Grandfather always pauses dramatically at this point in the story. “So, what do you think happened after that? Can you guess if he succeeded or failed?”
Again, I’ve heard the story many times. I already know the answer. But as always, I smile and shake my head.
“He succeeded. He was a smart and steadfast kid.” Then, Grandfather smiles sadly. “But then he lost everything.”
Grandfather’s friend cared only about developing delicious, healthy spirits; he had no idea that in the new, post-war age, connections with government higher-ups, networking, entertaining, and the occasional bribe and backdoor dealing were more important than product quality or technology.
And there was a much larger company that had the transitioning liquor market in their sights, a company that had strong political connections and was skilled in said business-related entertaining. This company had the gall to advertise their mixture of alcohol and artificial flavoring as “a drink for the people” and “the taste of tradition.” They ran legitimate ads in newspapers and television while organizing a parallel slander campaign, spreading the lie that the company of my grandfather’s friend mixed “industrial-use alcohol” into their beverages. They claimed that anyone who drank it would become blind, lame, or even fatally poisoned.
Sales for my grandfather’s friend took a nosedive. His factory ceased operations. No matter how many times his company denied the lies spread by their larger rival, consumers refused to believe them. My grandfather’s friend wanted to drink his company’s product in front of the cameras to prove how safe it was, but no broadcaster wanted to put him on the air. And there was no internet in those days, nowhere for him to turn to once he was shunned by the newspapers and television. He had no legal recourse because you couldn’t record phone conversations or screenshot texts back then—it was impossible to determine how rumors were spread. The courts ruled that there had been no slander or libel, and my grandfather’s friend ended up with debts from both his business and the lawsuit. Leaving a note in which he apologized to his family, he hanged himself, still only in his thirties. His wife, who had found the body, fainted several times during the funeral proceedings and would soon join her husband in that place from which they could never return. Their suddenly orphaned children were thankfully taken in by a relative who lived overseas, but that was the last anyone would ever hear from them.
The very company that had spread the lies about “industrial-use alcohol” bought out its ruined competitor at far below market value. The manufacturing processes that my grandfather’s friend had devoted his life to developing were also turned over to his competitor, who buried the work in the bottom of a dark vault.
“Why were they buried in a vault?” I naively asked when I first heard this story.
“That evil company’s purpose was to sell lots of cheaply made spirits and earn piles of money, not come up with new and better products,” explained Grandfather. “And if they’re not going to make their products better, they’ve got to prevent others from doing so if they want to stay competitive.”
And that was why Grandfather made the cursed bunny.
“It is no sin to make and sell good spirits. But for the alleged crimes of not being connected to powerful people, for not having the capital to make such connections, an entire family was smashed to pieces and its remains scattered to the winds.”
Grandfather shakes his head. “My friend was so good, so kind, so dedicated to his company, and devoted to his wife … He was such a lovely friend …” Despite having told this story scores of times, Grandfather’s voice always trembles when he gets to this part, his eyes turning red. “To murder them all, to destroy a family … How can such things be allowed?”
But such things are indeed allowed, and such people who allow it are everywhere. Which is exactly why my grandfather, my father, and I could make a living out of cursed fetishes.
But to my grandfather, I say nothing. As always, I simply listen to his story, so familiar from having heard it many times.
The target of the curse has to touch the cursed fetish with their own hands. That’s the most important aspect of any cursed fetish and the trickiest part in getting it to work. Grandfather summoned all his connections, high and low, to get in touch with someone who knew someone who knew yet another someone who worked for a subcontractor for the company that killed his friend. He asked the first someone to hand deliver the bunny lamp to the competitor company’s CEO. There was a switch embedded in the back of the bunny that made the light turn on when stroked like a real live pet rabbit.