This time, the case was a bit different: “Lynn Bobbie Ann Jones, three, of Waldo, Connecticut, was diagnosed with acute cross-eyes on 10/10/97. After a prolonged search for environmental causes, a most likely cause was found. The bunny-nose glue used in Bunnybaby toys apparently reacts violently with the acid-drool of iron-deficient infants, releasing trace amounts of quaylene, an alkaloid long suspected of causing eye trauma and public relations disorders.”
FooCo s defense: “Our investigators have found a much stronger causative agent for the unfortunate disfigurement of little Lynn Jones. As anyone can verify for themselves, there is a hyperwatt transformer outside her bedroom window. There is a 900 gauss low-frequency EMF running through her room. As evidence of its effects, we submit photographs of metal toys stuck to the wall behind the victim’s crib. Also, her goldfish were found to be highly polarized, and can only be seen when they are swimming toward the observer. The effect on the girl’s sensitive nervous system cannot be overstated. ”
In the mother’s own words: “Little Lynn has always had a difficult time putting down silverware. It seems to leap back into her hands. When she’s in the front seat, the compass on the dashboard always says we’re going SW. She’s a strange kid, but these people peddling their toxic rabbits have got to be stopped.”
FooCo lost again.
In 1998, FooCo roasted the Bunnybabies, and released its next creature… Bunnybutt. This odd species was noseless, but on the label there was a cute poem explaining how it could locate carrots and belly-buttons using its acute telepathic powers.
It sold 222,000 units before all hell broke loose.
The charges: “Jason Weber, age nineteen, claims that his Bunnybutt poked out his eye with its stiff whiskers…”
FooCo observed: “Does the victim deny his membership in the Redlands Fist Gang? Does he also attribute the broken nose, bruises, and knife wound— acquired the same evening—to our client’s soft and shapeless product? And, anecdotally, what the hell is this kid doing with a stuffed rabbit anyway?”
This time, employees brought marshmallows and sticks to the Bunny Burning, which was becoming an annual tradition. Donald Wheaton looked like he was about seventy; he had long since pulled out his hair. He still had a sense of humor—though it had its morbid swings from time to time. Indefatigable, he immediately proposed his next creation.
Bunnyblob was a sure-fire thing. It had no whiskers, no nose, and its eyes were drawn on by skilled eyeball artists using only the finest non-toxic crayons. It looked like a blob, thus its name. It came with a tag explaining evolution in layman’s terms, and comparing Bunnyblob to the now-extinct narwhal which, through millions of years of careful selection, was just an enormous blob of stuff with no purpose.
Bunnyblob wasn’t much of a success, until word got out that it was fun to punch. Then every kid wanted one of the sad-eyed, hopeless creatures to abuse. No matter how much you bopped them and stabbed them, they just squinched back into shape and looked like they were about to cry. They were even safe in the microwave, and when they came out, they bounced like Superballs.
Then, a diapered delinquent set his best friend’s Bunnyblob on fire. It sat there in a puddle, and melted like a good bunny, but the kids burned their hands playing with the hot carcass. Their mothers were furious.
This time, Donald actually cried. He called his employees into the office, and watched them slink in and look uncomfortable. These were his friends. He’d been good to the ones who stayed with him, but times were different now. “We’re ruined,” he said flatly. “People don’t want hugs anymore. They want quick bucks, and they’ll plow over anybody to get it. Go get jobs where you’ve got a future. I hear bombs are popular this year.”
He could say no more. One by one, the grayed, dejected staff slithered off. The youngest stayed behind. “Does that mean there isn’t going to be a Bunny Roast this year?”
Donald almost laughed. “It should be the most insanely popular Bunny Roast ever. Wouldn’t want to mess with the tradition. Bring all your friends…”
His last press release summed up his trials and fears succinctly:
“You don’t see a whole lot of people suing the companies who make these deranged, exploding war toys, do you? I guess that when a kid gets his arms blown off, Dad is expected to think, ‘Oh yeah, it’s a war toy. It’s supposed to do that.’
“So damn the guys who don’t do anything wrong. How wonderfully Modem of you.
“Notice the complete absence of control on soap. Soap is dangerous. Several people each year are injured by stepping on soap, but nobody has designed a bar that isn’t deadly slippery. I wonder why. I’m sure someone broke their back slipping in the shower, and went to a lawyer, furious. I hope the case got to court, and the judge said, ‘Everyone knows soap is slippery. What sort of idiot are you?’
“I’m dreaming. I know. Everyone is liable, but nobody is responsible. I wish I hadn’t eaten my thesis.”
The release was edited down to a single sentence and packed onto a dead-page in the local paper, between the weekly article on Bridge and a column for xenophobes called “Ask Doctor Goaway.” At least six people did read the last words of Donald Wheaton, but the only verbal response was from an overweight English professor: “The average thesis is quite high in dietary liber.”
Soft-Toymakers’ insurance became too expensive, the industry was too much of a risk. A year later there were no more stuffed toys. A steel company filled the market gap with a thing called a Wire Hug, which was more of a rock than a toy. Kids killed each other (and several parents) by flinging their Hugs around, but the company never got sued.
Thirty years down the road, the children had all grown into psychopaths. When the National Football League introduced the Uzi as standard gear, people realized that something strange had happened. It was not unusual to see the president strangle Democratic congressmen and eat their heads for lunch (“with a mild horseradish sauce,” he said in one interview).
A group of pacifists (in light body armor) scoured the city around the burned-out shrine of FooCo, looking for the Fool Who Once Built Bunnies.
They never found him.