Bunny’s Book of Grudges & Minor Slights

The Book of Grudges does not live hidden. It sits openly on the desk, spine cracked, margins bristling with spite. Bunny doesn’t believe in forgiveness. He believes in filing.

On this morning, he dragged the book toward him with the weariness of a saint forced into paperwork. A new offense had arrived — beige, breathing, and oblivious.

The man had shuffled into Court as if it were a conference room.
Taupe suit.
Shoes that squeaked like apologies.
He cleared his throat and began speaking of quarterly metrics as though the Queen, the Archivist, and the Executioner of Strategic Silences had been waiting all week for his pie charts.

The Court stared.
Emma clutched her spoon in horror.
Even Cookie Bear refused to blink.

Bunny, after suffering a full three minutes of bar graphs, picked up his pen.

"Let the record show," he muttered, "that beige is not a color. It’s an insult."

And on the page it went:

Entry #0489

Date: Unforgivably recent
Subject: A man in taupe
Crime: Entered the Court with a PowerPoint deck, spoke at length about quarterly metrics, and nearly erased the concept of personality from the room.
Emotional Damage Report: Severe. Collective ennui. Spoon-related rage.
Recommended Consequence: Public shaming via glitter bomb. Exile to the archives of irrelevance. Possibly both.

Margin Note (scrawled sideways):

“I don’t know what was flatter: the suit or the presentation.”

Bunny slammed the book shut, satisfied. “Immortalized,” he said. “May history never forget the crimes of the offensively dull.”

And with that, he went back to his coffee, smug in the knowledge that his Grudge Book was, in fact, the most accurate record the Court had ever kept.

Bunny note:
"Careful. Keep talking, keep dressing like that, keep boring me—" he tapped the book with one velvet claw, "—and I’ll make you permanent too."