𝙵𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙿𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛

This story contains two lines of dialogue.

He shimmered and snacked on a carrot. Without handpainted backdrops or a computer-generated environment, his flesh, rather fur, and the animation cells beneath, gave off the image of a mirage, a reflective oasis for the thirsty traveler or a couple of cheap laughs for the entertainment-deprived consumer.

The vigorously-scrubbed, garishly-orange vegetable, however, was all too real, posing some transdimensional questions that carried a subtext of unspeakable horror. Were PC power-users playing God by creating new files, or committing genocide with each spring’s emptying of the desktop recycling bin?

More carrots sat piled high in a bowl on the conference room table, with a branded ashtray for the discarded nibs. Every bite was, in fact, a teeth-chattering chomp, the fibrous and masticated foodstuff vanishing down the gullet like a magician’s hat-trick for rabbits in reverse. To consider cartoon digestion was to imagine the rancid tendrils of a foul odor, a visible stink, rising from a bottomless hole.

Despite a prominent overjet, two rounded fangs protruding from insolent lips, no residue from the crisped, conical snacks could be seen.

“It’s called intellectual property. IP, for short.”

A downward glance at the managerial paperwork, as if a refresher were needed. I had arranged this meeting to sort through a number of pending offers: long-standing invitations to cruise the convention circuit in exchange for dangerously hefty speaker’s fees, but unfortunately little else in the realm of opportunity. Sequels, prequels and reboots were authorized by the brothers alone, without much warning. Same deal with merchandising licenses, whether for hairbrushes or wide-brim hats, dormitory poster art or decals that wrapped around cars.

My client had a face recognizable to most, if not renowned the world over, yet no liberty to profit from its use. The brothers controlled nearly all public appearances. Even this off-the-books rendezvous ran the risk of a copyright strike. If a packed ward of sick children begged and pleaded to greet the bunny, well, this too would be impossible without a staggering wire transfer from the hospital.

Call him a slave, bound by gilded chains, unable to own his likeness outright. No matter how many times this was explained, his narrow frame of reference remained. He was a champion of the common people, and he wished to be among them. Our conversation flowed on autopilot: I tried to hammer home the point, yet he always replied with a canned line.

“What’s IP, doc?”

If you enjoy books with a healthy mix of humor and romance, check out my debut novel, The Charlatan. Available here.