Yes, I am still breathing, just very, very slowly.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. [I was kicked down some stairs, that nutcase of a rabbit had pinned a kick me sign on my shell.] I managed to find some cheap accommodation with a pompous git of a rabbit who spent the entire night telling me about his family history. The next morning, bright and early I arrived at the castle, explained why I was there [twice] to two guards who acted like they were juggling one brain cell between them, and was shown in to the Queens chamber.

Have you ever seen those movies where someone is walking down a long spooky corridor? Where all the pictures seem to look right at you? Where you know there is some kind of horror just on the other side of the door? The rabbits had that feeling down pat. Just walking to the chamber meant walking along a corridor so long that logic shouldn't allow it, crammed full of rusting old suits of armor and portraits of past rulers. [All of them in some heroic pose of course, Lord forbid any family actually paint someone as they actually were.] At the end was the obligatory large wooden door.

It probably wasn't the main chamber or throne room or anything, more like the kind of room a noble is murdered in on a stormy night. For one, it was very poorly lit; four spluttering candles in the corners didn't so much light the room as outline the darkness. It was large, big enough that I couldn't see the ceiling [Although that wasn't difficult in such light.] And it was empty, or close to it. Apart from some old and decrepit looking tapestries, the only other object in the room was some sort of throne. On which was sitting the Queen.

I had heard several of my officers use the expression 'built like a brick skithouse', but only at that moment did I really understand it. The Queen wasn't so much sitting, as poured onto, the chair. She looked as though someone had decided to carve a golem out of stone, given up halfway and converted the result into flesh. She sat there with the look of someone who was sitting on a handful of thumbtacks, but won't give you the pleasure of showing pain. She barely looked up as I entered, and when she did it was with the same disdainful stare one would give a piece of especially unpleasant muck on ones' shoe. When she spoke it was with a voice that seemed to ooze discontentment.

"Well, you're the only one who applied for this job, so lets make this quick. I drink three standard glass of sherry a day, how much have I drunk in the last six years?"

I had been ready for this; it was always the same with rabbits. If you could add and multiply fast, they thought you were a genius. Given the size of a standard glass [an outdated unit I must add] and the number of days in six years...

"Four hundred and eighty six liters." I answered quickly.

"Four hundred and sixty six liters I believe" said the Queen coldly. I checked my calculations, I couldn’t have made a mistake, so then what... ah.

"Of course." I replied smoothly. "You are correct; I must have made a mistake."

There was a pause before the queen continued. "Very well, you will start today. I will have someone escort you to your accommodation, but let me make one thing clear. I do not see why I should actually have a Scientific Advisor, but several people assure me I must. I don't care what it is you do, or where, or with who. Just stay out of my way and don't interfere with important business." With that she went back to whatever it was she was doing, and I quietly left the room.

And ran straight into Jazz Jackrabbit.