Ben and the dead rabbit.

Ben looked down at the deceased corpse of his dead rabbit Punchy.

"Why Punchy?" he asked, "Why did you have to die?"

But Punchy didn't reply. This was because he was DEAD.

Ben had taken him to the museum earlier that day, to see the new Horse exhibit. Punchy had been looking forward to it all week. Punchy loved horses. They drove there in Ben's vintage "automobile." Punchy hated driving, but he loved the radio in Ben's "automobile." Punchy only loved or hated things, a trait that Ben couldn't stand. Punchy loved that Ben couldn't stand it.

"Punchy," Ben would often ask, "Just for once, could you just like something? Or feel indifferent about something?"

"I hate it when you talk like this." said Punchy. Punchy loved it when Ben talked like that, but hated admitting it.

Then they arrived at the museum. Punchy was so excited, he ran up the steps and into the building. He loved running up steps, but hated entering things. That's why he was still single. Punchy hated being single.

Once inside, he cartwheeled down the hall to the Horse exhibit. But on his way, he passed a security guard, who mistook Punchy for a Muslim, and shot him in the chest three times. Punchy lay on the shiny tile floor, his little body bleeding red blood in a big red bloody puddle. Ben ran over to him.

"Punchy! Punchy you have been shot!" Said Ben. "I know you hate being shot, Punchy."

Punchy turned his little head toward Ben, and smiled.

"Eh, it's not so bad, I guess."

"Really, Punchy?" Said Ben, with a tear in his eye.

"Just kidding, I hate it." Said Punchy.

Punchy loved to kid.