Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Danny Elfman “Alice’s Theme”
 Danny Elfman “Down The Hole”
 Danny Elfman “The Cheshire Cat”
 Danny Elfman “Alice Decides”
 Danny Elfman “Going Into Battle”
For fuck’s sake. Do you ever wish that a giant hole would open up in the ground and swallow you whole? Well then welcome to my neck of the woods as that’s precisely what I hanker after most right now. Anything is better than where I’m stood currently. Not wishing to come across as ungrateful and I’m quite aware that most people would give their right arm to the elbow for an exclusive invite to a garden party at Lord Ascot’s estate. After all, he is incredibly well-to-do and the guest list reads like a who’s who of high-flyers and social climbers. But I just don’t feel like I belong.
You see, money doesn’t interest me any more than social status does and I’m sick to the back teeth of proper etiquette, Ps and poxy Qs. I’d much rather take my imagination for a run out than stand around here hobnobbing with these hoity-toity types. The only one here even vaguely interesting is Aunt Imogene and even she appears to be whacked out on acid. Perhaps if I click my heels together and repeat the words “there’s no place like home”, I’ll escape this stuffy stank pit and wake up back in my boudoir, where my Rampant Rabbit awaits.
Easier said than done after your fifth stem of tampered cordial in succession. Looks like I’m stuck here for the foreseeable and that really is wretched news as the Ascots have “special plans” for me this day. Curiouser and curiouser? You’d think right? Not so when said plans consist of being betrothed to their son Hamish against your will. Now don’t get me wrong, Hamish Ascot is a nobleman and considered quite the catch by those looking to improve upon their public standing. Marrying Hamish would ensure never wanting for anything (other than for him to be killed in a tragic hunting accident so I can inherit his nest egg). But no monetary carrot dangled could ever hope to reimburse me for being required to wake up to this gormless grin every morning.
I mean, really? Hardly dashing is he? Indeed, the only thing dashing that Hamish partakes in is that short sprint to the restroom so he can hock up a glob of phlegm in the palm of his hand, then sniff it because he just can’t help himself. Is that what society deems noble nowadays? Am I about to be hoodwinked into exchanging nuptials with this pitiful excuse for a greeb? Would it not be considered “the done thing” for me to punch this imbecilic blowhard’s face repeatedly until mushy pulp?
Don’t even think of telling me you’re not tempted to do the same. My pussy is beginning to reseal itself already at the prospect of accommodating this knucklehead’s freckled pecker. It’s not like I could trust him going down on me either with that gag reflex. The very last thing I desire is mucus in my snatch, thank you very much. I’m sorry but, having considered my options and had my entire life flash before my eyes, Hamish really has to go.
Or perhaps he doesn’t. Please humor me momentarily as what I’m about to share could be misconstrued as flighty reverie or, worse still, mild delirium. Sometimes I believe in as many as six impossible things before breakfast. Don’t ask me why my imagination runs away with me so often as I’ve never managed to catch up with it and ask the question. I guess I’m just not like the other 19-year-old girls and see that as something to celebrate, not mourn.
Every time I screw my eyes shut, a vast wonderland awaits, full of glorious muchness. Sometimes I lose myself completely in my thoughts and it is here where I feel like I belong, not at Lord Ascot’s garden party making polite conversation with those who offer no intellectual nourishment whatsoever. Fucking Hamish. I’d rather gnaw off my own face than give that pimpled pleb the satisfaction of putting a ring on it. Turns out however that I may not be required to take such extreme measures.
One of my six-a-day this morning was the grossly unlikely notion that a white rabbit in a waistcoat would distract me from my misery and lead me directly to an otherworldly portal capable of immediate restationing. Sounds pie-in-the-sky right? That’s what I thought too. But do you know what? I didn’t discount it as poppycock, simply a bit of a long shot.
It’s my belief that our minds can paint whichever vista they so please and possess all the necessary tools to make it pretty. I look around me and all I see are closed minds, unwilling or incapable to open themselves to whimsy. Actually, that’s not all I see. The whole white rabbit fantasy may appear to be little more than boulderdash but, if that’s the case, then what the fuck is this shit? Scotch mist?
Penny for your thoughts. Shall I enlighten you as to mine? I’d still rather this bothered bunny over Hamish. Granted, he’s a pushy little fella and seems in way too much of a rush to be somewhere, but rabbits only live for three years tops and that’s hardly a life sentence if the sex is crap. Besides, it would appear that he is in urgent need of assistance as time has indeed got the better of my fluffy little friend and led him to misplace his timepiece. Silly rabbit. Anyroad, I cannot simply let him scuttle off unaware of his folly and pocket his watch as my own, that would be deeply ill-natured and I wouldn’t dream of acting with such a lack of consideration.
Thus there seems no other way than to go after him. Easier said than done when his trail leads directly to a decidedly ominous looking hole in the ground and I’m wearing my best frock. I’d imagine this to be his warren and that’s an instant red flag as far as I’m concerned. Who knows what sort of sordid shenanigans play out just south of the topsoil; it’s likely some kind of shady knocking shop for deviants and nonces. Perhaps I can lure him out in some way. Oh look a tree root.
You like that, don’t you Mr. Rabbit? I’m getting awfully moist beneath the petticoat and could really do with a nice strong… erm… bunny rabbit to lap it up. Dammit, he’s not taking the bait. I’d flop my tits out but mother tied this stupid corset way too tight this morning. I hope you contract myxomatosis and die twitching, you lousy felching fuck.
This is getting me nowhere fast; looks like I’ve got no choice but to follow this joker down the rabbit hole. If I’m being frank, I’m a tad perturbed that I can’t discern a bottom to this pit. But I just caught a whiff of acute halitosis and that could only mean one thing – the dreaded Hamish is closing in. Even if my coccyx shatters into a thousand pieces on impact, it will still have been worth it. I bid you adieu Hamish with a few choice words from our sponsor. Eat me, you cuuunt!
Shit. Bollocks. Ouch. That’s gonna leave a mark. Oof. Nng. I just threw up a little in my mouth. Holy piss, will this ever end. Fuuuck! [SPLAT] Is it over? Did we win? I think I may have just swallowed my tongue you know. Is it customary for this much claret to spurt from a head wound? Give me a few moments just to gather my thoughts as they appear to have scattered like marbles. And you’re absolutely sure I don’t require urgent medical attention? On second thoughts, I think I just spotted Hamish’s piggy little snout peering over the grassy knoll above and could do without the kiss of life, even if that means succumbing to internal bleeding.
Actually, I believe that may well be second wind I’m catching. Granted, I’ve been in better shape and feel reasonably certain that I soiled my bloomers in transit, but who needs knickers anyway, when you can get a little gust to your flaps. Speaking of which, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of breathable oxygen down here. Come to think of it, I’m starting to feel a little penned in. Is this place having a contraction or what?
“Drink me” it says. Well I guess it would be deemed positively uncouth not to surrender to such meager demand. After all, there’s barely more than a swig to be had and it doesn’t appear to display any signs of tampering. I’m not altogether certain whether that’s larvae floating around in the murk or a partially dissolved roofie but when in Rome right? Either way, it looks like I’m getting banged tonight. Bottoms up.
And what’s this I spot? “Eat me” it says. I know it is generally advised against to double drop but that tipple doesn’t appear to be kicking in yet so I may as well live a little. Down the hatch. Oh dear. I think it just kicked in. Two times. Is it just me or is the room spinning wildly? Why do I get the feeling that I’m about to pass out and come to in a crate bound for Bolivia with a sore asshole? Perhaps I should just rest my eyes for a few moments. All of a sudden I just feel so… sleepy.
Okay, now I’m starting to get a little freaked out. Being rendered unconscious by means most dastardly is reason to clench one’s buttocks; but opening your eyes to this shifty character is just begging for a bugle toot. I happen to be rather fond of cats but, oddly enough, not the ones with piercing green eyes and wonky smiles that whisper “I’m a horrible cunt when you get to know me”.
Well it just so happens that I’ve got news for you my feline friend. I reckon you’re a horrible cunt already so why not cut the slippery act and tell me why there’s milk on my clitoris. If you think you’re lapping from that bowl then you’ve got another thing coming kitty cat. I’m lactose intolerant you see and can feel that shit curdling as we speak. How are you with goat’s cheese, by the way. Not a fan? Then find yourself a flap to nowhere and fuck off through it you piss-drinking prick.
Are you shocked by my vulgarity? It must seem most unladylike and I promise to make a conscious effort to tone down the cussing from this point forward. It just seems to be one thing after another down here and I’d just like to find a nice secluded spot beneath a willow to frig myself senseless, if that’s not too much to ask. Failing that, some answers would be nice. I could nary fathom a word that came out of that cat’s rancid trap but he did appear to mention something about a tea party or something similarly preposterous.
Perhaps that was why Mr. Rabbit was in such a rush. “Curiouser and curiouser” cried me. The way I see it, I can either sit around here waiting for that peculiar pussy to return and finish what he started. Or I can shake a tail-feather or two and get my rosy red cheeks to the idyllic little spot where afternoon tea and crumpets is being served this very second. Mine’s two sugars thanks. And no bloody milk.
I said two sugars you tweaking nutbag. Not six hundred. Actually, do you reckon he’s alright? Call it my strong female intuition earning its keep but something tells me his erratic behavior has something to do with overdoing it on the uppers and downers. I’ve met some fidgety fellows in my time, but none with such a vast quantity of ants in pants and leeches in breeches as the one quite aptly named The Mad Hatter.
There’s no way this screwball should be entrusted with the best crockery, particularly given the scalding hot beverage being ferried. Who’s overseeing this madness? I’d ask him but he’d likely spin me some yarn about the slithy toves and how they gyre and gimble in the wabe or how mimsy he believes the borogoves to be. Then what are we left with? Awkward silence, while he seeks approval for the kind of gobbledygook outburst that really shouldn’t be encouraged.
Do you think I should offer him a spot of hand relief beneath the tablecloth? Perhaps he’s so backed up with sperm that it’s started to affect his mental well-being. A five-fingered donation could part those dense storm clouds surely. If all pans out, he could be lucid in the time it takes me to build a steady rhythm for around 180 seconds, choke, then release. Fuck it, I don’t have a problem with taking one for the team, when the greater good is set to benefit. I must insist against deep throat however as there’s no way I’m swaddling my rosebud lips around any purple pugil that possesses its very own burnt orange eyebrow. This girl has standards Mr. Hatter and best that be remembered.
Slightly off-topic but I wonder where he keeps his stash of hallucinogens. No time for such fiddle-faddle, the word in the tea room is that danger is approaching at this very second and of the most grave variety. Details are sketchy at present but I did hear the name Knave of Hearts bandied about and, from what precious limited intelligence I can gather from all the blather, this one-eyed trouser snake would think nothing at all of bending me over and sliding the steel in just to release a little pent-up aggravation.
I have no idea what has him so riled but, thanks to the gibberish grapevine, I’d say it has something to do with the missus. Whatever his gripe, I don’t intend on being the hapless Harriet receiving his full load on arrival. Mr. Hatter old bean? Be a dear would you and grab the looking-glass. Have a feeling we might be needing that shit later.
What the bloody hell is it you moron? Oh, the Knave. Something tells me a little less procrastination would have served us better. Fuck the mirror, I reckon we’re out of time and luck my gorm-free friend. Any eleventh-hour attempt to evade his clutches now would surely result in death most swift and pointy. That leaves us only one choice. Stand our ground and clobber this cranky crusader into submission using our fairly significant numbers advantage. Do me a favor and make yourself useful, will you? Round up the rabble, let’s see what we’re looking at here on the fearless warrior front. Fall in troops.
We’re doomed. Literally sandblasted. While I appreciate the faintly phallic positioning of the White Queen, Mirana of Marmoreal, between Tweedles both Dum and Dee, this consolation is scant when balanced against the fact that all ten of us are going to get stabbed up all savage like; in the time it takes the Knave to dismount his steed and acquire a disliking. No offence gang but, with the exception of that Mirana chick, the rest of you grubs are about as presentable as the contents of my fiancé’s one and only handkerchief. There’s something about our White Queen that makes my lady parts dampen and I’d hedge a bet that this evident cock-gobbler isn’t nearly as driven snow-like after a couple of vodka chasers and line of baking soda.
You see? Bang to fucking rights, your majesty. Don’t even think of giving me those “butter wouldn’t melt… no really, it wouldn’t” eyes as you’re clearly partial to gargling the lard honey, it’s written all over your slutty face in a complex web of hardened spunk. If I were looking to change my eating habits, believe me, I’d be up to my gums in your sweet snatch before you could say “that tickles… don’t stop”. But who wants pork crackling when you can have a nice hot succulent wiener to floss your tonsils with? Tell you what your pasty highness, keep the motor ticking over just in case my options don’t improve, and I’ll keep you in the loop okay honey? Judging by the current menu options, I reckon you stand a fair old chance of getting your kitten slathered so keep those nipples perky.
You know what I find most tragic? That our hatter actually thinks he’s impressing me when I just uploaded the above clip to YouTube under the title “Take a look at this bag of tools”. Pity appears to be the operative word here as I have half a mind to offer him a sympathy fuck and the other to shoot him in the back of the head like a crippled racehorse. For the time being, ignorance is bliss I suppose, so he can carry on waltzing the night away for all I care as there are far more pressing matters at hand. You see, the Knave of Hearts appears to have seen quite enough and the tidings he brings aren’t the most joyful if I’m honest.
According to his solemn address, the Red Queen has requested my counsel about something over at her royal palace and is adamant that I should be delivered there chop-chop and not a second later. Sounds a little pushy for my liking and certainly not the type that I wish to be associating with. That said, I’ve heard about the kind of punishment she dishes out to those who undermine her authority and don’t wish for the Knave of Hearts to lose his head on my account. So you see, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place here and the only way I can see of settling this is to request he show me a photograph of her majesty and pray it sheds a little light on our monarch. As luck would have it, he carries one on his person at all times. Let’s see precisely who we’re dealing with, shall we?
Oh my. Would it be pernickety of me to point out that her head’s a little too bulbous for my liking? I harbor some pretty severe trust issues when it comes to anyone whose head isn’t in proportion with the rest of their body and, while easy enough on the eye from the neck down, queenie’s shoulders must be shot to pieces lugging that gargantuan growth around 24/7. Besides, a little dormouse tells me that she’s not the most hospitable of monarchs and has a tendency to explode in fits of scarlet rage over the most fundamental of errors.
I’ve got absolutely no time for rudeness and even less for folk who feel they have the divine right to come across superior; so that’s two damn good reasons why I’m going into this with great trepidation. But curiosity has seen me good thus far, and besides, she can’t possibly have breath as ghastly as Hamish. I’m starting to wonder whether reality is any friend of mine after all. Perhaps I belong down here, with the freaks and uniques. Okay Mr. Knave, I would be delighted to accept the queen’s kind and quite possibly heinous invitation. Let’s see what old fat head has to say, shall we?
Rather a lot, it turns out. First on the royal agenda was to rather abruptly insist that I lose every last stitch of clothing before even thinking of addressing her. When I requested to use the rose bush to cover my blushes, she begrudgingly granted my wish and I believe her exact words were “fine… but I still expect you to make it sexy”. I wouldn’t mind but there are 52 cards in a standard deck and I don’t much care for the way the four of spades is lustfully gawking at my wares. That said, there’s something mighty empowering about getting butt naked for a select audience and surrendering all those meddlesome inhibitions. Okay queen, you want it sexy? I’ll give you sexy.
“Off with her head” she says. Honestly, there’s just no pleasing some folk. It wasn’t my supple breasts that dismayed her so and neither was it the close prune of my lady garden that rattled her cage so. But as she prepared to cram her oversized nut between my thighs and quench from my tight little pussy, the stench of spoiled milk on my bald badger almost knocked this top heavy twat clean out. As a result, it has been decreed that I be executed at once and she has even decided to pin a batch of missing jam tarts on me. I mean, where am I possibly going to hide a dozen or so pastries? Up my wizard’s sleeve? One or two tartlets perhaps, three at a push, but a whole trayful? That’s obscene. I sternly object to being rough-handled by her guards and don’t wish to take part in this cruel charade any longer. Fuck the Red Queen, fuck her army, fuck Tweedles Dum and Dee, and most of all fuck Wonderland. I’m out.
If only it were that easy. You see, the Red Queen is not used to not getting exactly what she wants and my options are looking decidedly slim at present. Should legend be correct, then there is only one possible way in which to return to the real world and it entails slaying a beast so vile that they had to name it something utterly nonsensical, just to take the edge off a little. Many have attempted to defeat the dreaded Jabberwocky and few have lived to tell the tale. I reckon Hamish would give it a run for its money just by belching in its general direction, but he’s not around to bail me out and I’m ever so grateful for that small mercy. I’d rather take my chances with a mythical serpent then give that stool pigeon a whiff of my meadow muffin.
Oh look, if it isn’t The Mad Hatter, I was wondering when old marmalade pubes would show his pointless face again. I fail to see what he finds so amusing about my current predicament and the already overwhelming desire to kidney punch this half-witted twerp just grew that much stronger. It’s alright for him living in his own little world but I’m supposed to be a guest here and it mentioned nothing in the brochure about being beheaded. Actually, I shouldn’t be too harsh on him as he did bring the looking glass along and it is said to contain magic properties. The problem is that he appears to have grown rather attached to it and seems reluctant to hand it over.
Typical. I should have known that this spineless fool would crumble under the first sign of pressure. There has to be some way to put his racing mind to rest and persuade him to cough up the goods. He did have one timid proposal but it involves around seventeen seconds of shambolic sex and heaven knows what kind of STDs he’s currently hosting. Nevertheless, it’s not like I have much choice and that’s still only the half the time that Hamish lasts in the sack. Admittedly, this is due to him stopping every five seconds to blow his nose but do you have any idea how hard it is to fake an orgasm with snot in your earlobe? Put out or lose my head? How about it I give him a hand job and you just slit my throat instead queenie? Nope, she’s not budging. Okay then Mr. Hatter, you’ve got me over a barrel. Prepare to have your world well and truly rocked for little over a quarter of a minute but I must insist on absolutely no funny stuff. You only know how to do missionary? Fine but I’m not kissing you, just so we’re clear. Right then, let’s see what we’re dealing with here, shall we?
Oh my, please tell me Absolem the Caterpillar stowed away beneath your loin cloth prior to your expedition as that teensy-weensy tiddler isn’t fit to thread a needle, let alone stuff my taco. To be fair, he finished his business in the time it took me to spread my legs and bite down on my knuckles and is now sobbing into his pillowcase as he does after every time he makes love. This presents a tiny window of opportunity for me to step through the looking glass and into whatever new Wonderland awaits at the other side. It may be something of an unknown quantity and I fully expect this fresh path to be similarly fraught with peril. But I just don’t think I have it in me to slay the Jabberwocky today as, with the exception of the past seventeen seconds or so, it’s all been frightfully exhausting. You know what this means, don’t you. You guessed it, I bid you adieu Wonderland with a few choice words from our sponsor. Eat me, you cuuunts!
That wasn’t actually too diabolical you know. No broken bones to report and this doesn’t seem too shabby a chamber to take five in. Granted, the yawning lion pelt is freaking me out a tad but, all things considered, I reckon I may have fallen on my feet here. I guess I should perform a quick limb check, just to be certain. Well everything appears to be where it should be and I’ve even been supplied a fresh pair of bloomers for the next leg of my adventure. I’ll have them off right away. There, that’s better. Hold on, suddenly something doesn’t feel quite right. I’m not overly enamored by the manner in which this particular strain of dread is creeping and even less charmed by the grim realization that just washed over me like a wave of tepid puke. Would you mind terribly hoiking up my petticoat and giving the old Bandersnatch a quick sniff test? Much appreciated. Here, I’ll even bend over to make it easy for you. Well? Curioser and curioser. What’s the prognosis doc? Spoiled milk you say? For fuck’s sake.