Buneary chirped as he bounded haphazardly toward the forbidden cabbage patch. The mahogany of the tree bark blended with the verdant foliage, blurring and morphing on the periphery of his sight. Lopunny had warned him never to explore the woods alone, but at this moment, in the presence of this glorious vegetarian oasis, Buneary was elated he had disregarded his mother's advice. As the mantis-colored heads grew larger he began to salivate, streams of viscous fluid flowing down his cheeks and sticking suggestively to his matted salt-and-pepper fur.
Upon his arrival to the utopian cabbage patch he looked around quickly and nervously for the farmhouse that usually accompanies such a garden, but there were no buildings in sight: just leafy greens sleeping in perfect rows. Buneary couldn't fathom who would plant such a beautiful bounty in the middle of the forest only to abandon it, but he also didn't really care. These were his cabbages. His stomach began growling, trembling in anticipation of receiving the nutritious load.
Buneary hopped from cabbage to cabbage, unable to decide which one to assassinate first. Just when he was about to settle on an immature and bitter head, though, a large specimen caught the light of the harsh sun and captured the overwhelmed bunny's full attention. He moseyed sexily toward the cabbage matriarch in a trance, the mutual seduction almost too much to bear. Buneary thought back to his mother's words and grew angry that she would try to deprive him of this garden. He knew she must've just wanted it for herself.
Buneary closed his eyes and began his ritual, but the cabbage seemed to recoil as the rabbit's nubile tongue caressed its crisp skin. He looked up, shocked, but the cabbage looked the same as it had a moment ago. He convinced himself that in his nirvana he had just hallucinated the vegetable's movement and began again to coat the cabbage with his warm drool. Again the head quivered, but this time it didn't stop. Buneary crawled backwards, mouth agape, staring in disbelief as the cabbage grew to the size of an alarmingly large cabbage.
He turned to flee but it was too late: the leafy sphere rolled unapologetically over him, completely crushing the lower half of his body. He stared up at his murderer, vision blurring, blood beginning to bubble from his mouth. He tried to scream but before he could the cabbage reached an arm out to cover his mouth. His gaze shot toward this previously nonexistent appendage in disarray, but soon he witnessed the entire cabbage's form transfigure into something unnervingly familiar: his mother, Lopunny.
He gasped and began to fade away, succumbing reluctantly to the consequences of having half of one's body crushed by a giant, shapeshifting vegetable. Buneary exhaled his last breathe, finally understanding why there were always leaves in his mother's bed, why she would become enraged in the presence of saurkraut. Her tears pummeled his face as she began to speak.
"I told you to stay away," she said. "Why didn't you just listen?"