The Holy Snail has been making waves again. Though to be fair, when has it ever not? One might be excused for thinking this creature’s exalted name has something to do with Christianity, but forgive and forget has never been a part of its doctrine. For centuries now they have continuously spouted bile-laden diatribe after bile-laden diatribe about how, more languid than even the Tortoise, they would’ve been the perfect competitor to illustrate that slow and steady wins the race. Despite the snail – as they were called then, no capital letters or qualifiers just yet – issuing many a challenge, these went unheard above all the, well, what bunnies are best known for. ‘Not only sluggish, I’m literally a slug!’ it would scream to no avail. Spilling the beans on their ability to secrete a, if not poisonous then certainly toxic, puddle of enzymes that would ‘fuck that rabbit right up. Just get a little bit ahead of him and lay that shit in his path.’ And The Holy Snail has thousands of ideas on how to do so. Spending their days mounted on a rock, they now pontificate upon these to whomever will listen. Which weren’t many in the beginning, to be honest, as most passersby could not hear their tiny voice. Solved when The Holy Snail began constructing megaphones out of the shells of kin who had doubted its prowess. And best not ask why these portable homes suddenly went vacant. Through these vessels of vengeance The Snail shouts of The Hare’s hubris in announcing ahead of time that he’ll take a long nap and still win. Playing right into whatever passes for a mollusk’s hands. For The Holy Snail’s master plan, the one they keep returning to, is to discharge directly in front of the resting rabbit’s body, and in a large enough quantity that it would be impossible to avoid contact, thus kicking off contagion. Another reason for an excessive amount is so Boastful Bunny actually notices the sticky stuff and, unaware of its origin, will deem the mess a nocturnal emission. Made extra embarrassing by occurring amidst daylight hours and in full view of the public. Shame being a key component in The Snail’s psychological warfare. Their own arrogance and need for ego affirmation has long since discarded concerns that those large rabbit ears might catch wind of these intentions. It is the build-up of all the unreleased physical bile that seems to fuel our ghastly gastropod towards immortality, providing the grounds for the epithet ‘Holy’. For whilst the average land snail can live up to 25 years, this bad ass mofo has been around 100 times that long. Their tenacity eventually gaining them an audience.
When not on their soapbox – bleach free, of course – The Snail keeps up with the latest scientific trends that may also propel them to victory. You wouldn’t believe how excited they were at the invention of jet propulsion, planning to hide such a pack in their shell, any giveaway noise presumably covered by the starter pistol. Speaking of firearms, The Holy Snail has also been in talks with the Fudd family for some time now, figuring out optimal assassination locales along the route, though terms have yet to be agreed upon. Elmer fetching a high fee these days.
From across the ocean we hear further cries denouncing Aesop’s delusions. The Pugnacious Platypus has on a number of occasions called The Hare ‘chickenshit’ for declining to extend the race into the sea. Platypuses being semi-aquatic, what he proposes is something along the lines of an Iron Man. And venomous to boot, The Pugnacious One has wily schemes of his own. Ever observant of emerging trends, The Dotcombat Wombat has announced that if Aesop is bringing business Down Under, they too would like ‘a piece of Peter Cottontail’, with plans to film the whole ordeal for a webseries.
‘And what of perseverance?’ the world’s uglier animals can be heard to cry out. The Matamata Turtle – cousin of that OG Tortoise, by marriage – Purple Frog, Naked Mole Rat, and Surinam Toad have all managed to keep their bloodlines alive for millennia whilst bearing the loneliness and other difficulties incumbent upon such solitary critters. It’s easy to find the will to live when you are celebrated for taking part in athletic competitions, they argue. Not so much when you’re a beast burdened by non-beauty. Warthogs will chime in on this topic too, despite possessing surprising speed and having been infamously ostracized from the community ever since The Ramones wrote that song about them.
Regardless of any message or moral the garrulous Greek was trying to impart, a host of other creatures aspire to get in on the action. At least thirty separate skunks the world over have declared they would ‘stank that hare right off course’. It is understandable why Aesop did not want to take their meetings. And foxes, wolves, coyotes, and owls – each a natural predator of the rabbit – have been known to throw down the gauntlet at various points. Owls?, I hear you ask. Isn’t that unfair with their being winged creatures and all? Well, it seems that one evening before the contest The Hare was shooting his mouth off at his local gastropub, Hutch & Sons, and, taking umbrage, wise Mr. Owl put his lollipop in the ashtray to stroll over and challenge the braggart. ‘I’ll lick your behind in any race, just you name it’. The Hare had to accept, his pride was on the line. And thank the Lord no lions were around. Suicide Blonde later came on the jukebox, inspiring said Hare to dye his fur for camouflage. Though this particular match-up never did get off the ground. Each party soon realizing they had had too much to drink, and whilst vague hostilities continue to hang over, the starting whistle has remained silent. But The Hare, claiming to be enamored with his new ’do, kept this disguise for some months until Mr. Owl migrated for the snowy season.
And he’s not the only aerial adversary. Many insects have also expressed a wish to throw their tiny hats in the ring. A consortium even coming together to arrange a Bugs Versus The Bunny extravaganza. Daredevil dragonflies, hasty hornets, the briskest of boll weevils, whizzing wasps, and 800-meter medalist mosquitos were abuzz with anticipation. The Itsy-Bitsy Spider was invited to the qualifiers but, in the face of such an unusually public activity, social anxiety had her immediately climb a water spout and upon reaching the top perform a bizarre rain dance. The weather was not to be wheedled, however, and she did not move on to the next round.
With Aesop and The Hare unresponsive to the insect kingdom’s proposals, certain Diptera got it in their heads to challenge His Holiness, see if indeed The Snail was not just all talk. Little did these provocateurs know what they had in store. Despite roping in specialists, both glandular and aeronautical, The Holy Snail was unable to get its secretions airborne, and was thus left to concoct other means of victory. What would develop into a most astonishing scheme. For shortly off their marks, a splendid black beauty of a horse bolted in from out of nowhere, the Snail hitching a ride, and winning the whole shebang in a matter of seconds. Crowd and competitors were furious, the cicadas hissing up quite a stir. Journalists compared the aftermath to the reception of Stravinsky’s The Rite Of Spring, but that could very well be due to the excess of emergent insect life. Geena Goldblum’s speculation in The Daily Buzzette, however, is spot on. Had just a single horsefly gotten their act together and registered for the race, what with their crazy speeds of up to 90 mph, the finish line would’ve told a different story. Poetic even, if these bloodsuckers were to beat an actual horse. The Holy Snail, pointing to the fact there is nothing in the rulebook barring use of our equine friends, still claims they had every right to do so. The controversy now comprises a significant section of their vitriolic rants. A follow-up piece by Goldblum branding the event ‘The Mare-A-Thon Scandal’, informed us that a team of lawyers has since become involved. The Hare called in to testify, sparking rumors that he might countersue for slander. His legal team, as tricksterish as their client, attempting to quash this line of conjecture with the words, ‘Tort, us?’