The Cony Room: a story in 60 seconds

"Stress is not what happens to you; it's how you choose to react to it" --- Unknown

“You should make an appointment,” Carol insisted. “The treatment is life-changing.” 

“You really think so?” Phillip asked. “The methodology just seems—I don’t know—extreme…”

Carol shook her head fiercely. “It’s anything but. What’s extreme is Mr. Richardson calling you every weekend.”

Philip massaged the back of his neck as he watched a few Irish Terriers bounce around the dog park. “I guess the yoke’s felt pretty snug lately.”

“I just sent you the referral link,” Carol said. “There’s a slot open for this afternoon. You should book it.”

Phillip ran a hand through his thinning hair and felt the growing bald spot near the top of his skull. “Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll give it a try.”

After a thirty-minute subway ride from the city center, Phillip followed his GPS through a desolate expanse of neglected buildings and barbed wire. He eventually arrived at the entrance of a large warehouse. He rang the buzzer and was greeted by a pretty woman with tattoos up and down her arms.

“Welcome to the Cony Room,” she said warmly. “Do you have an appointment?”

He nodded. “1:30 for Phillip.”

She scrolled through her tablet and smiled. “Excellent. I see this is your first time with us. Before we start, we’ll have a brief safety tutorial, and you’ll sign a few waivers. Then, you’ll be given your protective goggles, smock, and mallet.”

Phillip considered turning back, but the woman ushered him forward. “Now, if you’d please follow me.”

She led him through a hallway, past a row of closed doors, and into an office furnished with only two chairs and a small table. As they sat down, he couldn’t help but think the whole place smelled like a pet store.

“So, I imagine you are here to relieve some stress?” she asked.

Phillip glanced past the woman at the blood-speckled clubs and mallets leaning up against the wall. “Yes,” he muttered, “been feeling a bit tense lately.”

“Well, that’s what the Cony Room is for. Studies show that chronic stress can—"

“Excuse me,” Phillip interrupted. “Just before we get started, I have a silly question: the rabbits that we um…whack…they aren’t real, are they?”

The woman flashed another reassuring smile. “Oh, yes, the rabbits are real. Unfortunately, the treatment isn’t as effective otherwise. But don’t worry; at the end of each session, everything is collected and donated to a local food bank. Many of our customers even claim it as a write-off.”

Phillip looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think this is for me.”

Laughter echoed through the hallway.

“Everyone says that at first,” the woman assured him. “But, trust me, after one session, you really learn to love it.”

***No bunnies were hurt in the writing of this story. Thank you all for reading. If you enjoyed it, please like, share, or restack!***