Lots of Digging To Do

He was a bad­ger now.

It had tak­en him some time to recall that he had not always been a bad­ger. His ini­tial, very nat­ur­al assump­tion had been that, since he was clear­ly a bad­ger now, he had always been a bad­ger. I mean, that was how it worked, right? If he had been some­thing else, say, a hedge-fund man­ag­er, well, he would still be a hedge-fund man­ag­er; most like­ly an out-of-work hedge fund man­ag­er, but still.

But then, as he was work­ing on dig­ging out a fam­i­ly of rab­bits on the slope over­look­ing the marsh, he start­ed to remem­ber some very un-bad­ger­ly expe­ri­ences. The con­fer­ence rooms, the after-hours bars, the hotel hook-ups. No bad­ger could have done these things, or even known these things. He knew that for a fact. Clear­ly some­thing real­ly weird had happened. 

And he was going to fig­ure out what, but first he had to fin­ish the task at hand. What­ev­er mys­ter­ies were out there, a bad­ger had to eat, and baby rab­bits made a damn fine breakfast.

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