Alice and the Case of the Unexpectedly Swift Hippo
“Faster, Barnaby, faster!” squeaked Alice, clinging desperately to the leathery hide of her unusual steed.
Barnaby, who was, to be perfectly clear, a baby albino hippo wearing a tiny, slightly crooked monocle, did not need encouraging. He was currently tearing across a very normal-looking riverside meadow—which was, of course, absolutely unacceptable for a meadow adjacent to Wonderland—with the speed and grace of a terrified washing machine. His little legs pumped like pink pistons, and his substantial body bounced alarmingly, causing Alice’s blonde hair ribbon to stream out behind her like a distressed banner.
“We must retrieve the Duchess’s runaway teacup!” she yelled, her voice vibrating from the sheer velocity. “It’s got all her important thoughts in it! Specifically, the one about why flamingos are structurally unsound as croquet mallets!”
Barnaby snorted, a sound that was half sneeze and half submerged tuba, causing his monocle to slip precariously over his eye. He did not slow down, mostly because he believed the patch of particularly lush clover just ahead held the secret to solving his life’s great mystery: “Do my toes have a collective name?”
The absurdity had begun precisely three minutes earlier when Alice, having narrowly avoided a philosophical debate with a disgruntled caterpillar about the proper use of semicolons, stumbled upon Barnaby trying to organize a pile of damp pebbles by their emotional state.
“Excuse me,” Alice had said politely, “but are you running away from something?”
Barnaby had looked up, adjusted his monocle, and declared, “On the contrary, Miss. I’m running towards the inevitable conclusion that I am an under-appreciated dramatic prop in this entire affair! Also, a teacup just rolled past me. It was humming something by the Mad Hatter, which is simply poor form for porcelain.”
And so, the chase was on.
They thundered past a family of hedgehogs attempting to build a miniature, functional guillotine out of biscuits. They leaped over a giant chessboard where the Queen of Hearts was having a surprisingly mild-mannered argument with a pawn about dental hygiene.
“It’s catching up!” cried Alice, glancing over her shoulder.
“Nonsense!” shouted a small, reedy voice from inside her pocket. It was the Duchess’s teacup, which had, apparently, decided to reverse course and hitch a ride on Barnaby’s tail before Alice noticed. “I’ve been here the whole time! I just wanted to see if the view was better from the back of a moderately athletic ungulate! Now, if you please, I need to get back to the Duchess before she tries to substitute the March Hare for a serving dish!”
Barnaby, hearing the word “ungulate,” skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust and slightly bruised daisies. He turned his wide, innocent, pink face back to Alice.
“Did I just hear someone refer to me as an ungulate?” he asked, deeply offended. “I’ll have you know, I am a pachyderm! A magnificent, mud-loving pachyderm! And now that the philosophical dilemma has been resolved, I shall revert to my natural pace of ‘ponderously waddling to the nearest body of water to look thoughtful.'”
Alice sighed, slid off the hippo’s back, and neatly caught the monocle before it hit the ground. She tucked the teacup safely under her arm.
“Well, Barnaby,” she said, giving his moist snout a pat. “That was entirely too much excitement for a Thursday. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I need to find a nice, quiet rabbit hole where nothing makes sense but everything is at least stationary.”
Barnaby simply smiled, the picture of serene, monocled pachyderm wisdom. He then slowly, carefully, and with great dignity, rolled into the river and sank immediately out of sight, leaving only a single, enthusiastic bubble.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 