Things are hoppin’ like a field full of caffeinated rabbits at Sling-It tonight.
Pins are crashing, music’s thumping, and the whole place smells like popcorn, shoe spray, and
competitive spirit.
Earl pauses at the entrance, scanning the lanes until he spots Mary Beth’s team. He squares his
shoulders, smooths his shirt like a man with pure intentions, and heads over.
“I’m here to root you on,” Earl says, flashing a husband-of-the-year smile. “You know…
tournament comin’ up. Just doin’ my part.”
Mary Beth presses a hand to her chest.
“Oh, Earl. That is so sweet!”
Sweet.
Earl nods modestly and settles into a chair behind their lane, folding his hands like he belongs in
a church pew instead of a bowling alley.
His eyes, however, are doing other work—scanning.
He spots Vivian and Grace off to the side, whispering and giggling behind their hands like a pair
of middle school girls.
Earl’s jaw tightens.
Never liked those two.
Always side-eyeing Mary Beth. Always a little too quick with their opinions and not near quick
enough with kindness.
Earl leans back, a slow grin spreading across his face.
Now… if a man were inclined to… improve his wife’s chances at the tournament…
Well.
That could be arranged.
His mind starts ticking. Sabotage. Distraction. Strategic embarrassment—
And then—Bunny walks in.
Earl forgets how to blink.
“Well I’ll be…”
She doesn’t just enter—she arrives.
Smiling, glowing, practically trailing sunshine and pie crust behind her. Folks perk up. Heads
turn. Even the bartender straightens like he’s been personally selected.
Bunny waves, laughs, floats her way toward the lanes like she’s powered by compliments and
hairspray.
Earl exhales slow.
Dangerous.
That much sweetness oughta come with a warning label.
But Earl clamps down on the distraction. His stomach tightens.
Debt.
Real, ugly, door-knocking, kneecap-threatening debt.
He needs a way out.
Fast.
Mary Beth rolls.
Strike.
Cheers erupt. Earl claps loud and proud.
Vivian steps up next, notices him, and immediately looks away like she just smelled something
off.
She rolls.
Eight pins.
Split.
Earl’s grin creeps back.“Tough break,” he mutters, not meaning it one bit.
Bunny and Tracy warm up—clean spares. Alice? Strikes like she’s got a personal grudge against
the pins.
The team is hot tonight.
In more ways than one.
Earl shifts in his seat.
That image—Bunny in those photos—slides right back into his brain like it paid rent there.
He blinks hard. Once. Twice.
Focus.
This isn’t about admiration.
This is about extortion.
The music kicks up, and the bowlers fall into rhythm—step, swing, release—like some kind of
competitive line dance.
Then—
Bunny suddenly pauses, presses a hand to her midsection, and leans toward Tracy.
“I’ll be right back, sugar,” she says, already hurrying off.
Earl’s pulse spikes.
This is it.
He stands too fast, nearly clips the table, and steadies himself like nothing happened.
Casual. Be casual.
Down the short hallway. Around the corner.
He plants himself just outside the ladies’ room.
Looks left.
Looks right.No one.
His shirt sticks to his back.
Why is he sweating like he just ran a marathon in a wool sweater?
The door opens.
Bunny steps out.
“Well, hi there, Earl!” she beams, bright as a porch light. “It is so sweet of you to come cheer us
on!”
Earl opens his mouth.
Nothing.
Not a word.
Just air.
Bunny tilts her head, concern settling in. “Is there something wrong?”
Her eyes—clear, kind, dangerously attentive—lock onto his.
Earl swallows. Hard.
“Well… um… yes,” he stammers. “It’s… it’s Mary Beth.”
Bunny gasps, hand flying to her chest like she’s been personally summoned to a crisis.
“Oh my lord, Earl—what’s wrong?”
Earl glances around, lowers his voice.
“I… I can’t talk about it here.”
Bunny leans in immediately. No hesitation. No suspicion.
“Of course not. Do you want to meet for coffee tomorrow? So we can talk properly?”
Hook.
Line.
Sinker.
“Yes,” Earl says, a little too fast. “That’d be… that’d be great.”
“Is she okay?” Bunny whispers, eyes wide.
Earl shakes his head just enough to suggest tragedy without committing to details.
“Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. Coffee shop.”
Then, leaning closer—
“And Bunny… this stays between you and me. Not a word.”
Bunny straightens, solemn as Sunday morning.
“Oh, of course not, darlin’. You know you can trust me.”
Earl nods, heart hammering.
Then he ducks into the men’s room like a man escaping a crime scene.
“I’m off to the hardware store!” Earl calls the next morning, already halfway out the door.
“Gonna pick up parts for that leaky toilet!”
“Oh, Earl!” Mary Beth calls back. “Thank goodness! That thing’s been drivin’ me crazy!”
If only she knew.
Earl hits the garage, yanks open the door, and grabs the magazine tucked beneath an old tarp like
it’s radioactive treasure.
His ticket.
His solution.
His very bad idea.
He climbs into the car.
His stomach churns—half nerves, half last night’s chili, all regret.
Butterflies? No.
More like angry wasps.Ten minutes later, he pushes into the coffee shop.
Warm air. Roasted beans. Soft chatter.
And there she is.
Bunny.
Seated at a back table.
Hands folded. Posture perfect.
Concern written all over that beautiful, open face.
She spots him and waves—gentle, trusting, completely unaware she’s just walked into the worst
decision of Earl’s life.
Earl swallows.
Too late now.
He heads toward her…
“Oh Earl,” Bunny says softly, one hand pressed to her heart like she’s been up all night prayin’
over a casserole. “I could barely sleep. Please tell me there’s nothing seriously wrong with our
Mary Beth.”
Earl inhales sharp, sits up straighter than a fence post, and locks eyes with her.
“There’s nothing wrong with Mary Beth… that you can’t fix.”
Bunny blinks.
“Me?” She lets out a small, confused laugh. “Well, I’d do anything for Mary Beth, of course I
would—but I do not have the faintest idea what you’re talkin’ about, sugar.”
Earl’s nerves are shot clean through. His knee bounces under the table like it’s trying to escape
without him.
But fear of the men he owes?
That sits heavier.
He cracks open his jacket just enough—
There it is.The magazine.
Old. Glossy. Damning.
He tries for a sinister smile.
What comes out is more… constipated regret.
Bunny sees it.
Her breath catches—not loud, not dramatic—but enough.
She leans back slowly, eyes drifting from the cover… up… up…
…and landing on Earl.
Not soft now.
Not sweet.
Warm Southern sunshine just turned into August heat.
“So,” she says quietly, voice calm as still water, “what’s this really about, Earl?”
Earl sniffs, straightens, commits.
“I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a pickle.”
(Understatement of the century.)
“And if you want to keep Mary Beth from losin’ her home”—he taps the magazine—“you’re
gonna dig into that little nest egg of yours and bail me out.”
Bunny’s lips part.
Earl leans forward, gaining momentum now that he’s jumped off the cliff.
“I mean, I’m sure you did just fine for yourself back then. All those rich men… fancy gifts…
jewelry…” He shrugs, ugly confidence creeping in. “Probably paid real good for your time.”
Bunny just stares at him.
Still.
Silent.Processing.
“You can afford it,” Earl finishes.
A beat.
Two.
Then—
“And if I don’t?” Bunny asks, voice soft again… but there’s something underneath it now.
Something steel-wrapped-in-silk.
Earl inhales, lifts his chin like a man who thinks he’s got control of the situation.
“If you don’t…” he says, tapping the magazine again, “this gets passed around Sling-It faster
than cheap nachos.”
Silence.
Coffee shop noise hums around them—milk steaming, spoons clinking—completely unaware a
moral train wreck is unfolding at table six.
Bunny doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t fidget.
Just watches him.
“How much?” she asks.
“Forty-two thousand,” Earl says, trying to sound like that’s a normal number people casually ask
for between sips of coffee. “Even.”
Another pause.
Long enough for Earl’s confidence to wobble just a hair.
Then—
Bunny smiles.
Not big.
Not flashy.Just a slow, knowing, bless-your-heart kind of smile.
“Oh, Earl…” she says gently, folding her hands on the table.
“You really do think you’ve got yourself a plan, don’t you?”
💋 Bunny Unfiltered
New Trouble Every Friday