Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland by T.T. Sutherland

seized his right. All three of them raised their clasped hands in the air. “Frabjous Day!”
    â€œ Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid! ” they chanted in unison. Then they all dropped their hands and looked at her expectantly.
    â€œWhat?” Alice said, confused.
    The Cheshire Cat rolled his eyes. He was lounging against the rabbit’s-foot fence, which occasionally twitched as if it found his presence rather irritating.
    â€œDown with the Bloody Big Head,” the cat translated for Alice. “Bloody Big Head being the Red Queen.” He glanced around again, checking the trees with narrowed eyes.
    â€œIt’s a secret language used by us,” the Dormouse added. “The Underland Underground Resistance!” With a fierce expression, she raised her fist over her head.
    The Cheshire Cat rolled his eyes again and wandered up to the table, sliding into one of the chairs in a graceful, feline way. He picked up a teapot with half its spout broken off and poured some tea into a delicate porcelain cup with faded butterflies painted on it.
    â€œCome, come. We simply must commence with the slaying and such,” the Mad Hatter said, leaning forward emphatically. “Therefore, it’s high time for Time to forgive and forget! Or forget and forgive, whichever comes first. Or is in any case most convenient. I’m waiting.”
    As he tugged on one of his ears, the March Hare had a terribly anxious expression. He peered at his pocket watch, tapped its face, and listened to it for a moment. Then, to Alice’s surprise, the Hare dunked the watch into his teacup, pulled it out, and listened to it again. Tiny droplets of tea splattered onto the Hare’s furry white chest.
    He gasped. “It’s ticking again!”
    â€œOoh!” The Hatter squealed.
    The Cheshire Cat made a disgusted face and set his teacup down. “All this talk of blood and slaying has put me off my tea.”
    â€œWonderful flavor,” said the March Hare.
    â€œThe entire world is falling to ruin, and poor Chessur’s off his tea,” the Mad Hatter said with thinly veiled hostility.
    The Cat’s tail lashed angrily. “What happened that day was not my fault!”
    Suddenly enraged, the Hatter slammed both hands on the table. Cups and teapots went flying, and Alice just avoided getting hot tea spilled all over her skirt. She pushed her chair back from the table, alarmed by the Hatter’s vehemence.
    â€œYou ran out on them to save your own skin!” the Hatter yelled at the Cat. “You guddler’s scuttish pilgar lickering— ” His speech disintegrated into wild, furious cursing, although it was all in a language Alice didn’t know. “Shukem juggling slunking ur-pals. Bar lom muck egg brimni.” But she didn’t need to understand it to guess what he was expressing. His rage kept building, and the curses flew faster and faster, as if he couldn’t stop himself. The Cheshire Cat slipped around the table and put his paws over Alice’s ears.
    â€œHATTER!” the Dormouse shouted.
    The Mad Hatter jerked to a stop. He blinked, composing himself, and then sat down and picked up his teacup again. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m fine.”
    This elicited a snort from the Cheshire Cat. “What’s wrong with you, Tarrant?” he asked, letting go of Alice’s ears and sitting in the chair on the other side of her. “You used to be the life of the party. You used to do the best Futterwacken in all of Witzend.”
    â€œFutter . . . ? What?” Alice echoed.
    â€œ Futterwacken ,” said the March Hare.
    â€œIt’s a dance,” the Dormouse explained impatiently.
    â€œOn the Frabjous Day, when the White Queen once again wears the crown,” said the Mad Hatter, lifting his chin. “On that day, I shall Futterwacken . . . vigorously.” At that moment, the Hare’s house bent over and tapped the Hare on