Carots. That's the only language Mr. Midas spoke. Don't even talk to him unless there was a jingle of sparkly red in your pockets. That's how it was and how it always will be.
The old rabbit lounged on his favorite red loveseat, which, all things considered, did not live up to its name. There was no love where he lounged.
“Ruby, be a dear and bring me another Moscow Mule,” he flicked aside his cigarette’s ashes into his golden tray and took another deep breath. Maybe s...
