((A/N: School's out, which explains why I'm finally updating. Now this story is alive and well, and I am sure I won't write myself into a corner like I did at the end of chapter fifteen. We have entered a new era in this fic, hence signified by the changing of the form of chapter titles. I am eternally grateful to Silver Meteor, for getting this story back on track and writing almost all of the first part of this chapter. This sixteenth chapter is dedicated to her!))

((A/N 2: I'm thinking of going back and editing parts of this fic after I'm done, so it will make more sense. All in favor?))

FOR THE RECORD: I do not own the Trix Rabbit, Veggie Tales, Star Trek, Monty Python, "One Week" by Barenaked Ladies, smish, James Bond, or Dr. Lecter. Will all these things actually be in this chapter? Maybe. Will there be more copyright infringements that I didn't catch? Definitely.

It all made perfect sense. While some people might be severely confused if they witnessed their psychologist smished by a cow (not to mention that smish wasn't actually a word), for Randolph it was perfectly clear.

And in that sense, he had the right to be terrified right about now.

For it occurred to Randolph, a cow falling from above could be no accident. Therefore, it was murder. And why murder Bill Shatner, humble psychologist? Because he wasn't a psychologist, that's why. He wasn't even the closely related but not entirely the same psychiatrist. Yes. There was only one possible reason that Shatner would need to be assassinated, and that reason was:

William Shatner was a superbly secretive servicing secret super spy.

He was killed to stop him from his mission.

Oh, the alliteration!

And did Randolph know what that mission was? Of course he did. You don't spend your entire life as a rabbit and not learn a few things. Especially about alliteration.

Shatner must have been trying to relay an important secret message to Randolph. Randolph didn't know what the message was about or why Shatner chose him, but surely the prescription that Shatner left with him as the merciless cow turned him into a spy pancake held the key.

But this left Randolph in a very dangerous situation. Who know what important secrets the message held? And if the French knew that Randolph had been present at the murder of Shatner (as he was sure they did—with great power came great outrageous French accents), they would come after him to shut him up. Permanently. As in, for good. As in, no longer talking. They were going to kill him, okay?

Randolph knew his only hope was to retrieve the message. After all, he owed it to Shatner, didn't he? Where would he be now, without Shatner's kind psychological help? That strange super spy really helped him. Or would have helped him, had Randolph been able to come to his sessions a little longer. Probably.

Randolph hugged his large trench coat to himself, and titled his large green fedora hat so that it obscured his face a little more. Rest in peace, my dear...psychologist. I will not fail you, Double-0-Shatner.


Randolph made his conspicuous way to the pharmacy counter, to meet his fate.

An-ray-olph-day walked into a large supermarket pharmacy. Those supermarket pharmacies that really are not…real pharmacies. More like…general brand pharmacies. Oh, you know what I mean.

Anyway, one bunny walked into a bar…err, I mean, Randolph walked into the pharmacy, certain that Shatner's message would soon be revealed. He handed the nondescript pharmacist his prescription, and waited.

The pharmacist squinted at the paper, took out his glasses and squinted some more. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "darn doctor's handwriting." He got a young wipper-snapper to read it for him. Finally, the pharmacist handed him a bottle of pills.

"Here you go, sonny. 42 milligrams of Spork treatment."

Now, Randolph was sure that wasn't right.

"Um," he said uneasily, "I don't think it's Spork treatment."

"No?" said the pharmacist. "You don't think it's Spork treatment? Oh oh oh. Well. Obviously we're wrong. There's no way the prescriber or the prescribee could be responsible, right? Well, let's just try again." Randolph really couldn't tell if the pharmacist was joking or not, so he just twisted his face into a half-smile, half-frown. The pharmacist took this as some kind of insult. Just because the ill-disguised bunny needed Spork treatment didn't give him the right to go grimacing at people. Especially at a supermarket pharmacist.

Huffily, the pharmacist got another young person to decipher the encoded prescription that may or may not have been written by a chicken. Since the only chicken doctor in the world was Chinese and tended to go by the ever alliterating "Chickity China, the Chinese Chicken," the pharmacist had a feeling that the doctor who wrote the prescription was not a chicken, but an impersonator. Like this rabbit fellow. And so, as the story was brought full circle, and as the author spent three minutes on another meaningless paragraph, the pharmacist—who would eventually need a name, but would never receive one—finally brought out another bottle of pills.

"90 milligrams of Pock treatment. Guaranteed to cure all sweet teeth."

Randolph looked uncomfortable again. "Um..."

The pharmacist snatched the bottle back and grabbed another.

"Sock treatment."

"Uh…"

The pharmacist seized pill bottle after pill bottle, and proceeded to throw them at Randolph, who tried to fend them off with little success.

"Ock treatment."

"No…"

"Squat treatment."

"I don't think so…"

"Scock treatment."

"Uh…"

"Pig treatment."

"What? That doesn't relatively sound like—"

"Spock treatment."

"No…I mean—"

The pharmacist assumed the rabbit was going to say, "I mean, why in the world are you throwing these bottles at me, kind sir?" Nothing in the world upset the pharmacist—who had yet to be given a name—more than being called 'kind sir.' He proceeded to rapidly throw more prescriptions at him. You know what happens when you assume.

"Take that, you loggerheaded—"

"Wait! I want—"

"Patronizing—"

"Please! Stop—"

"Booger-smishing—"

"Hey!"

"IMBECILE!" the pharmacist screamed, turning the counter over onto Randolph. This was actually a large feat, considering the counter had previously been bolted to the floor.

"AHHHH!" the pharmacist yelled, proceeding to run out of the room, declaring he really didn't want to be a pharmacist, he wanted to be a—

Well, never mind. I'm sure you already know.

"Ugh…" Randolph said groggily. "Ughhitty ugh…"

"Yes?" said a very clear voice, with a very familiar accent.

"Ugh…ugh…where am I?"

"You are in the produce section of a large supermarket. What is your name?"

"Randolph…Randolph Rabbit."

"Hello, Randolph."

"Hello. I think I will call you…" Randolph paused, not actually knowing the person's name.

"Dr. Lecter—that seems most appropriate to your age and station."

"Station?" Randolph said, trying to remember where he had heard that same phrase before.

"Randolph, I want you to sit up." So, Randolph did.

He was, indeed, in the produce section of a large supermarket. Currently, he was sitting between a tomato counter and a cucumber counter. The two counters were arguing amongst each other, calling each other Bob and Larry. Randolph dismissed this as a result of his lack of Spock treatment, and forgot about it.

"How are you doing, Randolph?" asked the doctor, idly preparing something that looked much like a tetanus shot (except more sinister) and swabbing Randolph's arm.

"Um…fine…uh…what are you doing?"

The doctor suddenly stopped and looked at the syringe in his hand, and quickly put it away. "Nothing, Randolph."

"So," Randolph said, looking for a subject change. "Why are you here?"

"Oh, I need to pick up some fava beans and a big Amarone. I'm having an old friend for dinner. We're eating liver tonight."

"Hmm…" said Randolph, not really listening.

"Do you dream often, Randolph? I think of you often."

"What?"

"Nothing, Randolph."

Randolph sat there for a moment on the sticky tile floor. Finally, he stood up.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Doctor Lecter." Randolph held out his hand to shake, but the doctor did not meet it. Instead, he looked at Bob and Larry.

"Simplicity," Dr. Lecter murmured, and placed something next to Bob. He left without a word.

Randolph made his way over to the tomato section. Next to Bob was a prescription bottle labeled "Spock treatment—88 mg." Slowly, Randolph grabbed it.

"Hold it, mister. You don't want to take that!" squealed Larry.

"Larry's right," agreed Bob.

"Wha-?" said Randolph, looking between the tomato, the cucumber, and the bottle. "This is my medicine."

"Taking things from strangers can hurt you!" the tomato continued.

"Yeah!" Larry squeaked.

"Listen, this is mine. My medicine. I need it!" Randolph yelled. Several other shoppers looked on curiously.

"Remember kids," said the tomato, "don't take things from strangers like this guy. God wants you to be safe!"

"Yeah!" chimed Larry.

"Wait a minute…are you a tomato?" Randolph asked the red, plump, juicy tomato.

"Why, yes. Why do you ask?" said Bob.

"Well…tomatoes are…fruit, right?"

Bob paled, as much as a tomato could pale, and started screaming.

"RED ALERT! RED ALERT! PYSCHO RABBIT IN THE PRODUCE AISLE!"

"Drat," Randolph said, as butchers in white coats dragged him to the doors. "Foiled again."

((A/N 3: RE-VIEW! RE-VIEW! RE-cough cough…Yeah. Push that button!))