Father O’Malley, a man whose faith was as strong as his fondness for gin, awoke with a gasp. He was surrounded by…rabbits. Hundreds of them. Giant, fluffy, strangely judgmental rabbits, all wearing tiny, priest-like collars.
“Father,” one particularly plump rabbit boomed, its voice surprisingly baritone, “your sermon on the virtues of moderation…was lacking.”
Father O’Malley, still clinging to the vestiges of a gin-fueled slumber, stammered, “But…but I spoke for an hour! On the perils of overindulgence!”
“Indeed,” another rabbit chimed in, adjusting its miniature mitre. “But your illustrative anecdote, involving a particularly potent batch of blackberry gin and a misplaced chalice…we found it…uninspiring.”
Panic flared in Father O’Malley’s chest. The rabbits shuffled closer, their beady eyes gleaming with disapproval. He tried to speak, to explain, to plead for mercy, but all that came out was a mumbled, “Sorry, bunnies?”
A particularly large rabbit, adorned with a tiny, bishop-like hat, hopped forward. “Father,” it said gravely, “we’ve decided on a new penance.”
Father O’Malley braced himself for some arduous task, perhaps weeks of silent prayer or a pilgrimage across the moors. Instead, the bishop rabbit pulled out a miniature bottle…a tiny, exquisitely crafted bottle of…blackberry gin.
“One sip,” the bishop declared, “for every misplaced chalice.” Father O’Malley’s eyes widened. He looked at the hundreds of rabbits, then back at the bottle. His nightmare, it seemed, had just gotten a whole lot more…interesting.
