At some point between robbing a gang blind and deciding I deserved lunch, I realize something important.
I need an entourage.
Not because I need protection. I'm a toon. Protection is a genre choice.But because it would be funny.
So I multiply.
First comes the driver.
He materializes leaning against a pristine black cab, arms crossed, cap tilted just right. A classic Parisian taxi driver—except he's an anthropomorphic capybara, calm eyes, relaxed posture, the sort of being who looks like he's seen everything and judged none of it worth reacting to.
Next, a chauffeur.
A cow. Tall. Broad. Impeccably dressed. White gloves. Silent professionalism. He opens the door of a Lamborghini that absolutely does not belong in the year 2000.
Then the bodyguards.
Three of them.
A bear, massive, shaved head, suit stretched just a bit too tight around the shoulders.
Another bear, leaner, scar over one eye, scanning constantly.
A wolf, posture perfect, hands always just close enough to his jacket to suggest concealed weapons.
They don't just look trained.
They are trained.
Because it would be hilarious if someone tried to fight them and didn't realize—until too late—that they had genuine military experience, tactical coordination, and toonforce on top of it.
Toon logic agrees with me.
So it makes it true.
I remain myself.
An anthropomorphic cartoon rabbit in an absurdly expensive business suit. Black sunglasses. Perfectly tailored. Walking like I own not just the street, but the concept of the street. The kind of confidence that says I could buy this city and rename it after a tax loophole.
We head into one of the more expensive districts.
People stare.
Their brains immediately panic.
Animated animals. Suits. A supercar. Walking in daylight.
The collective conclusion is swift and unanimous:
Stress-induced hallucination.
That's the safe answer.
They cling to it.
They cling harder when my chauffeur calmly picks up the Lamborghini, folds it once, and slips it into his coat pocket before following us inside the restaurant.
Several people stop breathing for a second.
Then reality-saving denial kicks in.
Nope. Didn't happen. I need a vacation.
Fine Dining, Apparently
We enter.
The door opens.
And that's when denial falters—because hallucinations are not supposed to interact with doors.
There is a visible, building-wide moment of cognitive scrambling.
Eyes dart. Faces tighten. A thousand internal explanations race forward and collapse.
Finally, the winning theory emerges:
They're normal people.Stress is just making them look… like that.
Everyone relaxes.
Everyone pretends.
Everyone walks forward like nothing is wrong.
Inside, the waitstaff freeze.
Customers stare.
The bears and wolf radiate menace.The cow radiates concern.The capybara radiates peace.
I approach the counter.
I lean slightly forward.
And in the most pompous, silk-draped, old-money tone I can muster, I speak.
"I would like a dining area for all of my fellows here," I say. "By the window."
I gesture vaguely.
"One of each item on the menu. Do not stop until there are at least three portions of every dish on the table."
I pause.
Then add, gently:
"Immediately."
I place the briefcase on the counter.
Open it.
Turn it around.
The light catches.
Money glows.
Not metaphorically. Toonforce gives it a literal glow.
The restaurant inhales as one.
A thought ripples silently through the room:
If that rabbit is rich… then he isn't a rabbit.
Which leads immediately to:
I should be working less.I should know who this is.Why can't I remember his face properly?
Gold diggers stare, fascinated and furious with themselves for being "too stressed" to see clearly.
The waiters move.
Fast.
Consumption, Escalating
We are seated in a personalized section. Chairs larger. Table wider. Space cleared.
The first dishes arrive.
We eat.
Not politely.
Not normally.
Hands multiply. Mouths appear where mouths were not before. Plates vanish. Bones are crunched. Bread becomes swords. Knives clash. A bear duels a wolf using baguettes. The cow politely chews through porcelain.
The capybara drinks soup directly from the tureen.
Onlookers sweat.
This is fine, they tell themselves.This is definitely fine.
The second wave arrives.
It gets worse.
Faster. Louder. More animated. More impossible.
Someone whispers about a gas leak.
Someone else nods vigorously, grateful for the explanation.
By the time the final dishes arrive, the room is vibrating with collective denial.
We stop.
We look at the waiter.
We look at the food.
I stand.
I close the briefcase around everything—food, plates, cutlery, table, tablecloth, the concept of dinner itself—and it vanishes inside.
I reach back in.
Pull out a bar of gold.
Pure. Heavy. Glowing faintly.
I place it gently in the waiter's hands.
"Keep the change."
We leave.
The waiter stares at the empty space where the table was.
Then at the gold.
Then at nothing.
Medically speaking, his brain simply opts out.
He goes catatonic.
Fifteen Minutes Later
A park.
Sunlight.
Grass.
All of us—including the car—merge back into me in a neat, efficient fwump.
I sit on a picnic blanket that didn't exist a second ago, my belly cartoonishly round, my suit stretched, my ears drooping with contentment.
I burp.
Loudly.
"Excuse me," I say cheerfully, patting my stomach.
I gesture to the briefcase, now overflowing.
"Would anyone like to join me in my picnic?"