Mr. Anderson swore loudly to himself as he looked out the window one sunny winter morning only to discover that the picturesque mountain snow had been trampled to the consistency of paper pulp. Since becoming the chief of photography to a self proclaimed avant-garde magazine, he had forsaken the comforts of suburban life to seek extraordinarily breathtaking pictures or places that restricted human settlement.
Though fond of the idea of untouched snow, Mr. Anderson had a peculiar problem. After every snowfall, the white rabbits would come out to fence. They were of course, no ordinary white rabbits. As large as a man and as expressionless as a section of PVC pipe, they went about their bouts late at night as the snow fell. What they were training for, nobody knew. All Mr. Anderson knew was that they were ruining his shots every morning.
However, Mr. Anderson did not become chief for nothing, that day he had resolved to put an end to the white rabbits' shenanigans. Bundling himself in a thick down coat, he proceeded outside onto the scarred snow and started to melt some tar in a discarded old tub that he had salvaged from civilization. As the thick back smoke billowed up from the tub, Mr. Anderson covered his face with his sleeve just to protect his nose from the repulsive smell. After the tar became malleable, he started laying it out on the ground until he covered the entire area where the rabbits had been bouting. All that was left to do was wait.
As predicted, the white rabbits emerged before dawn with their blades already drawn. As they stood ready to bout, the looked at each other in panic as they noticed that their legs started to sink into the warm tar. Their arms flailed as they sank lower and lower into the tar, till only their heads remained white.
In the morning all Mr. Anderson had to do was pull them up from the pit, line them up in a row, then shoot em.