Plot bunnies smell sin, so Jabez sits on the crypt steps and thinks intensely about naked stereo equipment. Lust. Out they come, bounding, a fuzzy white tide.

The shotgun leaps and dances in his hands; bunny blood spatters granite. “Die, vermin!” Jabez snarls, but of course that’s wrath. A second wave pours out of the wooded copse.

The gun’s empty, and he scrambles up on top of the crypt. They pile themselves trying to get to him, and he stomps their little skulls, grabs their necks and wrenches.

“That’s right,” he howls, when they’re all dead. “Not in my cemetery!”

Pride.