Part Two
“I’m sorry, Mel.”
Melody Maria Keyes hung up without answering. She resisted the urge to throw the phone across the room and scream; she couldn’t afford to throw a tantrum right now. Besides, all the call had done was confirm what she’d already known.
It was closure, which was appreciated, but it also meant she couldn’t hold onto the delusional hope she’d been clinging to. She’d known, of course, that there was no real hope, but the thing about hope is that it doesn’t need to be rational. And now it was gone.
Mel sat hunched over, sobbing uncontrollably, for how long she didn’t know. Eventually, though, she was roused by the chirping of the foal. The makeshift bottle, made by hanging the feeding unit of the foal’s can with some string, was probably empty. Or the foal was cold. Or he’d made a mess. Or he just wanted attention.
Mel had just gotten back to her house, after a clandestine hand-off of canned milk and sugar that probably would have looked like a drug deal from the outside and a stern warning to NEVER show up to Giuseppe’s door uninvited again, when the phone had rang. Unlike the last fifteen times, though, it wasn’t a scam call.
Lurching over to the foal like a marionette with springs for strings, she inspected the little creature. Sure enough, the bottle was empty, which meant the foal had gone through half a day’s worth of formula. How long had she been wallowing in her misery?
~
Babbeh chirped for mummah, trying to tell her he had the worstest tummeh-owwies. Why wasn’t she giving him milkies? He tried suckling again, but there were no more of the wonderful, sweet milkies mummah had recently decided to give him. Was he a bad babbeh again? He didn’t even know what he’d done to be good enough for the taste-pretty milkies to begin with!
The nice-lady picked him up again, and he cheeped in protest. He didn’t need huggies, he needed milkies! He began to wave his nubs in a tantrum, trying to make her understand that he needed milkies, that his tummeh-owwies were so, so bad.
“Shh…” not-mummah soothed. “I’ll make you more food. I just need to clean you off.”
He felt not-licky-cleanies on his poopy-place, and began chirping louder. It reminded him of the poopy-place-munstah, which gave him the worstest scardies. Soon enough, though, he was clean, settled back in his nesty, and mummah was letting him have more milkies.
“What now?” not-mummah asked, though Babbeh couldn’t understand.
“I mean, what’s the point? What the fuck do I do now?”
He flinched at the meany-word, despite not knowing what it meant.
“Well, I guess we’re both in the same boat now, aren’t we?”
~
Looking back, we tend to forget just how bad things got for most of the world after the initial fluffy release. There were, of course, areas that desperately pretended that everything was normal, but most people couldn’t afford to. It was, after all, the largest single disaster in modern history.
Melody wasn’t an unusual case. There were a lot of people who fell through the cracks in the first decade following the fluffy release. Cleveland hadn’t been the straw that broke the camel’s back, after all. If anything, it was just another bale on top of the heap that could have fed the world’s bovine population for a century.
The massive loss of farmland, food insecurity, and outbreaks of fluffy-borne disease had taken an already over-stressed system and broken it beyond recognition. Homelessness, much of it due to micro infestations rendering under-secured homes unlivable, was rampant. The majority of the population fell into poverty, wondering where their next meal would come from.
So while it would be easy enough to blame Melody’s situation on incompetence or callousness, the fact of the matter was that she didn’t receive aid simply because there was no aid left to give. While the recovery from the fluffy catastrophe, created through unprecedented innovation and unity, was incredibly quick, it was still the work of years, not weeks or months.
It’s easy to judge. The rampant callousness or outright sadism directed towards fluffies can seem vile, as indeed it is, or comically unreasonable. But desperation has twin children name cruelty and hatred, and when fluffies were so clearly the cause of people’s overwhelming problems, it’s really no wonder things went the way they did. Especially when so many had lost homes to infestations or loved ones to fluffy-borne illness.
Even after the desperation was over, however, its spawn remained. Children raised in a world where killing fluffies was mandatory and torturing them was acceptable weren’t going to suddenly change because they didn’t have to rely on eating fluffies to survive anymore. Fluffy abuse was an accepted part of society, and during those first few horrible years the public in general thirsted for the suffering of their source of their problems.
Later, of course, there would be attempts to pathologize such behavior. It was blamed on cuteness aggression, or the uncanny valley, or pheromones, or mental illness. Anything to avoid acknowledging that people really are like that, that we really are like that. Anything to not admit that there, but for the grace of God, go we.
~
Mel didn’t know what to do. Taking in the foal had been a mistake, of course, but it really wasn’t as big of an issue as it seemed. Not because the foal wouldn’t need things she couldn’t afford, but because she was fucked every which way regardless.
In the first four months, her diet of whatever she could scavenge from the cheapest of bargain bins had melted her body fat away. In the remaining four months she had gone from thin to terrifyingly emaciated. Recently, she’d noticed she was bruising far too easily, and for the last week or so she’d tried to keep her eyes closed showering or getting dressed.
In short, she was starving, malnourished, and out of options. Well, there were always options, but the ones that sprang to mind were…she’d have to be a lot more desperate before she considered those. If she lasted until spring there would be plenty to eat, but the issue was surviving that long, while keeping the foal fed.
Her stomach growled, and she looked at the cans of condensed milk with envy. It would be so easy to crack one open, get some actual calories for a change, and lately the can lotto had mostly been assorted beans. Maybe just one can of milk.
She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs from her head and put the thought out of her mind. She’d adopted the foal and that meant his survival was her responsibility. Also, right now she’d be damned before she’d spend any time alone after the call.
Under-the-table part-time warehouse pay wasn’t going to be enough to support them both. Hell, it wasn’t enough to support her, but she’d stuck with it because her manager didn’t care if she took the occasional can of actual food from a pallet. Dog food, true, but food nevertheless.
She’d gotten offers for…other employment, but jumping off a bridge was a lot more appealing than that.
So desperation slipped its way into her mind. There had been a lot of gossip about her at work, what with the Fall still being a major subject of discussion as more and more scandals surrounding the incident emerged, and one of her co-workers had offered to set up a meeting with one of her friends. It was an opportunity to make a lot of money quickly, because for certain audiences, people like Mel were a hot commodity.
As she dialed the number, Mel wondered just what she was getting herself into. Not like I have a choice, she thought. I’m doing this for both of us. Somehow, her motivation being not solely about herself helped. That was right, it was about the foal, too, not just her own needs.
“Um…hey. My friend Olivia told me about you. I’m Melody. I’ll take the job.”
~
A short bus ride and longer walk through an area that’d have to undergo a lot of gentrification before it could be called something as kind as “sketchy,” she arrived at the specified address. It turned out to be a warehouse that was only somewhat run-down. It would probably have been condemned, but then again, most of the city would have been at this point if anyone had the time or money to waste on things like inspections.
Knocking on the side door as instructed, she stood shivering. Despite being milder than last night, with a clear sky and bright sun, it was still cold. That being said, Mel was always cold lately. She tried to ignore it, but she suspected it didn’t bode well.
The door suddenly opened, and a maniacally-grinning figure greeted her. He was a lot younger than she had expected, probably now more than two years older than she was. Stepping aside, he gestured for her to enter in a manner fitting for the showman he was.
Inside the warehouse wasn’t what she’d expected. For one thing, it was a lot smaller than it’d looked, but upon closer examination she realized it’d been partitioned off by amateur-looking constructions of plywood. The walls were painted garish colors, likely whatever the builders could scavenge.
“Melody, right?” her guide asked.
“That’s me.”
“I’m so glad you accepted my offer,” he bubbled, the exaggerated cheerfulness clashing entirely with what she knew about him. “When Olivia told me about you, well, I just knew I needed to have you on for my show.”
“Thanks…” Mel reluctantly contributed. “Normally I wouldn’t but I just-”
“Shhshhshh,” he cut her off. “Don’t be like that. Have some passion. It’ll be fun.”
“I’m really not-”
He turned abruptly, still with that unsettling smile. “Mel, Mel, Mel. Listen. I don’t care if you’re just here for the paycheck, but please, stay in character.”
“Right, sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, girl. I know you’ll be just…perfect.” He clapped his hands to her shoulders, and the smile slipped a little, before returning. “Say, Mel. How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” she admitted sheepishly. “Is that a problem?”
“Nah.” Suddenly her turned away once more and started walking again. “Probably best not to mention that on camera, though.”
They reached another door, and her guide swung it open with a flourish. “Behold: My studio!”
It was about what Mel had expected. She’d done her research before coming, of course. A metal table, chairs, camera, stage lights, rows of empty cages hanging from chains. It was surprisingly clean, though, and smelled of bleach. She’d been expecting to at least smell blood, given that the ceiling had been dripping red at the end of the video she’d queasily forced herself to finish watching.
Rummaging in a cabinet behind the camera, her guide pulled turned an handed her what turned out to be her costume. Holding it up, it turned out to be a lot less skimpy that she’d expected. In fact, there wouldn’t be much skin exposed at all except between the respirator and goggles.
He laughed when she pointed this out. “Girl, if I was running that kind of show I’d hire girls a bit more…endowed. No offense.”
“On the subject of the outfit, though,” he continued. “Do you have any cuts? Open wounds? Anything like that?”
“No, why?”
“It never hurts to be safe,” his tone was almost serious. “Blood-borne illnesses aren’t fun. Believe me, I know.”
“So…where do I change?”
“Hm? Just put that on over your clothes.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Mel struggled into the outfit, which resembled something a sewer-worker might wear, albeit with thicker gloves and maybe a bit more flattering. It was loose on her, which wasn’t surprising, but even so it was surprisingly hard to get on.
“Right,” she said when she’d finally finished. “Let’s get this over with.”
Her host’s reply was cut off by her stomach growling loudly, and she flushed. For the first time, his artificial smile dropped entirely. Without it, he looked even younger and a lot less creepy.
“You need to eat something first?” he asked, the flamboyance gone from his voice.
“Sorry,” Mel began, but he shook his head.
“Really, it’s fine. We don’t get a lot of chances for re-shoots, or any at all really, so it’s best if I don’t have unnecessary distractions to edit out. Come on, I’ll drive you to a place I know.”
“I’m not really comfortable letting you take me anywhere, no offense,” Mel blurted out, then immediately regretted it.
He looked incredulous. “You followed me into a soundproof warehouse full of torture equipment but getting in my car makes you uncomfortable?”
~
In the end she did indeed let him drive her to a place to eat, which turned out to be a small, but clean and rather cozy, diner. As she scoured the menu for the cheapest item, she tried to make small talk. She wasn’t very good at it.
“So why do you do what you do?” she asked, then reprimanded herself for her lack of tact.
“The money’s good,” he replied, not seeming upset.
“Oh, right,” he slapped his forehead. “I never introduced myself. Sorry. I’m William, but I suspect you know what everyone calls me.”
“I’m Melody,” she responded unnecessarily, and William nodded.
“So I heard. You’re from Cleveland, Olivia said.”
“Yeah, I…” Mel sniffled, the phone call from earlier coming to mind unbidden. “I used to live there.”
“Christ,” William muttered. “Sorry, that was a dick move.”
“It’s okay.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “Yeah, the money’s good, which is why you’re interested, I’m assuming. At least based on what Olivia said.”
“I really don’t hate fluffies, but…”
“Oh, I’m not judging either way,” William clarified. “Not a lot of options right now, and clearly you need the money.”
“So you…do what you do…just for the money?”
“Kinda,” William paused. “Don’t get me wrong, I hate fluffies, I really do.”
He laughed at her shocked expression. "I hate them, but abuse…well, it’s just really not my thing. The money’s really good though, at least compared to the other work available in this shithole of a city. I’m guessing you’re situation is the same.
“It’s gross and the cleanup is a nightmare, but I really don’t have any other options. Stacking cans in a warehouse just doesn’t pay enough, every decent job moved out of the city or just doesn’t exist anymore, and I need the money. So even though I don’t want to abuse fluffies, necessarily, it’s still better than getting fucked in a alley after work to make ends meet.”
Mel nodded.
“I wouldn’t mind if they all died, though,” William stated flatly. "I really do despise shitrats. The show, though, well…I grew up on a farm, been helping out since I was a kid. No real education, no prospects, not since fluffies took that away. That farm was in the family for five generations.
“After we lost the farm we, um, found Dad in the barn. After that, Mom just kind of gave up. The twins are only twelve, so someone had to step up, and nobody else was available, you know?” He took a long, unsteady breath. “Shit. Sorry for unloading all that on you.”
“It’s okay.”
“Anyway, to make a long story short, yeah, it’s just about the money. Same as you.”
~
Back at the studio after their meal, Mel was mentally preparing herself.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” William, or rather his persona Billy the Butcher, told her. “Apart from hurting yourself there’s really no way you can fuck this up.”
“I just don’t know how enthusiastic I can be about this.”
“That’s cool. Let me ask, Mel. How many Cleveland residents survived the Fall, either by luck or just by not being there?”
“I don’t know.”
“A lot. How many of those do you think would be happy to abuse fluffies? Enthusiastic, even.”
“Um…”
“Most of them, that’s how many. So, I don’t want you to be enthusiastic.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, I don’t really script these things, but the idea is this: hugboxer from Cleveland, still can’t bring herself to hate fluffies, meets the great Billy the Butcher, abuser extraordinaire, who teaches her how to finally treat shitrats right. So, if anything, reluctant is better.”
“Okay. I’ll do my best.”
“That’s right. Now, let’s get that camera rolling.” Billy adopted his signature grin and flamboyant voice. “Time to slay, queen!”
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I don’t know if it’s part of my interpretation or if it was meant to be (I speak Spanish and my English is not very good) but until almost at the end I thought she was going to shoot an illegal porn movie.
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That was, in fact, the joke.
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Good job bro
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Man, I have got to stop reading these stories starting with the latest chapter…
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This is a very interesting angle. I’m looking forward to seeing more.
I think that was supposed to be implied, but the twist is that she’s filming abuse. Like a misdirection