Were it not for the illuminated history of the monk the Risible Eroni, penned in exquisite detail in duck bile on the hind legs of zebra, we would not today know of the Great Repunkulance that befell our forefathers in days of fore.

Four.

Fortunately for posterity, we do have them, riven with gilt ledgings shaved from the knees of living pigeons.

Artfully lathed as they are, with ornate trimmings smelt from the feet of bison, they tell of the Great Repunkulance, which killed people.

The only known cure for repunkulance was to be spliced in twain, thusly. However, after the operation, Eroni noted, repunkulance was still chronic in both halves. 

Rabbitean villages, such as they were, were (as you were), when they were, squalid places. Strawn with strew and littered with droppings. The hutches, constructed, as they were, in rugged hue from the tough hair of stoat's arse spliced oncely and entwined skillfully with strings of otter spit, sat mere proximities from one another. In such conditions it was surely only a matter of time before repunkulance flourished, being as it is. 

And so it proved to be.

One hundred and seventy years later Kung-fu was invented. Practitioners were able to kill even massive rhino with a single thought. They could explode buildings or make people levitate if they wanted. However, they were very disciplined and mystical and didn't do these things much.

When wars happened the government would call on this elite band of warriors, who could split all the atoms in your body if you angered them.

All this, however, was a far cry from Eroni's monastic existence.

© RABBITLAND McMcMilk