah, they swoop in a grab a bunny or two from the egg line every other day or so during season, My rabbit helpers always get a little freaked when that occurs. I spend a lot of time consoling my rabbits and re-configuring production when that happens”

 ”

“No hawk netting?” I ask.

“I’m already financially strapped. Hawk netting costs big dollars. Besides, hawks are always getting rabbits. We’re delicious. It’s mother nature at work and as you know you can’t fight mother nature. Makes me glad I’m a huge six foot rabbit.”

The rabbit pauses for another swig of beer. Maybe I shouldn’t be giving you all this information. You, being a reporter and all. But hell, who’d believe you?”

“Got a point. If I submit this, my editor will probably think I’m nuts.”

“So, you moving on to a better cosplay character?”

I never got a chance to respond, because a couple of gorgeous, female space aliens with orange antennas interrupted my retreat from the bunny. Their costumes consisted of gobs of green body paint, strategically placed to cover their assets. I was surprised security had allowed them in? This is supposed to be a family event. The alien ladies giggled and Bam, they were on the Easter Bunny, their hands traveling everywhere. He just laughed and squeezed some asses. I panicked figuring security was going to break this up and toss us all, but no one seemed to care. The busty aliens then kissed him hard and deep, before wandering off to alien handle some other characters. I apparently wasn’t of interest to them, but I was aroused.

“You’re obviously a babe magnet. I think I’ll stick around for a few more minutes. Been single a long time. My ex got tired of playing mommy.”

“Sorry to hear that. So, I guess you could use a hot little space alien in your life right now?”

“Yeah, in my dreams. Look at me, I’m forty-five, thirty pounds overweight, wear these clunky glasses and on a good day, my hair resembles Einstein’s. You think I’m getting any hot alien action looking like this? I mean you sawit…. I didn’t exist to those space aliens. Maybe that’s my story. Middle-aged man deals with rejection at Comic Con.”

“Here, give me your camera. I’ll take a picture of you, standing all alone at Comic Con,” the Easter Bunny says.

I pose. He snaps, as a large crowd of comic creatures passes behind me. He takes two more photos just to be sure and hands my camera back to me. Maybe I’ve got my column.

“So, Santa Claus is rich or something?” I ask.

“Rich as hell. But like every billionaire, it’s never enough.”

“He’s a billionaire?”

“It’s an assumption…  all the toys he manufactures for the toy companies.”

“Can’t he help finance your operation?”

“You ever ask a billionaire for money?”

“No.”

“Asking Santa for a loan was the Tooth Fairy’s accountant’s idea. He said my finances didn’t add up, I was hemorrhaging money. Like I didn’t know that already.”

“So how’d it go with Santa?”

“Not so well. He used to be just a friendly, jolly old fat guy. But something’s happened. I’ve heard rumors. Some bad things.”

“Like what?”

“I need to keep my mouth shut about Santa. All I’ll say is he wanted to charge me 33% interest on a seasonal loan. Santa, the guy who gives everyone presents, can you believe that?”

I shook my head.

“He’s nothing but a damn loan shark. He even had the gall to suggest that if I can’t afford his loan rates, I should just deliver small colored potatoes next Easter. Live within your means, he said. Then the fat bastard laughed and laughed so much he shook like a bowl of jelly, then slammed the door shut behind me. What an A hole. Image an excited young kid hunting for colored eggs and finding colored potatoes. Boom, that’s the end of Easter and me.”

“Colored potatoes,” I say. “That’s not right. How about the Tooth Fairy? How’s he making ends meet?”

“Well, that’s an interesting story. For one thing, he’s got a cheaper lifestyle. The going rate for a tooth is only a dollar. My Easter eggs have to be hard-shelled and have a great shelf life to survive Easter egg hunts. The chickens who lay them are expensive and they’re inconsistent egg layers. Special chickens, special eggs. I’ve gotta have a lot of them. I’ve tried getting my hands on some special young roosters to replace my aging roosters, but some billionaire has cornered the market on them. He’s priced them like Fort Knox gold bars. I think the billionaire is Santa, but I can’t prove it.  I’m being priced out of the market. And of course there’s the fear of another round of bird flu.”

“You seem to have Santa on the brain,” I say.

“Just telling you what’s happening.”

 I continue my Tooth Fairy line of questioning. “Is the Tooth Fairy an option for financial help?”

“He’s wealthy, but careful with his money. He does however have an interesting side hustle. He’s taken to stealing gold teeth and chains from rappers.”

“Hadn’t heard that.” I write that down in my little booklet for some reason. I don’t believe the rabbit, but I’ll check this out later. There’s gotta be police records.

“Yeah, on a good night the Tooth Fairy can lift a hundred thousand. Maybe even two,” the Easter bunny says. “Most of the rapper’s gold teeth are just dental attachments for their videos. Same with the gold chains. Used only for their videos. Our joint accountant says that makes them a business write off. Once done, they set them aside somewhere or give them to their favorite Hos as gifts.”

I gave him a wide-eyed look because of his ho terminology.

“Whoa! Understand, man, I’m not disparaging women, just using the rapper’s language.”

I nodded in agreement. “Gold is at all-time highs,” I say.

“That damn Tooth Fairy has become a wealth magnet,” the Easter Bunny says and takes another swig of his beer.

“He’s not afraid of getting caught? I mean, that’s stealing. He’s nothing more than a common criminal.”

“A successful one,” the bunny says. “Look, rappers don’t ever want to admit they’ve been robbed. Hurts the tough-guy image. Especially if it’s by an imaginary Tooth Fairy. Try telling the cops the Tooth Fairy robbed me. Drake, Bust-a-Rymes, Kanye West. Little Jon, T-Pain, Nelly… he’s supposedly hit them all. Even Snoop Dog. But you never hear about it. They zip the lips to keep their image and write it off as a business loss.”

“Hasn’t the tooth fairy… hasn’t he ever been caught? You know… in the act?”

“Having sex or stealing from rappers? He’s never talked to me about his sex life. Although I can image his wings might make that an interesting conversation.” The rabbit grinned and his bunny eyebrows lifted.

“Stealing from rappers,’ I replied.

“He’s been caught in the act a couple of times. But he’s got those wings. If they’re religious, they think he’s an angel. Otherwise, they think they drank too much alcohol, smoked too much weed or sniffed too much up their noses. Four am or so is the magic time to hit up rappers. Their defenses are down, and their drug-induced hallucinations are at their highest. Makes them unreliable witnesses.”

“Isn’t he gonna get mad at you for mentioning his little side hustle?”

“He’s got a big mouth, brags about it to all his friends.”

“Maybe you should try hitting rappers?”

“You think rappers are just gonna let a six-foot rabbit rip them off? I’m not like a potential angel figure. They’ll blow my head off.” The Easter Bunny takes another sip, then became silent and looks off in the distance.

I take his silence as a sign that this interview was over. “Hey, look. I need to be going. We both know I can’t use any of this in my article and I’ve got deadlines.”

“No worries, I wasn’t expecting you to feature me.”

Just then a doppelgänger, Lynda Carter Wonder Woman character, pauses between us at the bar counter.

“Excuse me, boys. I need a dog and a coke. I got a very short thirty-minute break, then it’s back to work.”

“You working here?” the Easter Bunny asked.

He gave her a full head to toe gander. She noticed, smiled, but didn’t seem to care.

“Yeah bunny, I’m working here. What you supposed to be?”

“The Death Bunny from Horror Comics.”

“Never heard of you or the comic book.”

“It’s new.”

“Oh,” she said.

“That’ll be nine bucks, Emily.” The counter guy said.

  “She reached into a belt pouch and handed over a ten. Keep the change, Jules.”

“You two know each other?” the Easter bunny asked, looking back and forth at both people.

“Name only. I’m a regular on the summer Comic Con circuit. Last three years. When school ends, I morph into Wonder Woman and work for DC Comics.”

“School?” I said, sensing a story.

“Who are you?” She asked me.

“Rusty Anderson, write the human-interest column for the local paper. I’m here interviewing the Easter Bunny.”

“Death Bunny, please,” the Easter Bunney corrected me.

She shook hands with me, then the Easter Bunny, then rubbed the luxurious white fur on his arm.

“Man, that’s a great costume, feels real.”

“Thanks.”

“You mentioned school,” I say.

“I’m a teacher, English Lit., Booker T. Washington High School. At least for maybe one more year. The salary sucks. Did you know I make about as much being Wonder Woman during the summer as I do teaching all year? There’re no papers to grade, no book reports, no lesson plans, and I get to travel. And when Comic Con shuts down for the day… no responsibilities. I’m thinking of making it full time. I can always go back to teaching.”

“You really look like that Lynda Carter Wonder Woman.”    

“That’s cause I’m a member of the lucky sperm club. I’m something like a third or fourth cousin of hers. Got gifted the whole package of Lynda Carter’s physical characteristics.”  She lifted up her hefty bosom with her two hands for emphasis, smiled, then picked up the dog and coke and walked away to a railed off secluded bench marked Comic Con staff only. We both watched her walk away. About halfway to the bench, she looked back at us and smiled, then found a seat on the bench.

“Sweet,” said the Easter Bunny.

“So, what are you going to do?” I asked the Easter Bunny, once I took my eyes off of Wonder Woman. “I’ve got that twelve-year-old, and she likes her Easter Eggs.” 

“What am I gonna do? Fuck, I don’t know. The kids expect their eggs. Unless I get a better business plan, I’m done. I guess I’ll have to take the hitman’s deal.”

“Hitman? What do you mean?”

“Damn, should’na mentioned that.”

“Huh, Hitman?

“That’s the rumor. Santa’s a hit man in the off season. Can you believe that?”

I shooke my head, no.

 “The man doesn’t need the money but likes to keep active.  He’s only Santa during late November and December. The elves do everything else. They say he was literally forced into it. Mrs. Claus was getting real bitchy, what with all the reindeer poop he constantly tracs into the house. She told him to get the fuck out of the North Pole and get himself a summer job. Word is, they’re not getting along after all these years. It happens, I guess. We rabbits aren’t monogamous, so I have no clue about ongoing relationships.”

“They’re hard,” I reply.

“Yeah I guess. Supposedly, Santa considered professional wrestling, but he was tired of always being the good guy. So, he decided to give contract hits a try. Found he enjoyed the challenge of righting wrongs and avenging people’s pain. But it’s changed him. He’s developed a real dark side. He’s no longer that jolly fat fucker.”

The rabbit cough laughs, and beer spurts out his nose.  

I’m so damn jealous,” the bunny continues, wiping the beer from his snout. “Everyone else is successful and I’m struggling. These damn birds are so expensive. Sucks!”

Seems like you’ve made a bunch of bad decisions.”

“I have.”

“So, what are your options?”

The Easter Bunny looked back over at Wonder Woman wolfing down the last of her foot long hot dog. “Retirement. Maybe I get with Wonder Woman over there and have a bunch of bunnies.”

“Seriously,” I said.

“Well,… if I can’t get by this next year on the M&M’s candy eggs, then sooner or later I’m gonna to have to do business with Santa. Nothing jolly about whacking people.”

“You’re pulling my leg about Santa.” I say and turn to walk away.

“Hey, it’s the scoop of the year,” the Easter Bunny says to me. “Maybe of all time.”

I step back to the bunny for a moment, “Hey bunny, you want me to commit career suicide with your Santa is a hitman story? Are you nuts? I’ll be known forever as the reporter who killed Christmas.”

“Just giving you a scoop. What you do or don’t do is your option.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Want another option?”

“What?” I said, as I again turned to walk away.

“Wonder Woman over there. You just gonna walk away from her?”

“I thought you wanted to make a bunch of bunnies with her?”

“That was a joke. I’m a funny bunny. Seriously, go ask her out. No kids but wants them. She’s given up on dating. Hasn’t gone on a date in two years. Classy, but hair-trigger horny. Well-read and well…  look at her. She’s gorgeous.”

“So now you’re the Easter bunny matchmaker?”

“I just know a lot of things. After all, I’m the Easter Bunny. Besides, she’d make a great column in your paper. A lot better than that your loser reporter can’t find a date at Comic Con story. Write that one and no woman will ever go out with you again. Now that’s real career suicide. Go ahead, man. Take a chance. Go say hi to Wonder Woman.”

I followed up on his suggestion and asked Wonder Woman if she’d consent to an interview. She said yes to that, and a lot of my other questions. Now every year on Easter Sunday, Emily, my Wonder Woman wife, and I sit on our front porch around four a.m. with cups of hot chocolate and cookies waiting for the Easter bunny’s personal special delivery for our three kids. We’ve become good friends with the rabbit. Who knew the Easter bunny would lead me to Wonder Woman.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Dale Patrick Smrekar 2025