Beginnings are always the hardest.

An abandoned father, clutching at straws for emotional survival. Fraternising with the enemy, doing it's bidding, living in fear of the catastrophic storm changes of temperament. He can't go on like this. Just not knowing. Nobody could.

A crash, a clang and the pleasant flow of demented laughter. He's doing it. It's working, everything he's ever wanted is possible. This wasn't something inanimate like everything else he'd ever made. No, quite the contrary. This breathed, this sang, this danced. This… why… this was alive.

He had a chance. Well, no, he didn't have a chance, but there's nothing like taking a chance you don't have. What's more, he knew whom to ask. Classic know-all, snoop, gossiper, categorized under that oh-so ubiquitous title of 'Private Detective'. Cocky little bastard he was too. They'd get on fine.

It was so good. Golden fire leaped in the hearth, spraying sparks into the shadows and onto the inventor himself. His eyebrows ignited on the spot, but he didn't care. Plunging his head into the emergency bucket of water he kept for such occasions, he giggled and promptly almost drowned. Little did he know that above him the beginnings of a plot were beginning to happen, something that would make his world never quite the same again…

It wasn't happy. Not a he, or a she, but an it. They weren't made with genders as far as it could tell. Well, it would be bloody unfair if everyone else had been given a gender and it hadn't. It often thought of himself as a 'he' though. For a while 'he' had toyed with the idea of being a 'she', but he'd heard from the grape-vine of life that girls were prissy creatures, always clean and wearing make-up. Sounded quite wet, in 'his' opinion. And if anything, 'he' was always very, very dry…

His invention stood on little felt feet, and carefully, almost choking on his glee, he asked if it wanted shoes.

"No thanks."

"Hit TALKS!" The inventor threw his hands up in the air, and performed the MC Hammer dance flawlessly, but with rather too much panache (1). The invention merely stared at him blankly, and waited patiently until his master had stopped. It's little felt feet rather hurt actually. Walking was bound to be most uncomfortable.

"But what next? That his the question. Hoh the things Hi could do! The money Hi could hearn! This could mean my freedom… freedom! Hoh meee… hoh myyyy…"

The new and first ever Hat-Navigational System swiftly decided that his inventor talked far too much, and so, while Master was distracted by his own muttering, the HNS plopped down on it's little felt feet to the floor below, clambered onto the window sill using all the strength in it's 100% polyester arms and took the plunge.

2

WR, (his official title was The White Rabbit, but The White Rabbit presently wasn't much in the mood for official titles), opened the half-demolished white picket fence-gate (2), and tramped nervously into the front garden of his chosen Private Detective (of whom, rather worryingly, he had begun to refer to as Life Saver). His doubts, quite prominent from the very beginning, had begun to grow in a wild and haphazard fashion, forcing him almost to the point of lolloping straight back to the Palace again. Then again, all that hoo-haa about who had stolen the Heart Tarts (3)… Gathering the little courage that a man of his calibre could possibly have (barely any at all, snivelling serf that he was) WR gathered in his breath and made his way to the Detective's front door. A solid silver nameplate proudly read: Mr M. Hare. Private Detective, Carrot Farmer and Party Mammal PHD. For anything else, ask inside.

It was the first time WR had ever heard a nameplate speak out loud, and to be fair, he didn't have much time to be impressed. Even less impressed with the plan he had conducted, he swallowed his fears (rather like swallowing a large mouthful of stale cake) and tapped on the green door.

EEEEEEEEEEEK. The door opened a fraction of an inch, and two not-quite-all-there blue eyes peered through the crack (4). "How much do you want?"

WR had heard about this. Mr M. Hare was quite legendary throughout Wonderland, and it wasn't little known that he had the occasional recreational drug habit. Naturally, because he was heralded as some sort of genius, the authorities let him get away with it. It's funny the dirt you can get away with if you threaten to dish the shit on someone else. "Ah, Mr Hare…"

"I only have some grass left. Half an ounce, perhaps. I can sell that to you for about thirty dollars if you don't mind a bargain."

It was a fairly tempting prospect actually. WR wasn't as white as his name suggested himself, and the sporadic joint actually calmed down his often-frittered nerves. His gaze flickered nervously, relishing the drama and the enigma that had suddenly swooped down upon his shoulders like a rather charismatic cloak. It wasn't a pleasure he got very often. "Er… thirty dollars did you say?"

"Here." A small bag was passed through the door. "Try it. Fresh as a meadow that is."

Looking around him once again, WR peered into clear plastic. It took less than three seconds to discover a mangled daisy and half a ground dandelion head. It was actually grass, probably plucked straight from the back garden. Well. No one could say that Mr M. Hare wasn't truthful.

"Mr Hare." As tactfully as he could manage, WR passed the foliage back through the door. "I haven't actually come for any… grass. What I've actually come for is a bit of private detection."

The door was flung open so hard that it actually bounced shut again, rendering WR with a face-full of polished wood (5). With far less ambience, but with a smile nonetheless (oh yes, the name-plate could smile too) it creaked open to reveal the March Hare in all his, let's face it, notorious glory. "Mr White Rabbit! I'm enchanted. Come in for a chat and a haggle. I may even be able to whack out a bit of crack if you're lucky."

WR, against his better judgement, followed the March Hare into his humble abode. Sat at the table (which did indeed have a large crack down the middle- the Hare was certainly one to keep his word), he began his long, sad tail. (Bearing in mind that it had been frequently compared to a powder-puff, it didn't take long at all).

"So." The Hare, wearing dark shades to aid his disguise (6), leant back in his chair and studied WR thoughtfully. "What you're saying is that this young lady you got up the duff a few weeks back has run off on you, and taken all your little kiddies."

"Indeed." The WR fidgeted miserably on his stool.

"And you want to know where she is."

"Right."

"Nah, not my kind of cupcake I'm afraid." The Hare leapt to his feet (an impressive stunt for something that was made for leaping as he was. No wonder the ceiling was so high), and made 'get out' gestures towards the door. Stunned, WR did a rather less extraordinary stumble in the pointed direction. "I mean…" M. Hare, blinded by the shades, walked headlong into a vase of flowers. "What the fuck was that… I want to help you Mr Rabbit. But you've left too many things that make such a wild-wabbit chase pointless."

WR stood politely for a second or two, realised that the March Hare was not going to elaborate, so asked the fated question himself. "Like what?"

"Like, how do you know these kiddies are actually yours?" Maddeningly, the Hare began to swing his pocket watch around with far too a glib fashion. "They could be anyone's."

"No! They can't be! We were at it…" WR blushed. "We were…"

"Yes?"

"Well were at it like rabbits, I suppose. She wouldn't have time to see anyone else."

"You're naïve, Sir." The March Hare let got of the pocket watch chain, and WR winced audibly as it smashed into yet another vase, showering heliotrope onto the already petal strewn floor. "Too much so. Yet I like naivety as a quality in my clients. They often make the best ones. Consider me hired. Now, if you don't mind…"

WR had never been accustomed to being grabbed by the ears and forcibly ejected onto the street. Yet he couldn't help but smile as he wandered back to the Palace and the inevitable squad cars, shrieking women and police tape that would be outside. Mr M. Hare may be eccentric, but you had to admit he certainly had charm.

And so another tale of Wonderland began…

Footnotes

1 An all too common crime- especially at weddings or funerals, when indeed the adults should really know better.

2 There had been far too many picket-pockets around of late.

3 When the Queen had found out that her secret brothel had been raided, she had been pretty pimped out.

4 You were quite lucky to have two eyes in Wonderland. Those slithy toves may have made classic literature, but they weren't half vicious little gits.

5 WR had, in fact had a face-full of wood before, but let us just say that it wasn't polished.

6 One of the perks of a pretty pointless job.