"How do you become Real?" said the butter-soft, black glove-leather Rabbit.
"Real is when you are capable of feeling Real things. Only killing someone can make you Real." The Skinned Horse was old. So old he had become not quite Antique, but definitely Vintage. His pony-spotted coat had been sheared nearly off and tiny down feathers and lofty Egyptian cotton tufted from his battered form.
"But I don't feel anything, Skinned Horse. No pain, no happiness. Nothing. How can I feel Real things?"
"When you shoot a nail in the back of a beautiful girl's head. Or drive a gleaming ax into the body of some asshole you can't stand anyway. Or when you shoot a kitten, and maybe an old lady."
"Will this make me Real?" The Rabbit's shaky voice grew more determined as it echoed through the minimally-decorated bedroom, on the thirty-sixth floor of the best building in the West Eighties.
The Skinned Horse lit a Dunhill and dragged on it slowly, deliberately exhaling a stream of smoke towards the foot of the Conrans tubular-steel framed bed. "Better. Or worse. It will make you Human."